Tag Archives: on the road

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Jack Kerouac’s On The Road Turned Into Google Driving Directions & Published as a Free eBook

JACK KEROUAC’S ON  THE ROAD TURNED INTO GOOGLE DRIVING DIRECTOONS AND PUBLISHED AS A,FREE E BOOK
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http://www.stumbleupon.com/su/1vGUFS/:M!q7pNWY:Q-53!U2N/www.openculture.com/2014/02/jack-kerouacs-on-the-road-turned-into-google-driving-directions.html/

Jack Kerouac’s On The Road Turned Into Google Driving Directions & Published as a Free eBook

THE HAUNTED LIFE:THE LOST NOVELLA’ BY JACK KEROUAC

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THE HAUNTED LIFE:THE LOST NOVELLA’ BY JACK KEROUAC

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‘The Haunted Life: The Lost Novella’, by Jack Kerouac

From left, Hal Chase, Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs in Manhattan, c1944-45©Corbis

From left, Hal Chase, Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs in Manhattan, c1944-45

The Haunted Life: The Lost Novella, by Jack Kerouac, Penguin Classics, RRP£20, 208 pages

Jack Kerouac, an author who was barely patient enough to punctuate his sentences, never mind sit still in one place, always claimed that he had lost the manuscript to his early novella The Haunted Life in the back seat of a yellow taxi cab. The truth is less dramatic: he probably forgot it in the closet of a Columbia University dorm room that had belonged to his fellow Beat writer Allen Ginsberg.

Peter Aspden

It resurfaced in a Sotheby’s auction 12 years ago, selling to an unnamed bidder for $95,600. The previous year, Kerouac’s most renowned manuscript, the famous On The Road scroll, had also sold at auction for a whopping $2.4m, which explains the sudden appearance of the earlier work.

Those relative values strike me as well-judged. The Haunted Life, now published for the first time and generously annotated and edited by Kerouac scholar Todd Tietchen, is a minor addition to the author’s corpus but not without interest. Kerouac wrote it at the age of 22, in the turbulent year of 1944, during which he was jailed as an accessory to murder, married his first wife Edie Parker to secure bail, and was then released.

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“I should now have material for a fine book . . . love, murder, diabolical conversations, all,” he wrote mischievously, but none of these promising themes finds its way into A Haunted Life. Instead we get a rehearsal for the semi-autobiographical exploration that would form the basis of Kerouac’s first major published work, The Town and the City.

Tietchen, in his introduction to the novella, believes that this early and methodical exposition of the author’s literary intentions is a significant rebuttal of the “public perception of Kerouac as a spontaneous word-slinger whose authorial approach merely complemented his Dionysian approach to life”. He casts the hedonistic writer as an improbable respecter of process, honing his ideas in this brisk workout.

In A Haunted Life, Kerouac’s concerns are refracted through Peter Martin, heading into his sophomore year at Boston College along with his friends Garabed Tourian and Dick Sheffield, based on the author’s real-life buddies Sebastian Sampas and Billy Chandler, both of whom had died in the war by the time Kerouac wrote the novella.

The three young men’s conversations skirt around some of the issues that preoccupied American intellectual life in the 1930s and 1940s: the end of the Great Depression, the US’s entry into the war, the exploitation of the working classes, and the possibility of romantic escape from all of those needling dilemmas.

Garabed and Dick respectively represent the leftist and liberationist ideals that animated those debates. In contrast, Peter’s frosty exchanges with his father Joe – clearly based on Kerouac’s own father Leo – see the young man wrestling with the bigotry of the preceding generation. In the novella’s very first pages, Peter drowns out the beginnings of one of his father’s rants by turning up Benny Goodman on the record player, an early reflection of Kerouac’s belief that jazz music’s freedom of form was the nemesis of sclerotic social views.

This opening feels stagey, as do the opening remarks between Peter and Garabed, clunky in their philosophical intent: “Poor Garabed,” says Peter. “Dostoevsky terrifies you with his Slavic portraits that remind you too much of yourself. You fear ugliness, you chase beauty and embrace it.”

As we focus on Peter’s interior life, touches of the freewheeling Kerouac begin to emerge in passages of existential celebration: “The morning sun, the swift clean smell in the air had called him back to life, called him back for more of the same – which at times held so much wonder that Peter deplored his physical limits. On a morning like this! – to be everywhere, be everyone at the same time, doing everything!”

Kerouac always intended The Haunted Life to become a multi-volume saga on the war, told through the story of the Martin family. “[It] will be a very sad book,” he explains in a note included here. “It can’t be otherwise: youth is shocked by maturity, but war adds to this shock enough to kill youth forever.”

But it is not for this melancholy tone that Kerouac would become best known, and it is clear from his musings that he was already looking ahead at a new America. In an outline for The Town and the City, he emphasises that the book’s ending will treat its characters well. “I write with gravity and gleefulness because I do not feel sceptical and clever about these things, and I believe that this is an American feeling. (No Joyce, no Auden, no Kafka has anything to say to a true American.)”

With that slap at the Old World, Kerouac launched himself to become one of the most exuberant adventurers of a new cultural landscape, whose heroes would include James Dean, Marlon Brando, Elvis Presley, characters who were infused with a sense of the limitless. Here, in this small book, are the tentative beginnings of a journey that was always going to lead to the open road.

Peter Aspden is the FT’s arts writer

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DAVID AMRAM REMEMBERS JACK KEROUAC

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DAVID AMRAM REMEMBERS JACK KEROUAC

DavidAmram, Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac
from left to right: Larry Rivers, Jack Kerouac,
David Amram, Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso (with back to camera)

 

DAVID AMRAM REMEMBERS
(Originally written for Evergreen Review in 1969, published early 1970 at the request of publisher Barney Rossett as an obituary for Kerouac)

I used to see Jack often at the old Five Spot in the beginning of 1957, when I was working there. I knew he was a writer, and all musicians knew that he loved music. You could tell by the way he sat and listened. He never tried to seem hip. He was too interested in life around him to ever think of how he appeared. Musicians understood this and were always glad to see him, because we knew that meant at least one person would be I listening. Jack was on the same wave-length as we were, so it was never necessary to talk.

