Big Sur/Kerouac

In the summer of my 8th grade school year, I became obsessed with Jack Kerouac. In May, knowing little about the man or his work, I was goaded into picking up On The Road by a cousin who thought I needed "a more mature taste in literature". By the end of June I was saving pocket change and taking regular trips to the local bookstore (I was usually a browser, not a buyer). That summer just happened to be the year I joined my folks on a trip to San Francisco. Venturing to landmarks like City Lights Bookstore and the coast of Big Sur only reinforced my growing interest in Beat culture and writing. Kerouac was my gateway to several seminal writers of that time period, as it was through his work I learned of William S. Burroughs, Henry Miller, and Allen Ginsberg, among others. Needless to say, I had many great conversations with my English teachers the following school year..."you heard of him how?"..and ..."your parents let you read those kinds of books?" were popular questions. Oh, and of course- "don't imitate him, he died young!" Thankfully, my parents, being the progressive souls they are, figured a book was a book, and that if the subject matter interested me, then I should be allowed to read it and draw my own conclusions. Being young, it was easy to romanticize Kerouac's life and philosophy. Drink, write, take Benzedrine, drink..write. The older I get, the harder it is for me to read Jack's work with the same blind youthful enthusiasm. Where I once saw endless adventure and possibility, I now see aimlessness. What were once fleeting moments of bliss now read like alcohol induced ramblings. For me in the present day, reading Kerouac is something like this: Idealized moment...my friend is a deity, idealized moment...there is hard truth in reality...but it's okay...I will drink more so it all disappears. The later writings seem less spontaneous and more formulaic. It is as though Kerouac was merely roaming the country, looking for something to hold on to, which is why he vested so much faith in the life of Neal Cassady, gradually coming to devalue his own individual beliefs. Kerouac died of cirrhosis at the age of 48, and Cassady froze to death sleeping on train tracks in the borderlands of Mexico. Sad endings to brilliant flashes of life. They started bright, dosed themselves heavily, and drew America's picture in bleary lines. That is how I visualize their lives. I still think On The Road is one of the greatest novels of the time period. Without Jack Kerouac, I may never have been exposed to the wide scope of authors I feel lucky to have read. Wow..I wish The Duluoz Legend would've been completed! There is so much more I could say....