When I knew a little about Jack Kerouac his name conjured these things — untamed spirit — raucous lover of spontaneity — poet of the now experience — articulator for those yearning to burst free of themselves and their destinies — footloose, frenetic and free — feral counterculturalist —
The things you love and the icons you adore draw you in. After On The Road I read The Dharma Bums. After those I read about Kerouac himself.
Digging a little amplified my post-adolescent man crush on this Beat bopper whose prose flows Whitmanesquely down the page. Kerouac could tell a story and have you feel it like free verse. He riffed improvisationally like the jazz he loved.
And oh god did he inhabit experience. You felt only one who loved madly, unconditionally, could vignette the undersoul of America the way he did . . .
Digging a lot . . . bummed me to no end.
Once I knew more about Jack Kerouac these connotations appended to my initial take on him — downward bound — sad and lonely aging hipster unable to escape a trajectory set early — lost — unmoored — alcohol until death do us part — incapable of tossing off the explorations of youth to enjoy the explorations of maturity.
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