A few months later, poets Howard Hart and Philip Lamantia came by my place with Jack. They had decided to read their poetry with music, and Jack said he would join in, reading, improvising, rapping with the audience and singing along. Our first performance was in December of 1957 at the Brata Art Gallery on East 10th Street. It was the first jazz-poetry reading in New York. There was no advertising and it was raining, but the place was packed. Jack had become the most important figure of the time. His name was magic. In spite of the carping, whining put-downs by the furious critics, and the jealousy of some of his contemporaries for his overnight success (he had written ten books in addition to On The Road with almost no recognition), Jack hadn’t changed. But people’s reaction to him was sometimes frightening.

He was suddenly being billed as the ‘King of The Beatniks’, and manufactured against his will, as some kind of public Guru for a movement that never existed. Jack was a private person, extremely shy, and dedicated to writing. When he drank, he became much more expansive, and this was the only part of his personality that became publicized. The people who came to the Brata Gallery weren’t taste makers; they were friends.

A few months later, we began some readings at the Circle In The Square. Everyone improvised, including the light man, who had his first chance to wail on the lighting board. The audience joined in, heckling, requesting Jack to read parts of On The Road, and asking him to expound on anything that came into his head. He also would sing while I was playing the horn, sometimes making up verses. He had a phenomenal ear. It was like playing duets with a great musician.

Jack was proud of his knowledge of music and of the musicians of his time. He used to come by and play the piano by ear for hours. He had some wonderful ideas for combining the spoken word with music. A few weeks later, jazz-poetry became ‘Official Entertainment’, and a few months later was discarded as another bit of refuse, added to the huge mound of our junk culture. It was harder to dispose of Jack. The same journalist and radio and TV personalities who had heralded him were now ripping him to shreds. Fortunately, they couldn’t rip up his manuscripts. His work was being published, more widely read, and translated.

In early 1958, all of us went to Brooklyn College, where Jack, Phillip and Howard read. Jack spent most of the time answering the student’s questions with questions of his own. He was the down-home Zen master, and the students finally realized he wasn’t putting them on. He was showing them himself. If they wanted to meet the Author Jack Kerouac, they would have to read his books.

His public appearances were never to promote his books. They were to share a state of mind and a way of being. The only journalist who picked up on this was Al Aronowitz. He saw Jack as an artist.

In the spring of 1959, the film Pull My Daisy was made. Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso, Peter Orlovsky, Larry Rivers and myself – the Third Avenue All-Stars as one wit described us – appeared in it. Alfred Leslie directed it and Robert Frank filmed it. Jack had written the scenario, and after the film had been edited, Jack saw it. Because it was a silent movie, Jack was to narrate it, and I was to write the music afterwards. He, Allen, and Neal Cassady also wrote the lyrics for the title song Pull My Daisy, for which I wrote the music and was sung in the film by Anita Ellis. Jack put on earphones and asked me to play, so that he could improvise the narration to music, the way we had done at our readings. He watched the film, and made up the narration on the spot. He did it two times through spontaneously, and that was it. He refused to do it again. He believed in spontaneity, and the narration turned out to be the very best thing about the film. We recorded it at Jerry Newman’s studio. Jerry was an old friend of Jack’s from the early forties and afterwards we had a party-jam session that lasted all night. Jack played the piano, sang, and improvised for hours.

In the early sixties I used to see Jack when he would come in from Northport to visit town. Once, he called up at one in the morning and told me I had to come over so that he could tell me a story. I brought over some music to copy, and Jack spoke non-stop until 8:30 a.m., describing a trip he had made through North Africa and Europe. It was like hearing a whole book of his being read aloud, and Jack was the best reader of his own work, with the exception of Dylan Thomas, that I ever heard.

“That’s a fantastic story.” I told him. “It sounds just like your books.”

“I try to make my writing sound just the way I talk.” he said. His ideal was not to display his literary skill, but to have a conversation with the reader.

I told Jack about an idea I had for a cantata about the four seasons in America, using the works of American authors. He launched into a travelogue of his voyages around the country, and referred to writers I might look into. I took notes, and ended up reading nearly fifty books, to find the texts. I included a passage from his book Lonesome Traveler. The concert was at Town Hall [in New York City], and Jack wrote that he couldn’t come. It was the Spring of 1965, and he didn’t like being in New York.

Sometimes he would call from different parts of the country just to talk, and we continued to write to each other. In one letter he said “Ug-g-h. Fame is such a drag.” He wanted time to work, but found that success robbed him of his freedom. At the same time, he felt that he was forgotten. I told him that all the young people I met when I toured colleges loved his books. To many, he was their favorite writer. But writer meant something different now. It was what was being said, not how it was said. It was content that counted, not style. Jacks’ message was a whole way of being, and he was becoming more an influence than ever.

Truman Capote dismissed Jack’s work as “typing.” I never heard Jack put down another writer. He went out of his way to encourage young writers. His work reflects this spirit of generosity, kindness and love. This is why his “typing” is so meaningful to young people today. Jack was ahead of his time spiritually. Like Charlie Parker, Lenny Bruce and Lord Buckley, his work is constantly being rediscovered.

Through knowing Jack, I wrote some of my best music. Without knowing him, I never would have written my book. More important, young people all over the world are reading and rereading his work. His death only means the beginning of a new life for everyone who shares in the joy of knowing him through his books.

David Amram, October 24th. 1969

I Have Nothing to Offer Anybody-Jack Kerouac

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I Have Nothing to Offer Anybody

Jean-Louis “Jack” Lebris de Kerouac (play /ˈkɛruːæk/ or /ˈkɛrɵæk/; March 12, 1922 – October 21, 1969) was an American novelist and poet. He is considered a literary iconoclast and, alongside William S. Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg, a pioneer of the Beat Generation.  Kerouac is recognized for his spontaneous method of writing, covering topics such as Catholic spirituality, jazz, promiscuity, Buddhism, drugs, poverty, and travel. His writings have inspired other writers, including Ken Kesey, Bob Dylan, Eddie Vedder, Richard Brautigan, Thomas Pynchon, Lester Bangs, Tom Robbins and Will Clarke.  Kerouac became an underground celebrity and, with other beats, a progenitor of the Hippie movement, although he remained antagonistic toward it. In 1969, at age 47, Kerouac died from internal bleeding due to long-standing abuse of alcohol. Since his death Kerouac’s literary prestige has grown and several previously unseen works have been published. All of his books are in print today, among them: On the Road, Doctor Sax, The Dharma Bums, Mexico City Blues, The Subterraneans, Desolation Angels, Visions of Cody and Big Sur.

