On the Electronic Road: 50 Years of Kerouac

My idea is to post here at least once a week, but it's been two weeks. I plead business, but then that's not a very good excuse, really, for not doing an hour's work. (Not work: these entries are a privilege and a pleasure, not a task, not a chore.) I was having some trouble coming up with a topic, all I could think of were things I couldn't yet write about. And then . . .

. . . then I picked up the new Library of America volume of Jack Kerouac's "road" novels. This fall, as you may well know, is the 50th anniversary of the publication of On the Road. The volume, Road Novels 19757-1960 includes On the Road, The Dharma Bums, The Subterraneans, Tristessa, Lonesome Traveler, and selections from Kerouac's journals, 1949-1954. The first three of these books I read when they were first published, and read, and read, and reread. Talked about, fantasized around, and shared with friends.

Kerouac despised the commercial trivialization of the beats, the term "beatnik," and the simple-minded criticism he received. He refused to be the spokesman for a generation of hoodlums (paraphrased from my leaky memory). Yet his writing had an enormous effect on many people, including me. I was in high school when On the Road was published. I doubt I did anything subsequently that I wouldn't have done without Kerouac's book, but I did it in a different context, with a different attitude. His writing encouraged my developing interest in Buddhism, jazz, and poetry.

A grove of locust trees in November in east-central Kansas. (Honey locust trees, with long sharp thorns but a good firm bed of leaves under them. A moonlight night, a night filled with stars. The boy under the trees, stiffly cross-legged, can recognize Orion, the dippers. He's come here fresh from reading Dharma Bums, ready to meditate. Enlightenment escapes him, as it has ever after. On returning to the lit and warm house, he does, however, scribble some verses. Kerouac has focused for him an excitement that is coded somewhere in his constitution. A pattern, a direction otherwise unavailable in rural Kansas.

I found Dharma Bums in a wonderful bookstore in Topeka, the state capitol. I don't remember the name of the store, but it was of a kind that hardly exists any more. Not a chain, not large, but crowded with books, fiction by Borges, issues of The Evergreen Review. My journeys on the road were to the closest cities of any size — Topeka, Manhattan, Emporia — seeking literary and aesthetic stimulation that the small towns ("pop. 600") just didn't have.

Well, I've wandered, and been unfair to those small small towns. In those days, I bought Plato, Thoreau, and Bertrand Russell from revolving racks in drugstores where they were displayed with romances, cowboy stories, and detective novels. Something for another entry, I guess.

I'm slowly reading On the Road. Kerouac's enthusiasm for America is delightful, his descriptions blaze with colors just like the roman candles he so famously mentioned. This novel is very well-written.

Louis Menand wrote a fine piece on Kerouac, "Drive, He Wrote," in the October 1, 2007 issue of The New Yorker. (Yes, his title riffs on Robert Creeley's best-known poem.) I recommend this piece.