"Then I added 'Blah,' with a little grin, because I knew that shack and that mountain would understand what that meant, and turned and went on down the trail back to this world."

I always thought I'd check Kerouac off my list by reading On the Road. Instead, I check him off as a Dharma Bum. A bum, a Beat, a Buddhist-in-training. One who can't shake his Lowell, Mass., upbringing. (Once a Catholic, always a Catholic--even if you stop being a Catholic.)

Wait a minute. I can add a "B": Bum, Beat, Buddhist, and Badinage Expert Nonpareil. That means this book is a lot of trivial badinage back and forth between Ray (read: Jack Kerouac starring as himself) and Japhy (read: Gary Snyder starring as himself).

While reading it, I thought of Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises, particularly the extended fishing-in-Spain scene where Jake Barnes and his buddy (whose name escapes me like Houdini) fascinate themselves with their clever badinage about irony and something else (it's with Houdini, whatever it is, almost at the border by now). But here, the badinage is not just a scene, it's on and on to the point of not caring.

I liked the early portions of the book best, the climbing of the Matterhorn, the descriptions of nature, Ray and Japhy's bro-bonding over Buddhism in particular. In between, there's a lot of partying and talk, and we get some insight into Mr. Death's (read: DRINKING) stalking of Ray-read-Jack. In the twilight pages, there's a stretch of Ray alone that I liked, too--a nice respite from the tired work of being a Buddha-loving Beat, and insight into Jack's elemental loneliness. You know the kind: a loneliness that exists even in a crowd, one I can relate to enough to wonder if I am another samsara-blender-on-high-speed version of Jack, hold the liquor.

Yep. This is the kind of loneliness that says lovely things. Things like, "Poor Raymond boy, his day is so sorrowful and worried, his reasons are so ephemeral, it's such a haunted and pitiful thing to have to live."

Amen to that, in any religion.

Serendipity, or Transient Transcendence



n  Hozomeen Mountain, seen by Kerouac from Desolation Peak (WA) where he spent two months as a fire lookout in 1956n


At the end of the day, this novel proves a tough guy to review.

In a fairly specific sense, the rating doesn't do one jot of justice to the rollercoaster of brilliancies intermingled with more sedate passages with a certain number of wild, memorable dialogues thrown in for good measure, and soulful depictions of the mundane, the ordinary, the ordinarily left out, evincing this keen attention to what is present, this recognizable trademark of Jack Kerouac inasmuch as I can judge after this fourth novel.

However, and in this my heartfelt impression is as well-grounded as they come (to me at the bare minimum :D), this story left me high and dry, waiting for so much more... And I get this is more often than not the fatal flaw of the reader, who stops paying attention to what there is and prefers what he'd rather have instead. But as far as I can tell, I try my darndest and not blame the novel for what it's not: a fair deal of promise was there, there is no denying this. And to me it underdelivered. Can I put words on this feeling of lopsidedness, of inherent-but-not-beneficial coarseness, of incompleteness? Certainly. Śūnyatā. Just joking. And it's not wabi-sabi either...
Too many grandiose vague notions, not enough progression in the story insofar as the story is key to the book as a whole...

In short, too much of everything, not enough of anything, if that makes sense.


n  Buddy-'read-trip' with Tara :)n



n  Sawtooth Ridge (CA), of which Matterhorn Peak is partn

'When you get to the top a a mountain, keep climbing', they say!


----


Finally, as it customary, I would like to recommend a few books sharing common features with The Dharma Bums :)


These two are mentioned in the novel:

The Book of Tea (this one directly mentionned, twice)

The Daodejing of Laozi, (this one, alluded to, especially when it comes to Wuwei (effortless action/non-action))


This one tells volumes about the doctrine of Mahayana Buddhism, while being a melancholy, sorrowful well of ephemeral beauty:

The Temple of Dawn


This one polishes your mind's eye allowing you to pay full attention to what is here and now. At least it offers a full-fledged philosophy along those lines :)

Freedom from the Known


Different Shades of Outcasts:

I Am Providence: The Life and Times of H. P. Lovecraft, Volume 1
I Am Providence: The Life and Times of H. P. Lovecraft, Volume 2
Down and Out in Paris and London
Factotum
Women
Love Is a Dog from Hell
A Working Stiff's Manifesto: A Memoir of Thirty Jobs I Quit, Nine That Fired Me, and Three I Can't Remember



A refill of escapism? Or should I say re-wiring?

