On The Finishing Of "On The Road"

I finished On the Road this past week, and it's hard to put into words just what I thought. I love Jack Keroauc's writing for the same reason I love Alan Ginsberg's: because of the nuggets of perfect phrases that they contain. The phrases that make me read and reread them, and then underline them in my book. FOR EXAMPLE. Describing the act of post-making-love, he says,

"Then, like two tired angels of some kind, hung-up forlornly in an L.A. shelf, having found the closest and most delicious thing in life together, we fell asleep and slept till late afternoon."

The closest and most delicious thing in life together. It's hard to describe how reading things like this makes me feel.

But I digress.

On the Road was like a 300 page beat poem, and unlike most novels, it seemed to have no clear focus. It was a novel written entirely in feelings and urges and manic drug highs. It was truly interesting to read, not only for the fact that it's Jack Kerouac, but more for his blunt, honest descriptions of the people he encounters. From people with whom he hitchhikes to his aunt to Dean Moriarty (Neal Cassady) to any jazz player he meets, his descriptions of them are always such that you can imagine being in the same room as these characters. Which is a really cool thing.

I liked the book, I really did. However, I felt like most of it went over my head. But I own the book, so I'll be taking it with me to college and such, and perhaps next time I read it, it will make more sense. I also felt like I would understand it SO much more if I read it while I was high. Not in a hurry to try that one...

Overall, a good book which I would recommend that anyone who likes the Beat generation should read. But don't hold it to such high standards that it becomes impossible to be satisfied when you're done.