I’m nearly finished reading On The Road, Jack Kerouac’s shining masterpiece and a definitive example for underground Beat America (if you look past tomes of Beat poetry by masters like Ginsberg and Burroughs), and all I can truly say is that Kerouac, were he alive today, would be a compulsive blogger.
The book is fascinating enough, and has periods of beauty written into description of music and emotion and flow, I have respect for much of this. But the book’s saving grace is the occasional moment of insight woven into the madness, the written equivalent of character, of energy, of personality. A great way to be a bystander, an unspoken passer-by, sure, but it’s clear that the book’s appeal and acclaim stems from its glimpse into a lifestyle long forgotten, an aged period now preserved glassily in America’s past.
And truly, these moments of realization, moments of clarity are the only differentiation between Kerouac’s superior writing ability and the scores of kidz out among the Interblags blogging about every detail of their days in and around teh food court @ the mall. That he revels, that he learns of life and love and self, that’s what I enjoy about the book.
Sorry if I offended any Kerouac fans.