Walden
The Doors of Perception
Steppenwolf
Turn On, Tune In, Drop Out
Divine Invasions: A Life of Philip K. Dick
Into the Wild


Actual road-trips, sometimes motivated by scientific endeavour:

Par les champs et par les grèves
Memoires Du Large
Le tour de la France par deux enfants d'aujourd'hui
Immortelle randonnée : Compostelle malgré moi
Sur les chemins noirs
The Invention of Nature: Alexander von Humboldt's New World
Tristes Tropiques


OST:
Tout est Magnifique - Jacques

I really enjoy Kerouac’s writing style; I like the flow and rhythm; I enjoy letting it flow through me as I read.

My lack of interest in religion, other than in a purely anthropological sense, stopped me from enjoying this particular book more, though.

Then I suddenly had the most tremendous feeling of the pitifulness of human beings, whatever they were, their faces, pained mouths, personalities, attempts to be gay, little petulances, feelings of loss, their dull and empty witticisms so soon forgotten: Ah, for what? I knew that the sound of silence was everywhere and therefore everything everywhere was silence. Suppose we suddenly wake up and see that what we thought to be this and that, ain't this and that at all? I staggered up the hill, greeted by birds, and looked at all the huddled sleeping figures on the floor. Who were all these strange ghosts rooted to the silly little adventure of earth with me? And who was I?

Do No Harm

I read this book 30 years ago. I believed then that his practice of Buddhism was hedonistic. I still believe the same, having read it again.

Kerouac and his new friend Jaffy enjoyed some of the Buddha’s teachings, all but the precepts, which I have been told, by my own Buddhist teacher, to be necessary to follow if you want to reach enlightenment. I no longer believe in enlightenment or even karma or heavens and hells. I only believe in the precepts which come down to this: Do no harm. Perhaps, this is because of all the religions that I had been in, even the New Age teachings, i.e. that of claiming that they do not believe in religion but in spirituality, cause harm. It is just the nature of man to harm, even in the name of religion.

Kerouac loved the flowery part of Buddhism, and its abstract philosophy. I now only like the flowery Zen poetry. That is all I am left with after years in Buddhism, having never given up my believe in a Creator or a soul, but hanging onto no beliefs about either.

When I left Buddhism, I found Han Shan and other Zen poems, and I found some Native American teachings that I love. They are very simple.

And, at least for me, it was nice to realize, that is, after reading “Big Sur,” that Kerouac had once enjoyed his life, and I hope that after his breakdown he had enjoyed it again.

ხანდახან რთული იყო იმ ყველაფრის ემოციურად გააზრება რაზეც წერს კერუაკი. ხანდახან ძალიან მარტივი და სასიამოვნო

"ლიტერატურაზე ალაპარაკდნენ ყვითელი ვერხვები "

"უკვე აღარაფერი ვიცოდი, ყველაფერი სულერთი იყო და ამასაც აღარ ჰქონდა მნიშვნელობა"


P.S. - ალვა ჩემი საყვარელი მეორეხარისხოვანი პერსონაჟია

Люблю питому американську традицію, що йде від Торо й Вітмена, для яких література була ані вигадкою, ані автобіографією, а засобом осягнення життя. Керуак, безумовно, до неї належить. Та чи перевершив він попередників? Сумніваюся. Керуак був генієм місця і часу, поза якими він погано вписується і читається. Можна зауважити що він збагатив означену традицію буддизмом, але це дуже вибірковий й еклектичний буддизм. Наслідки були радше сумні. Fun fact: у третьому номері «Всесвіту» за 1991 рік назву цього роману переклали як «Пестунчики дгарми» (с. 165).