In January 1949, Jack Kerouac failed to appear for an afternoon date with a woman called Pauline

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In January 1949, Jack Kerouac failed to appear for an afternoon date with a woman called Pauline

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Road Ready

‘The Voice Is All,’ by Joyce Johnson

By  JAMES CAMPBELL
Published: January 18, 2013    

In January 1949, Jack Kerouac failed to appear for an afternoon date with a woman called Pauline. He had told Allen Ginsberg he planned to marry her — “the finest woman I’ll ever know” — once she had unshackled herself from her truck-driver husband, who, according to Joyce Johnson, was accustomed to “slapping her around to keep her in line.” In the meantime, Kerouac began an affair with Adele Morales (later to become the second Mrs. Norman Mailer). His failure to keep the rendezvous with Pauline, however, had nothing to do with affection for Adele; rather, he had overslept after a night of sex games with Luanne Henderson, whom Jack’s muse Neal Cassady had married when she was 15, and who, according to their friend Hal Chase, was “quite easy to get . . . into bed.” The tryst had been engineered by Cassady, who was hoping to watch, Johnson says, to show Luanne, by then 18, “how little she meant to him.” Two days later, Kerouac called on Ginsberg and found Luanne “covered with bruises from a beating Neal had given her.” Johnson describes Kerouac as “shocked” by the sight; nevertheless, “they all went out to hear bebop,” partly financed by money stolen by Cassady. In response to being jilted, Pauline confessed her affair to her husband, who tried to burn her on the stove. Kerouac described her in his journal as a “whore.” All the while, Ginsberg can be heard in the background: “How did we get here, angels?”

Collection of Allen Ginsberg, via Sotheby’s

Jack Kerouac in his Columbia University football uniform, 1940s.

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THE VOICE IS ALL

The Lonely Victory of Jack Kerouac

By Joyce Johnson

489 pp. Viking. $32.95.

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This is an everyday story of the Beat Generation in late-1940s New York, a tale of crazy mixed-up kids who took a lot of drugs, dabbled in criminality — with two homicides among the statistics — lapsed into madness, were fond of identifying one another as “saints, saints,” but often had the barest notion of what it means to respect the individuality of other human beings. Yet three members of the inner circle, Kerouac, Ginsberg and William Burroughs, created experimental literary works of remarkable originality — in particular, “On the Road,” “Kaddish” and “Naked Lunch” — which read as freshly today as they did 50 years ago; perhaps, in an instance of that trick that the best art sometimes plays on us, more so.

Kerouac certainly makes a good subject, but there already exist about a dozen biographies (by Ann Charters, Barry Miles, Gerald Nicosia, among others), not to mention memoirs, an oral history — the excellent “Jack’s Book” (1978) — and wider surveys of the Beat Generation. In “Minor Characters” (1983), Johnson wrote about her affair with Kerouac at the time of publication of “On the Road.” She now steps back to a period of Kerouac’s life with which she has no direct acquaintance, tracing the story from his origins in a French Canadian family in Lowell, Mass., to New York in 1951, where the book ends with a rare citation from ­Kerouac’s journals: “I’m lost, but my work is found.”

Johnson justifies the retelling of what is in outline a familiar tale by the fact of having gained access to the vast Kerouac archive, “deposited in the Berg Collection of the New York Public Library in 2002.” So far, so good. No large-scale Kerouac biography, so far as I am aware (“The Voice Is All” lacks a bibliography), has appeared since that date. Unfortunately, Johnson was apparently refused permission to quote at length from the journals and working drafts among Kerouac’s papers. The result is a life in paraphrase.

The method gives rise to frustration. In 1945, for example, Kerouac began writing a novel called “I Wish I Were You,” a reworking of the story of the killing of David Kammerer by Lucien Carr in 1944. Together, Kerouac and Burroughs had previously written “And the Hippos Were Boiled in Their Tanks,” a collaboration on the same subject that eventually saw the light of day in 2008. According to Johnson, “I Wish I Were You” is a different beast: “In two successive drafts of the first 100 pages, Jack put in all the textural detail that had been left out of ‘Hippos’ and even returned with renewed confidence to the lyricism he had abandoned just the year before. It was really quite brilliant, the best prose he had written so far

about Neal Cassady, poems and recordings

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about Neal Cassady, poems and recordings

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images (41)RARE FOOTAGE OF NEIL CASSADY DRIVING FURTHUR

The Grateful Dead used to let Neal ramble on ( usually while tripping ) between sets. You can hear the beginnings of Lovelight ..I knew I should have wore more paisley
NEAL CASSADY TALKING

Grateful Dead & Neal Cassady July 23, 1967 – Strait Theater – San

Neal Cassady biography
NAME: Neal Cassady
OCCUPATION: Writer
BIRTH DATE: February 08, 1926
DEATH DATE: February 04, 1968
PLACE OF BIRTH: Salt Lake City, Utah
PLACE OF DEATH: San Miguel de Allende, Mexico
Full Name: Neal Cassady Jr.
AKA: Neal Cassady

Best Known For
Neal Cassady was a key figure of the Beat movement. The character Dean Moriarty in Jack Kerouac’s On the Road is based on him.

Synopsis

Born in Utah on February 8, 1926, Neal Cassady became a key figure of the Beat movement and an inspiration to his writer friends. Cassady’s magnetic energy and wild spirit is immortalized in the character based on him, Dean Moriarty of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. Later in life, Cassady joined Ken Kesey’s Merry Pranksters and fell into drugs. He died as a result, on February 4, 1968.

