I went into this book loving the writing style and thinking it was really refreshing and poetic but after like the 20th page of Jack fucking rambling on about getting drunk and obsessing over Mardou (who is fetishized for being black to an eyerolling degree. It was the 1950's and all, but fucking hell...)and countless social situations etc it got disorienting. I really liked On The Road(although that book established to me that Kerouac and most of the people he hung out with, if the fictionalized versions of them are at all like their counterparts, were self-obsessed dickheads) and the whole idea of stream of consciousness writing and prose poetry and shit,I like to write in this kind of style sometimes when I'm writing fiction or poetry, but this book was frustrating to read. It frustrated me that it was frustrating to read. I got through probably 121 of 151 pages and realized that I care fuckall for any of the characters and what happens to them. Kerouac takes 151 pages to tell a 40 page story because he's describing everything that happened to him and it all seems pertinent but then he's jumping to another thought/story and then some shit abt Mardou's Indian father and fetishizing his Indianness on some noble savage bullshit and fetishizing Mardou for the 756th time through her indigenous or Black ancestry or both and sort of doing something that was a cool idea in a shitty way and using probably 49 periods through the whole thing.

Vilken sorglig liten bok om alkoholist-jack och hans yngre flickvän som har en så intensiv relation att hon inte orkar gå till sin psykolog. Man märker att han blir mer ledsen under tiden han skriver för att det blir fler stavfel och typos ju närmre han kommer deras breakup. Den mest stream of consciousness-iga boken av honom jag läst hittills, förmodligen pga han skrev den sent i sin karriär. Någon punkt per sida men annars mest kommatecken tankstreck eller bara inget. Trevligt att använda sin hjärna lite men tar tid som en motherfucker att läsa.

Tem de ser lido a uma velocidade estonteante, claramente, sob pena de perder o fio à meada. Tendo sido escrito em três noites alimentadas por comprimidos de benzedrina, Os Subterrâneos é uma das melhores razões para ler Kerouac, que aqui aborda a história da sua relação amorosa com uma jovem negra que conheceu em São Francisco. O universo de Jack Kerouac é lúgubre, caótico, estranho e, ainda assim, empático, como toda a sua obra. Não é de longe o melhor dele, mas tem uma musicalidade deliciosa, tão típica da sua narrativa.

I finished The Subterraneans in a couple days and I've realized that it has really stuck with me. I keep picking it up and flipping through it and rereading parts. I was in tears at the end of this book. I think Kerouac is an amazing author, and his prose is so beautiful in this piece. It was raw honesty. He didn't sugarcoat his own faults or prejudices and recognized their existence. He held nothing back, and as a reader, I really value that. For me, the story wasn't so important, but it invoked a lot of powerful emotions in me. There was just something so poetic about it that I found fascinating.

There they are -- the Subterraneans -- drunk as skunks while they burble on about literature and their love lives. Jack Kerouac (Leo Percepied in the book) wants nothing more than spend all his hours with these pseudo-intellectual lowlifes, but at the same time attempt to maintain a relationship with Mardou Fox, a young black woman. The Subterraneans is the story of this relationship and how it winds to a close with Jack deciding in the end he wanted life on his own boozy terms.

The pity of it is that Jack really appears to have loved Mardou, and Mardou was worth the trouble. Jack writes about himself as a not terribly lovable character, as essentially unworthy. So he gives up and returns to the "boys."

• δύο συναισθηματικά τσακισμένοι άνθρωποι - ένας ανασφαλής νεαρός συγγραφέας και μία αδικημένη από την ζωή Mardoo - ένας εφήμερος έρωτας, μία αυθόρμητη πρόζα που δρα επικουρικά στην ενδοσκόπηση του συγγραφέα και επικυρώνει την αυθεντικότητα του έργου, ένας μακρόσυρτος - κατά τόπους χαοτικός και ασταθής - λόγος με αντανακλαστικές δράσεις και ρυθμική γραφή, ένας Κέρουακ αφοπλιστικά ειλικρινής και αρκετά συμφιλιωμένος με την ιδέα της διερεύνησης σημαντικών ζητημάτων που τον επηρεάζουν (Π.χ. σχέση με μητέρα, ομοφυλοφιλία), μία σαγηνευτική μαύρη κοπέλα που μετράει πληγές και μαζεύει άστρα και μία νηφαλιότητα που παραδόξως αναδίδεται μέσα από τους αυτοσχεδιαστικούς ρυθμούς της τζαζ μουσικής. Αν και η σεξουαλικοποίηση και η φετιχοποίηση των (μαύρων) γυναικών γίνεται εύληπτη σε ορισμένα σημεία, προσωπικά δεν με ενόχλησε, καθώς αντιμετωπίζω την νουβέλα του Κέρουακ ως ένα έργο της εποχής του. Και είναι πολύ αληθινό αυτό το έργο για να καταδικαστεί.

I'm sad because I'm a total fuckboy, thought Jack Kerouac. Let me write a book about it.

A short book with long long sentences. That's why I took long time to read it. 2021 has started with busy days and if only it'd have been a simple prose, I might have read a bunch of pages every night. But no complaints.
I loved the book. I am all in for simple, straight stories. I have reached a point where I want to know about common people's common stories than high drama. (I still love Crazy rich Asians though) A white writer falls in love with an unexceptional black woman, 10 years younger to him, while he is struggling to make his life, earn fame and wishing someone in life to made, Mardrou, the woman, smart but saddened by circumstances accepts him. The story goes through some months after that and many events till he decides to leave her.
I loved the dialogues, the conversation style. It's not usual one. I loved the characters, almost simple and well-formed that I believe it's a real life story. There's no hero's journey, no clever story or climax. The sentences are so long, I think one can actually count how many full stops are in the book. Overall, loved it.

Duodécima edición en "Compactos", #58.

I didn't read this as an angsty teenager so I read it recently and wondered if I was ever Margot to someone without realizing it. Probably not. I read part of his rambling dialogue about love to the high schoolers I taught and they identified with it, I guess.

Οι Υπόγειοι του Κερουάκ θα μπορούσαν κάλλιστα - αν κάποιος συμπύκνωνε την ιστορία τους - να βρίσκονται μέσα στους Άσωτους του Τζάκσον. Ίδιο ψυχικό μοτίβο ηρώων σε διαφορετική, βέβαια, εποχή, επιβεβαιώνει πως κάποια πράγματα μας είναι πάντα ζητούμενα. Νέοι που ζουν το παρόν και κοιτάζουν κλεφτά το μέλλον χωρίς να το παραδέχονται ούτε στον εαυτό τους, εύθραυστοι που θέλουν να περνιούνται για δυνατοί, γιατί έχουν την ανάγκη να είναι πραγματικά δυνατοί. Ευαίσθητοι που φέρονται σκληρά, γιατί είναι τόσο τσακισμένοι συναισθηματικά, που δεν έχουν άλλο τρόπο να επιβιώσουν. Οι Υπόγειοι φαίνεται να γράφτηκαν μέσα σε μια ηλεκτρισμένη από την ένταση συνθήκη - από αυτές που ένας συγγραφέας δεν έχει άλλη επιλογή για να λυτρωθεί, παρά να γράψει. Είναι κάτι που το νιώθεις διαβάζοντας, σαν να γράφτηκε με μία ανάσα.

Pleasant reread: this time around I found it fun, quick and enjoyable. I liked the narrative quips and loved the opening paragraph. Plus I found the depressive yet self-adoring narration particularly relatable.