I was sitting on the subway today reading Kerouac’s 'On The Road'; now, anybody that’s read it will tell you that it’s rather brilliant and vivid and throw in some sort of whimsical remark like, “it’s poignant yet raw.” It’s one of those books that when asked if they’ve read it, more than half of the people that haven’t read a line of it will say something like “oh yes, it was a while ago though,” in hopes that you won’t ask them anything about the book, or God forbid, ask them what their favorite part was. So I’m sitting on the E train reading this book that I can hardly allow myself to put down, and I couldn’t help but think to myself, “wow, that Sal just has so much life in him.” Now for those of you that are not familiar with the book (and it’s alright if you aren’t, but after you read this, I expect you to fit picking up a copy into your schedule this week,) Sal is the main character. I found it interesting the first time that our narrator is referred to by name, which doesn’t happen until a handful of chapters into the book, but I found it interesting that his name was Sal, and not Jack. Mentally I just replace all the Sal’s on the page with Jack’s, and then it feels more like Jack Kerouac’s account of his adventures on the road, as he travels slowly but surely to Denver, Colorado.
I’m not very far into the book yet, but I already have this deep appreciation for, and connection to, this character Sal. He is an instantly likeable guy, sort of wandering through the country to ultimately meet his buddies from New York (his home) in Denver. That’s not important right now though; what’s important is the life and curiosity that this one character has in everything he does. I found myself thinking about Jack, and how most of what he wrote in this book is probably what really happened to him; most of the people he describes were probably real people. Names and certain details may have been changed in some cases, but for the most part left alone.
Jack Kerouac unfortunately died at the age of 47 due to cirrhosis of the liver; he essentially drank himself to death. If you flip to the back of the book, there’s a picture of young Jack, and a brief bio on the inside flap of the jacket cover. I thought, alright so he’s dead now, but his writing, his persona, his experiences and memories… those are still so incredibly alive. I feel more alive just reading them. I forgot until that point, that Kerouac was no longer alive; mostly because the book reads as if Jack is telling you this big long series of stories that all intertwine (and admittedly sometimes get confusing,) but always come back to the big picture. Jack referred to his style of writing as "spontaneous prose," which I think is a pretty accurate way to describe it. I'd say that it's an off-shoot of "stream of consciousness" writing. And I came to the conclusion that writers live on regardless of the date on their death certificate; maybe forever. They are alive now after their body has expired, because of the life they put into the words that they carefully placed on the pages of their books. That will live on forever.
This is my first post about On The Road, and I intend to write at least a few more, as I continue my reading, along with including some lines and quotes that I find particularly poetic and meaningful to share with you. And once again, I highly encourage you to pick up a copy of 'On The Road' if you have yet to read it.