Contents
Synopsis
Early Life
Meeting the Beats
On the Road
Drug Use and Death

Early Life

Neal Cassady Jr. was born on February 8, 1926, in Salt Lake City, Utah. His mother died when he was 10, and he was raised by his alcoholic father in Denver, Texas. Cassady stole cars, hitchhiked, and was in and out of reform schools. He spent a year in jail at the age of 18.

Meeting the Beats

In 1946, Cassady traveled to New York City to visit a friend at Columbia University. There, he met Jack Kerouac, William S. Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg, all of whom were enthralled by Cassady’s energetic persona. He moved to New York City with his 16-year-old wife, LuAnne Henderson, who quickly returned home. Cassady remained in the city, and though he claimed to be straight, began a sexual relationship with Allen Ginsberg. The poet was deeply in love with Cassady; his groundbreaking poem “Howl” calls Cassady a “secret hero.”

Cassady learned how to write fiction from Kerouac, who based the character Dean Moriarty from 1957’s On the Road on his beloved friend.

On the Road

Cassady was relentlessly energetic. His free-flowing, detailed letters to Kerouac heavily influenced the novelist’s style. Cassady’s own prose is characterized by the same breathlessness, but he never finished a book; he struggled to package his ever-expanding ideas into sentences.

In 1947, Cassady met Carolyn Robinson and moved to San Francisco for her. One year later, his marriage to LuAnne was annulled and he wed Carolyn. She had his child, and the family moved to Los Gatos, a suburb of San Jose where Cassady worked on the Southern Pacific railroad.

Cassady was notoriously unfaithful, sometimes cheating with multiple women in a single day. Carolyn also found him in bed with Ginsberg more than once. While she stayed home and raised the couple’s three children, Cassady road-tripped across the country while sleeping with his ex-wife. In 1950, he wed Diana Hansen, a model pregnant with his child, while he was still married to Carolyn. With Cassady’s encouragement, Carolyn eventually had an affair with Kerouac. In his novel Big Sur, Kerouac documents this experience.

Drug Use and Death

In 1958, Cassady was arrested for selling marijuana and served two years in San Quentin Prison. Fed up, Carolyn divorced Cassady in 1963. Afterward, he joined author Ken Kesey and his group, the Merry Pranksters, on a cross-country, drug-filled road trip. Their adventures are detailed in Tom Wolfe’s 1968 book, The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. Heavy drug use ultimately led to Cassady’s death, on February 4, 1968. He was found on railroad tracks after a party in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. His autobiography was published posthumously as The First Third.

© 2014 A+E Networks. All rights reserved.

Neal Cassady biography

1 photo

Quick Facts
NAME: Neal Cassady
OCCUPATION: Writer
BIRTH DATE: February 08, 1926
DEATH DATE: February 04, 1968
PLACE OF BIRTH: Salt Lake City, Utah
PLACE OF DEATH: San Miguel de Allende, Mexico
Full Name: Neal Cassady Jr.
AKA: Neal Cassady

Best Known For

Neal Cassady was a key figure of the Beat movement. The character Dean Moriarty in Jack Kerouac’s On the Road is based on him.

Synopsis
Born in Utah on February 8, 1926, Neal Cassady became a key figure of the Beat movement and an inspiration to his writer friends. Cassady’s magnetic energy and wild spirit is immortalized in the character based on him, Dean Moriarty of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. Later in life, Cassady joined Ken Kesey’s Merry Pranksters and fell into drugs. He died as a result, on February 4, 1968.

Contents
Synopsis
Early Life
Meeting the Beats
On the Road
Drug Use and Death

Early Life

Neal Cassady Jr. was born on February 8, 1926, in Salt Lake City, Utah. His mother died when he was 10, and he was raised by his alcoholic father in Denver, Texas. Cassady stole cars, hitchhiked, and was in and out of reform schools. He spent a year in jail at the age of 18.

Meeting the Beats

In 1946, Cassady traveled to New York City to visit a friend at Columbia University. There, he met Jack Kerouac, William S. Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg, all of whom were enthralled by Cassady’s energetic persona. He moved to New York City with his 16-year-old wife, LuAnne Henderson, who quickly returned home. Cassady remained in the city, and though he claimed to be straight, began a sexual relationship with Allen Ginsberg. The poet was deeply in love with Cassady; his groundbreaking poem “Howl” calls Cassady a “secret hero.”

Cassady learned how to write fiction from Kerouac, who based the character Dean Moriarty from 1957’s On the Road on his beloved friend.

On the Road

Cassady was relentlessly energetic. His free-flowing, detailed letters to Kerouac heavily influenced the novelist’s style. Cassady’s own prose is characterized by the same breathlessness, but he never finished a book; he struggled to package his ever-expanding ideas into sentences.

In 1947, Cassady met Carolyn Robinson and moved to San Francisco for her. One year later, his marriage to LuAnne was annulled and he wed Carolyn. She had his child, and the family moved to Los Gatos, a suburb of San Jose where Cassady worked on the Southern Pacific railroad.

Cassady was notoriously unfaithful, sometimes cheating with multiple women in a single day. Carolyn also found him in bed with Ginsberg more than once. While she stayed home and raised the couple’s three children, Cassady road-tripped across the country while sleeping with his ex-wife. In 1950, he wed Diana Hansen, a model pregnant with his child, while he was still married to Carolyn. With Cassady’s encouragement, Carolyn eventually had an affair with Kerouac. In his novel Big Sur, Kerouac documents this experience.

Drug Use and Death

In 1958, Cassady was arrested for selling marijuana and served two years in San Quentin Prison. Fed up, Carolyn divorced Cassady in 1963. Afterward, he joined author Ken Kesey and his group, the Merry Pranksters, on a cross-country, drug-filled road trip. Their adventures are detailed in Tom Wolfe’s 1968 book, The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. Heavy drug use ultimately led to Cassady’s death, on February 4, 1968. He was found on railroad tracks after a party in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. His autobiography was published posthumously as The First Third.

© 2014 A+E Networks. All rights reserved.