Era da qualche annetto che desideravo leggere questo romanzo, in particolare da quando lessi che fosse la continuazione ideale di Sulla Strada, opera che mi aveva folgorato. Sfortunatamente, non credo sia sul livello del più celebre precedente (nonostante sia comunque un romanzo assolutamente godibile), per quanto gli elementi che hanno concorso a rendere un'opera miliare Sulla Strada ci siano tutti: l'umanità inquieta, folle, disperata (i famosi beatnik) che anima l'esistenza quotidiana dell'autore (ed in fondo la poetica stessa di Kerouac è continua reinterpretazione e riscrittura della sua vita), la spavalda sincerità della scrittura e la sua proverbiale musicalità beat, fatta di immensi periodi-flussi privi di punteggiature intervallati da ricche consecuzioni di incisi (per quanto ovviamente nella traduzione in italiano si perda leggermente la musicalità morfologica della parola), le grandi bevute e gli interminabili vagabondaggi. Il tutto, come si intuisce dal titolo, arricchito da una grande novità nella vita di Kerouac e i suoi amici: la scoperta del buddhismo.
Il buddhismo costituisce forse l'ossatura essenziale del romanzo: costanti sono i riferimenti a sutra, parabole ed autori buddhisti, così come costante è l'attenzione del protagonista (almeno teorico), Ray (ovviamente alter ego di Kerouac), verso l'illuminazione e la carità, la compassione e la vacuità del mondo. Talvolta tuttavia il buddhismo diventa troppo ridondante e noioso quando espresso in superficialità (ossia in buona parte del romanzo), ma riesce ad arricchire il romanzo d'un lirismo ben più marcato che in Sulla Strada. Quando questo lirismo si coniuga ad un'espressione del buddhismo più vera e alle deliziose descrizioni naturali (ed in particolare nella bellissime ultime pagine del romanzo, ossia nella clausura di Desolation Peak), davvero sembra di osservare qualche quadretto Zen giapponese, armonioso e pregno di significato.
In effetti, oltre qualche canonica peregrinazione (che mi son sembrate descritte più sbrigativamente che in Sulla Strada), il romanzo perlopiù si ambienta in natura, soprattutto grazie alla comparsa di colui che sarà il vero protagonista del romanzo, Japhy (indagando, ho scoperto essere l'alter ego del poeta Gary Snyder): buddhista zen, poeta, avventuriero, uomo dal fine spirito pratico, pazzo, è colui che inizia Ray alle bellezze e alla divina dimensione della natura. Anche in questo caso, c'è tuttavia un però: i costanti dialoghi tra i due (e anche tra gli altri strambi personaggi, come Morley o Goldbook) li ho trovati troppo artificiali, troppo finti.

"Wilderness, weed, girls and beer". That is the philosophy of "Ray Smith", AKA Jack Kerouac, in this sort of sequel to ON THE ROAD. Well, Jack, you got my vote. All the old fellows are here, Allen Ginsberg, the sour socialist Jewish poet "Carlo Marx" is now "Alvah" the dour Jewish poet. Neil Cassady is back, under his old pseudonym, "Cody", and tellingly the fate of Mrs. Cody is the one tragic note in this otherwise tall tale of exuberance. The character who reshapes Jack from New Bohemian to part-time Zen Buddhist is "Japhy", in real life Gary Snyder, still gloriously with us at 93. While climbing the mythical Mt. Matterhorn in California Japhy and Ray decide that maybe, just maybe, there might be some problems with organized religion. Maybe, just maybe, there might be ways to worship the miracle of our own existence without resorting to sky gods and their bans on sex, drugs and jazz. Maybe, just maybe, the bum and the Bodhissava, are one and the same. No. You don't say, Jack. Like, wow. Ray and Japhy reminded me of Billy and Captain America from EASY RIDER. The big difference is that Fonda and Hopper's bikers score a coke deal to finance their voyage of discovery, set out on the road to discover Whitman's wild America, and pay the ultimate price for being long-haired freaks. Ray actually works once in a while and Japhy wins a scholarship to study Zen in Japan. The only price they pay is having to watch bad television once in a while. Never mind killer rednecks, even the cops leave them alone. Why not? What did straight, moneyed, capitalist America have to fear from two dropouts who just want to get high in both ways, climbing mountains and smoking the Devil's herb? THE DHARMA BUMS is an "Ode to Joy" in doing your own thing, which I prize, and the naïveté of believing the world will leave you alone if you leave this world for a higher plane. Oh, I almost forgot the real-life denouement: Jack (Ray) drank himself to death and Snyder (Japhy) is now Professor Emeritus Gary Snyder of the University of California at Berkeley.