Neal Cassady , ( Feb 8 , 1926 – Feb 4 , 1968 )

San Miguel D’Allende , Mexico
February 4 ,1968 … midnight

Dead from extreme expossure
four days short of forty – two

only fitting , next to a railroad track
He had many words to haul back

The wolf sleeps next to the silver rail
Howling at a silver moon that fell

I hear he drove a topless Cadillac
through San Francisco’s streets

With the top down
smilling free , it was meant to be

Life is a quasar

excerpt from Burning Furiously Beautiful: The True Story of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road

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excerpt from Burning Furiously Beautiful: The True Story of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road

Excerpt from Burning Furiously Beautiful: The True Story of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road

By Paul Maher Jr.

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Burning Furiously Beautiful: The True Story of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road
Editor’s note: Burning Furiously Beautiful: The True Story of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road is an accurate, up-to-date account of the development of Jack Kerouac’s groundbreaking 1957 novel, On the Road.

Using archival resources as the foundation of this book, Kerouac scholars Paul Maher Jr. (author of Kerouac: His Life and Work; editor Empty Phantoms: Interviews and Encounters with Jack Kerouac) and Stephanie Nikolopoulos have fashioned a gripping account of the internal and external experiences of Kerouac’s literary development.

We’re glad to have the opportunity to share this excerpt from the newly-published book with you.

from Burning Furiously Beautiful:
The True Story of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road:

THE SEA IS MY BROTHER

By the time Kerouac arrived in Lowell, Sebastian Sampas was already undergoing processing at Camp Lee. He was assigned to “C” Company. His first in a string of unanswered letters informed Jack that he actually liked boot camp, for it was a genuine experience, one in which he could observe the workings of the “common man” he had come to read so much about. He observed with scrutiny the men milling around, most of them appearing as “sad youths with death in their eyes.”

In the thick of training, when all individuality was stripped and the military machine had demoralized him, Sebastian concluded that there wasn’t all that much “comradeship.” The routine he was crudely thrust into was relentless: he was awakened by six o’clock every morning to face a day’s worth of calisthenics, infantry drills, manual of arms, bivouac training, first aid training, inspection of arms, and personal hygiene. There would be no possible furlough for at least six months.

Minutes before lights out on January 6, Sebastian wrote that he had taken a twelve-mile hike with full field packs on their backs. He wondered what Jack was doing right then, and was he, too, lonely for enriching conversation? Would they ever walk the streets of Paris? Was Jack still the “brooding dreamer”?

In Lowell, Jack had begun handwriting his sea novel. After much preparatory note taking and false starts, The Sea Is My Brother evolved into a novel-in-earnest, unfettered by academic or familial obligation. It was, for him, the book that had to be written representing a set of ideals he staked in real life. He was obsessed with the dualism of flesh and spirit, the phenomenon of the human condition. Moving along in a free-flowing torrent of ideas, he wrought a scattershot portrait of his mindset. He wondered about spiritual movements and the power of love. Love was pure, capable of directing justice, beauty, and truth.

The Sea Is My Brother splits its narrative between two characters: a Columbia professor named Bill Everhart and a working-class sailor named Wesley Martin. The professor gives in to Martin, and they hitchhike to Boston, where he joins the Merchant Marine. They sign on to the S.S. Westminster, which is scheduled to sail to Greenland to unload a shipment of war supplies and personnel.

Kerouac’s focus on the two men meant less descriptions of the sea. There was more personal interplay exposing the intellectual dynamics of the two men, which he would come to hone to perfection in On the Road. On January 10, 1943, he wrote—but never mailed—a letter to a friend, Bill Ryan, who was then attending Boston College, that he was on his third draft of the novel. He had shown a proto-version of this work before to Ryan, but now, he assured him, it had grown to a “gigantic saga.”

Kerouac was under Wolfe’s sway; his ability to write of the “essential and everlasting America” infused him with a fresh sensibility. This was an America that extended beyond mere patriotism. It was the duty of American writers to address what was “essential” and how it was “everlasting.” This, he wrote in the letter, was his path for now. Ryan would never read the letter, not only because it wasn’t mailed, but because he died in the South Pacific during the war.

During one cold midnight on March 4th, Kerouac was fiercely determined to complete the novel, telling himself in his journal that he would do so against all odds. He felt the world around him was moving in; cold, unrelenting, unwilling to give him time any longer. Should the Navy finally “get” him, he would finish the novel in hell if need be.


By mid January 1943, Sebastian was desperate for intellectual stimulation. A mundane task as simple as guard duty allowed him the opportunity to observe the prisoners opposite him. Only a wire mesh delineating the “good” from the “bad.” He listened to a prisoner tell him, and the world at large, “You are the prisoners, not I.” Sebastian pondered that, writing Jack, “Are they not our brothers, Jack?” Further inspired, he wrote a poem he titled “Guard Detail.” Eventually he assumed a better perspective of his comrades and turned his focus on Jack. He was upset at Kerouac’s disassociation from their Lowell friends. Furthermore, he had a growing concern for Jack not returning his letters, feeling isolated despite the growing numbers of young men joining him in training. In less than five weeks, Sebastian expected to be shipping out of Camp Lee to an unknown destination. Ultimately he learned, that he would be transported to northern Africa.

Later that month, Sebastian’s spirits lifted sufficiently to enable him to consider writing a book about his new experiences. He also caught a cold and was confined to a hospital bed until the 31st. His mood vacillated between wonderment and boredom, and the days seemed a continuous procession of sameness. Over the course of his training, his superiors noticed his military demeanor was exemplary. He was offered a chance to attend Officer’s Candidate School on three separate occasions. Sebastian refused, writing Jack that he’d rather be “dead.” When Jack finally wrote him, Sebastian warned him to “stay away” from the military; the military saw no interest in his intellectual pursuits. He felt “cheated.”

In February, Kerouac found a job parking cars at the Hotel Garage on Middlesex Street in Lowell, a job that amplified his ineptness at the wheel of an automobile. Though he despised being at the “beck and call” of paying customers, it did offer plenty of time to read. He still harbored consternation that he hadn’t heard from the Navy and was hopeful that they maybe had forgotten him. If so, he promised Sebastian that he would visit him within the next month. Sebastian sensed Kerouac’s unhappiness, but was happy that maybe they could see one another again. His health had improved, though he did have his molars removed.

Another spell of Kerouac’s absence was interrupted in early March when Sebastian received a drunken missive from Jack imploring him, “Do not die, live!” Sebastian harbored those very same concerns, inscribing into his journal loosely from memory the closing pages of Thomas Wolfe’s posthumous novel, You Can’t Go Home Again: “to leave the friends you love for greater love, to find a land more rich than earth, more kind than home.…” True, he was far from home, and the further away Sebastian moved, the more dismal was his view of humanity. He was disgusted by the southern “white trash” in Greenville, Pennsylvania. The freezing conditions—he slept in a pup tent outdoors—and cleaning latrines made it a “hell-hole.” He wrote to Kerouac that one-third of the soldiers had gone AWOL and that there was an average of two suicides every three days. One of them was found only the day before he wrote Kerouac in March: a nineteen year old swinging by his neck in the latrine.

In his Crawford Street home, Kerouac’s spirits dropped at the probability that he was to be classified 1-A, meaning he would be eligible for active duty. Most of his friends had already shipped out leaving him to walk the streets of Lowell alone or to stay at his desk and write. By his own estimation, his writing of The Sea Is My Brother eventually consumed long drawn-out hours at his desk every day of the week. He wanted to complete the novel before he received any notice from the Navy, suspecting that they would appear on his doorstep any day now.

He grew sick with measles and ran a fever that, despite the drawback to his health, would postpone the Navy only by a few days. In the mail he received a package from Sebastian. It was a vinyl recording of him reading from Thomas Wolfe. The recording saddened Gabrielle and she bemoaned the awful realities of the war. Though Gabe had been partially influenced by her husband to harbor less-than-savory opinions about Sebastian, in his absence she reflected differently. Kerouac returned the favor by sending Sebastian his completed handwritten novel. Eagerly he awaited Sebastian’s critique, confident that he was about to impress him with his plethora of new work.

Then the call of duty came. On March 21, 1943, the morning before he was to report for duty in Newport, Rhode Island, Jack was alone in his house. His mother had gone to Brooklyn for family business, his father was working in Connecticut, and newly divorced Nin had joined the WACs. He began writing another letter to Sebastian, spinning words by turns melancholic and tender as a confessional missive. The truth of the war stamped itself indelibly and threw him into a blind panic. Espousing a love for humanity, he went to Pawtucketville’s Saint Jeanne d’Arc church—the same where he, according to his novel Maggie Cassidy, “prayed [...] for the grace of her love” and, later, “on the great gray day of November 21, 1954,” arrived on the profound meaning of being beatific—and prayed. He was on the verge of weeping, he wrote Sebastian. The house felt alone for it lacked the rhythm of life. The war had splintered the Kerouacs, and he dreaded that soon he would become just another casualty. Reporting to Newport on the 22nd, he missed Sebastian by only a few weeks when he returned on Easter furlough for the last time. Sebastian had less than one year to live before the same thoughts that plagued Kerouac would strike him down.

SCHIZOID

Jack Kerouac took a train from Boston to Newport with a band of fresh recruits. On his first day in Newport, hundreds of young men stood in line waiting to fill out their shipping tags to ship their civilian clothing and personal effects back home. They were a mixed bag of everything representing America: they came from Brooklyn, the Bronx, the Deep South, and the mysterious West. Their dialects, accents, and inflections hinted a multitude of races and social classes, but in the vast, cold room of the gymnasium, they were stripped of their autonomous identity in one fell swoop. Clad in nothing but boxer shorts, the men’s feet, inseam, waist, hands, head, and chest were measured for boots, pants, gloves, hats, and shirts. Being issued military clothing took several hours as they stood in a long line that inched forward.

They retired for breakfast where two uniformed sentries stood at the door checking the recruits’ trays were clean; they had to eat everything they asked for before leaving. They were given a military buzz cut and handed “ditty” bags containing toothpaste, one bar of soap, and dental floss. They endured an endless series of shots: typhoid, influenza, tetanus, diphtheria, and polio vaccinations before being handed pay chits in lieu of money for incidental spending. Their teeth were probed and tooth charts were made to help identify them if they were blown apart on the battlefield. They checked their vision with a color test and prescriptions for eyeglasses were filled if needed. Once this process was completed, the men were prepared for boot camp training. From the beginning of this new experience, Kerouac in all likelihood already felt the grip of the military tearing asunder his individuality.

Placed in Company 773, Kerouac was ready to quit on the very first day. He endured standard drill instruction and calisthenics, experiencing the same regimen of physical conditioning as Sebastian. The one exception was that Kerouac was tested for his swimming abilities, and the results were written in his personnel records: “Qualified in recruit swimming. Ability to swim 50 yards, to tread water, and to float on back with motion.” Kerouac’s athleticism more than likely made the rest of his physical conditioning a breeze. The issues he faced, however, were psychological. He was placed on trial duty status “due to his abnormal conduct” after he began complaining of headaches. He was placed under observation only mere days after entering. Over the years, Kerouac had a tendency to exaggerate his conflict with the military, sometimes claiming that he “belted” an officer who told him to put out his cigarette, other times that he laid his rifle down in the dust and walked to the base library to read. Whatever actually happened was not noted in his Navy records. It simply states that he was “Admitted for treatment, not misconduct” less than a month after he began training.

Returned to his company on trial duty status, again he complained of headaches. On April 2 he was readmitted to sick bay: “at recruit re-examination he exhibited vague, disconnected thoughts; he rambled in a grandiose, philosophical manner; displayed auditory and visual hallucinations.” On the Report of Medical Survey of May 14, 1943, they described Kerouac’s initial complications: “This patient was readmitted to the sick list on April 2, 1943 at the U.S. Naval Training Station, Newport, R.I. with ‘Diagnosis Undetermined’ (dementia praecox) because, at recruit examination he was recognized as sufficiently abnormal to warrant trial duty status. At that activity before the expiration of his trial period neuropsychiatric examination revealed auditory hallucinations, ideas of reference and suicide; and a rambling, grandiose, philosophical manner.” This was a misdiagnosis, as noted later in the records.