تمام طول کتاب داشتم فکر می‌کردم «ببین می‌فهمم ها؛ ولی نه». می‌فهمم که کرواک و اسنایدر افراد مهمی ن. می‌فهمم که نسل بیت و اون counterculture دهه‌ی شصت چه رابطه‌ای داشتن. می‌فهمم که این کتاب چه اهمیتی داشت در زمان خودش و چه نوآوری‌های فرمی و محتوایی‌ای کرده‌بود. ولی نه. سلیقه‌ی من نیست، اصطلاحن «فازش رو ندارم» و به نظرم زیادی دهه‌شصتی اومد. تیپیکال روشنفکرِ وایتِ امریکایی که فکر می‌کنه عجب نبوغی کرده که فهمیده شرق هم فرهنگ غنی داره. می‌فهمم که مردم دوست دارندش و می‌فهمم که اهمیت تاریخی و فرهنگی داره و می‌فهمم که کرواک نویسنده‌ی بزرگی ه. من ولی دوست نداشتم. چه کنم.

و همه‌ی این‌ها فارغ بود از فاجعه‌ای که نشر روزنه و جناب فرید قدمی به خوردمون داده‌ن. عزیزی که به‌جای You can have it می‌گه «می‌تونی داشته‌باشی‌ش»، به جای comparisons are odious می‌گه «مقایسه‌ها نفرت‌آورن»، به جای same old thing می‌گه «همون چیزِ قدیمی»، به جای you bet your ass می‌گه «می‌تونی سرِ اون‌جات شرط ببندی» (واقعن فکر کردم دارم اشتباهی می‌بینم این جمله رو)، نه تنها گند می‌زنه به تجربه‌ی کتاب خوندن آدم بلکه سعی هم می‌کنه فاکینگ اولیس ترجمه کنه؟ عزیزی که به جای get the show on the road می‌گه «نمایش را در جاده شروع کردن» و پانویس می‌ده که گت د شو آن د رود اصطلاح عامیانه ست و به معنای شروع کردن، ولی الان تحت‌اللفظی ترجمه کردم چون فضا فضای جاده و سفر و ایناست، آیا هرگز «بساط را راه انداختن» به گوشش خورده؟ با اون جمله‌بندی‌های سنگلاخ‌مانند و استفاده‌ی همزمان از لفظ «زاخار» و «آجان»، و با تبدیل tiger به «بَبر»، واقعن خوندن کتاب زهرمارم شد و تمام مدت مطالعه داشتم به این فکر می‌کردم که یعنی این جمله‌هه چی بوده در انگلیسی که بعد از ترجمه‌ی لفظ به لفظ تبدیل شده به این. با ترجمه‌ی برعکس توی ذهنم فهمیدم نصفِ کتاب رو، و این رو من دارم می‌گم که با پاپ کالچر امریکایی و محاوره‌ی انگلیسی تا حدی آشنا م. کسی که هیچی ندونه خدا می‌دونه چه برداشتی می‌تونه بکنه از کتاب.
البته که من هیچ متخصص نیستم و این‌ها ایراد تخصصی نیست بلکه غُر شخصی ه و «اگه من بودم این‌جور ترجمه نمی‌کردم» و متن اصلی انگلیسی رو نخونده‌م، شاید توجیهی در اون باشه. ولی وقتی کرواک در داستان برای یکی استیک درست می‌کنه و طرف می‌گه به‌به این بهترین استیک عمرم ه، مترجم پانویسِ بی‌دلیل می‌زنه می‌گه «نوشِ جان! دست‌پخت جک کرواک است» متاسفانه تنها برداشتم این می‌تونه باشه که طرف انقدر شیفته‌ی کرواک بوده که تصمیم گرفته به هر قیمتی ترجمه‌ش کنه و چاپ کنه. که خب. چی بگم.
غرِ دیگه‌م برمی‌گرده به ترجمه کردن یا نکردن اسامی خاص، مثل «اقیانوس پسیفیک کُست» که بله، یعنی همون ساحل اقیانوس آرام. مترجم هم، بله، پانویس زده و توضیح داده که ساحل اقیانوس آرام. چون لابد نمی‌شد در متن بنویسه این رو. (بعد به فارسی-انگلیسی حرف زدنِ مخلوطِ ما گیر می‌دید. برید یقه‌ی مترجم‌ها رو بچسبید. چیش.)
غرِ سومم که خیلی هم اهمیتی نداره ولی به هر حال رو اعصابم رفت برمی‌گرده به نوشتارِ همون اسامی خاص ترجمه‌نشده. یا از این رده ست که Junction City رو نوشته «جنکشن سیتی» و از بیخ اشتباه تلفظ کرده (که حالا یا اشتباه خودش، یا ویراستار)، یا شبیه اینایی نوشته که کالیفرنیا و کانادا رو می‌نویسن کَلیفرنیا و کَندا. نوشتار رایج چه عیبی داشت عزیزم؟ پَسیفیک رو پاسیفیک نوشتن چه ایرادی داشت؟ چرا همچین می‌کنی با ما؟

تمام مدت مطالعه حرص خوردم و کتاب رو بر فرق سرم کوبیدم، و در حالی بود که حتا از داستان هم اون‌قدر لذت نمی‌بردم که سختی‌های ترجمه‌ی بد رو به جون بخرم. واقعن روزهای طاقت‌فرسایی رو گذروندم تا تموم شد و همه‌ش برای کتابی که فنجونِ چایِ من نبود (بله آقای قدمی من هم بلد م لغت به لغت اصطلاح‌ها رو ترجمه کنم، ولی من مسخرگی می‌کنم و اسمم مترجمِ واقعی نیست و کتابی از اصطلاحاتِ تحت‌اللفظی‌م چاپ نمی‌کنم). آه. خیلی خسته م.

پی‌نوشت. با این ریویو بسیار موافق م.

I had read an article, a few weeks ago in the Tampa Tribune, about the Kerouac house in St. Petersburg, Florida being up for sale. It talked about how he had died in 1969 at the age of 47. His last drink was consumed at the Flamingo Sports Bar, later he was rushed to the hospital where he died of cirrhosis. The article stated that he was overweight and not doing well at the time of his death and did not produce much, from a writing standpoint, while he lived there. They mentioned the Dharma Bums had been written in Orlando in 1956, long before Mickey Mouse took over. So I picked up the book and read it.

Wow! His style of prose struck me as incredibly unique, right from the get go and I found many profound statements throughout the book. It's a story about a man trying to follow Buddhism in the midst of a drug and alcohol induced, womanizing environment. He travels back and forth across the country twice, via hitchhiking and riding buses and twice ventures into the mountains of the northwestern United States. He drinks, he reads, he drinks, he reads, he smokes dope, he reads, he listens to music, he dances naked, he reads, he drinks.... you get the picture. It's the visits to the mountains where he gains his focus and experiences enlightenment which is where the reader experiences enlightenment too. The description of the mountains and nature are astounding. These combined with his thoughts about society in the 1950's make it one hell of a read.

I've read many great things about Kerouac as a writer and probably even more bad things about him as a person. He was a drunk, a drug addict, a solipsistic ego maniac, misogynistic etc... but this book is evidence that he was trying to find the good in the world and the good in himself. Living only 40 miles from where he lived in St. Pete, I'll have to take a ride out by his old abode and see if I can sense any vibes emanating from the home of the ole Dharma Bum.

"Are we fallen angels who didn't want to believe that nothing is nothing and so we're born to lose our loved ones and dear friends one by one and finally our own life, to see it proved?"