Kerouac had been laying it on thick, building a case for himself, possibly from what he learned from Austrian psychologist Alfred Adler’s book, The Neurotic Constitution. Writing to a Lowell friend Cornelius “Connie” Murphy, Kerouac seemed well apprised of the psychological dynamics of his case, denouncing it as a “farce.” In Kerouac’s estimate, it was “simply a matter of maladjustment” with military life and to this he felt little shame. He was eager to sign on with the Merchant Marines once he was discharged. The doctor continued to probe, looking for signs of any aberration, like a tendency of homosexuality. Kerouac told him that he wasn’t in love with any one girl and had no plans for marriage. His casual relations with women remained sexual. He tended to bond more with his male companions.

Kerouac also divulged his obsession with writing and reading. The doctor’s diagnosis was that Kerouac suffered in part by “extreme preoccupation.” When the doctor asked of any “unreal ideas,” Kerouac continued to pour it on “thick,” blurting out Ambrose Bierce’s mysticism and that of Edgar Allan Poe, Samuel Coleridge, and Thomas De Quincey’s Confessions of an English Opium Eater. Did he experience any “bizarre hallucinations”? Kerouac assured that he did, and not only voices, but a chorus of voices that accused him of misdeeds throughout the night. Did he ever experience any bizarre behavior? Kerouac gave the doctor a greatest hits rendition of the past few years: quitting college; going on a drinking spree in Washington, D.C.; working and quitting several menial jobs; quitting Officer’s Training School at Columbia; spending the bulk of his time writing; and allowing himself the luxury of experience as fodder for writing, “sacrificing myself on the altar of Art.” Kerouac wasn’t fazed by the doctor’s questions. His only exception to this was the label of “bizarre delusions” since it also meant that nobody would take him or his writing seriously. When he asked for a typewriter to work on his novel, they “humoured” him by giving him one. This was all noted in the official report, confidently assuring the doctor that a diagnosis of dementia praecox—deteriorating cognition—was the right one.

On Easter Sunday night, Sebastian stood outside the gates of the Naval Training Center after he was refused entry by the guards. He was trying to visit Jack. He had been keeping up a steady stream of letters, all of them encouraging and arguing the merits of poetry. They served to boost Kerouac’s morale, in one case quoting the English novelist Hugh Walpole, who had earned a Georgian Medal for his rescue of a wounded soldier during World War I: “T’isn’t life that matters, but the courage you bring to it.” Sebastian returned home before shipping out for good to North Africa.

For the remainder of boot camp, Kerouac was hospitalized. On May 4, he told doctors that his nervousness had decreased a little. His initial impressions were inaccurate because he did not “take them seriously.” He vacillated between embracing the prospects of combat or rejoining the Merchant Marine. A few days later, Dr. Allen recorded more data on him: “Interested in world affairs and political theory. Is gregarious. Has many boyfriends. Mother believes him heterosexual but interest in girls shallow. Somewhat stubborn. Broods when unhappy or lonely.” He underwent a medical survey: “he continued to be listless, apathetic, seclusive and is subject to both auditory and visual hallucinations. Physical, neurological and laboratory findings are essentially negative. On May 11, 1943 the diagnosis Dementia Praecox. #1509 was established. It is the considered opinion of this Board of Medical Survey that this patient suffers from Dementia Praecox and recommends that he be transferred to the National Naval Medical Center, Bethesda Maryland, for treatment and disposition.” The doctors explained the purpose, findings, and recommendations in the report and concluded that it was “impracticable at this time to obtain a statement concerning the pre-enlistment origin of his disability.”

During another interview to ascertain whether he suffered a preexisting condition, Kerouac delved more into his background, and the doctor reported:

At this hospital, this patient continued to be restless, apathetic, seclusive and somewhat grandiose, but denied ever having hallucinatory experiences, explaining the previously described experiences as “echo” effects in his mind of conversations he had previously. According to this patient, he made a very poor adjustment in school and in work. He impulsively left school because he felt he had nothing further to learn; and then left, just as precipitously, various jobs such as sports writer for a local newspaper because he felt too stilted and held back in there. Without any particular training or background, this patient, just prior to this enlistment, enthusiastically embarked upon the writing of novels. He sees nothing unusual in this activity. Physical and neurological examinations are negative and mental examination reveals no gross evidence of psychosis.”

At the convening of a Staff Conference on June 2, the diagnosis was changed to “Constitutional Psychopathic State, Schizoid Personality.”

Kerouac read the findings of the Board of Medical Survey: “your present disability, Constitutional Psychopathic State, Schizoid Personality, #1543, to have existed prior to your reporting for active duty in the U.S. Naval Reserve, and was not aggravated by service conditions.” He agreed with these findings and, without further statement, signed off as John Louis Kerouac. He was honorably discharged on June 30, 1943, and given travel allowance to return home.

What Hollywood Gets Wrong About Jack Kerouac and the Beat Generation and a trailer from the movie “On The Road”

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untitled (42)What Hollywood Gets Wrong About Jack Kerouac and the Beat Generation

A new crop of films portrays their lifestyle as rebellious, adolescent fun. But what made the Beats so influential in the first place was that they were radical, free-thinking adults.
Jordan Larson
Oct 16 2013, 1:54 PM ET
Sony Pictures

John Clellon Holmes, author of the seminal Beat Generation novel Go, wrote in 1952 that for the free-spirited rising stars of American literature known as the Beats, “how to live seems to them much more crucial than why.” In those years, young people in the U.S. were in the process of inheriting both economic prosperity and stifling societal mores from their parents. So for many, the Beat Generation of writers—with their stupendous refusal of social and cultural norms and their way of life governed by the pursuit of pleasure, belief, and truth—was a godsend.

Today’s young people experience problems of a bit of a different ilk. Feeling free and adventurous won’t avail you of your student loan debt, poems penned in the days between drug-fueled nights probably won’t make it into your favorite lit mag—and, if they did, you’d probably be asked to write for free anyway, you know, “for the exposure.” But this hasn’t stopped a veritable resurgence over the last few years of Beat obsession, beginning with the film Howl (2010), and continuing with On the Road (2012) and two new films, Kill Your Darlings, in theaters today, and Big Sur, opening November 1. Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg—the authors of On the Road and Howl, respectively—have been the focus of two films each.

Given what the Beats meant to young people of the 1950s, perhaps it isn’t so surprising that their culture has been revived for millennial consumption. What teenager or 20-something doesn’t long to drop everything and take a road trip to wherever, with friends and booze and drugs and sex? And in an age when many young people are discovering that young adulthood isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, we could use some fun, right? But the current Beat revival arguably goes too far with its re-imagination of the Beat writers’ livelihoods as simple adolescent goofing around—its most prominent writers were, after all, well into their grown-up years when they wrote many of their most notable writings. This crop of films diminishes what was so radical about the Beat Generation in the first place: their iconoclastic approach to life, which extended far beyond their 20s and into adulthood proper.

Conspicuously absent from the latest revival is the third heavyweight of the movement, William S. Burroughs, whose Naked Lunch was adapted into a disturbing and gritty film by David Cronenberg in 1991. The omission perhaps isn’t so surprising: Burroughs credited his awakening as a writer to a 1951 incident in Mexico when he accidentally killed his wife while playing “William Tell,” a bar trick Burroughs invented that involves shooting a glass off someone’s head, so his legacy would likely be a bit harder to spin as one of harmless and youthful adventure.

In casting the authors as eternally and fundamentally adolescent, the recent revival tones down their behavior—both revolutionary and repulsive—as a sort of passing teenage phase.

The exclusion of Burroughs from the Beat revival isn’t the only way the movement has been crafted for optimal consumption, though: Howl and Kill Your Darlings focus on Allen Ginsberg at his most youthful and promising. Kill Your Darlings, in which a baby-faced Daniel Radcliffe plays Ginsberg, tells a little-known tale of murder in the Beats’ group of friends at Columbia University, which ends up bringing the group together. The appeal of the story seems to be that it’s about a set of famous people who may have been involved in a possible murder during their youths, the occurrence of which may or may not explain their genius, or art, or something. In Howl, however, Ginsberg’s collection of poems are the subject of an obscenity trial, and though you’d never guess from James Franco’s youthful appearance as Ginsberg in the film, the author was actually 30 years old when Howl was published.

On the Road, published when Kerouac was 35, seems most susceptible to being reimagined as a series of youthful whims. A recollection of Kerouac’s mid-20s, which he spent traveling with Neal Cassady (known as Dean Moriarty in the book); Neal’s wife, Luanne Henderson; and other Beat figures, On the Road is a paean to recklessness and discovery. Significantly, the film replaces the famous opening line of the book, “I first met Dean not long after my wife and I split up,” with “I first met Dean not long after my father died,” likely because it interferes with the viewer’s image of carefree and unbridled youth. Scrubbed from the film is any mention of Sal’s age at the time (25) or his stint in the military before attending Columbia. However, the film doesn’t balk at Luanne’s age: characters make numerous references to “Dean’s 16-year-old bride,” known in the book as Marylou.

Sal Paradise, Kerouac’s character in the book, describes Marylou as being “awfully dumb and capable of doing horrible things.” In the morning after Sal’s first all-night meeting with the couple, Dean “decided the thing to do was to have Marylou make breakfast and sweep the floor.” Shortly after, Dean and Marylou have a fight, and Marylou kicks Dean out of their shared apartment. According to Sal, “Dean said she’d apparently whored a few dollars together and gone back to Denver—‘the whore!’” This is all within the first three pages. While Marylou’s character in last year’s film adaptation of On the Road, played by Kristen Stewart, is spared some of the nastier epithets, the story’s misogyny largely lives on unchallenged and uncut. Marylou plays a tiny role in the story, mostly as a “dumb little box” whom Dean and Sal trade around until she gets pregnant and they tire of her.

In casting the authors as eternally and fundamentally adolescent, the recent revival tones down their behavior—both revolutionary and repulsive—as a sort of passing teenage phase, something that young people just sort of do. And in that way, the latest cultural reincarnation both nullifies and excuses the behavior of its leaders. In the end, I’m not sure what’s more offensive—the film’s rampant and unapologetic misogyny or Stewart’s interview with the Chicago Sun-Times, in which she claimed that On the Road told her “that you have to use every second in life. You can’t get complacent and let life pass you by,” as if fathering children and abandoning them is just an essential part of what it means to be free, man.

Pretending Kerouac’s life was some sort of consequence-free dream not only does a disservice to viewers, but to the Beats, as well.

Big Sur, it’s worth noting, is remarkably different from the other films. The film, to its great credit, largely avoids the pitfalls of the others by tackling subject matter that’s less inherently glamorous. An adaptation of Kerouac’s 1962 novel, his first after the publication of On the Road, Big Sur shows Kerouac suffering from the burden of fame and lamenting the fact that he’s no longer young. The film opens with a lightly adapted quote from the novel: “All over America high school and college kids thinking ‘Jack Kerouac is 26 years old and on the road all the time hitchhiking’ while there I am almost 40 years old, bored and jaded.” (Jack Kerouac is known as Jack Duluoz in the book.) The film follows Kerouac as he wanders from Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s cabin in Big Sur to San Francisco and back again, usually in the company of several Beats and lady friends. The film crescendos with Kerouac’s alcohol-induced nervous breakdown, accompanied by a sudden epiphany and strangely chipper ending. Though Kerouac behaves much the same way as he did in On the Road, he doesn’t feel the same way: He becomes obsessed with death and drinking, and the narrative seems to comment on the binary of blessed youth and damned old age.

The misogyny of On the Road also figures into Big Sur, and it gets a little harder to stomach as it becomes clear that it’s not just a phase of adolescence, but rather, it’s seemingly central to the life of a Beat writer. A significant portion of the plot revolves around Neal Cassady’s mistress, whom he introduces to Kerouac. Kerouac, in turn, becomes her lover, promises to marry her, and introduces her to Cassady’s wife. He later calls off the marriage, or any form of commitment, leaving his lover to wonder how she’ll take care of herself and her four-year-old son. Unlike in On the Road, these actions finally begin to reflect upon Cassady and Kerouac in negative ways. Their casual womanizing no longer seems like something fun and rebellious to partake in, but like a deep-seated and decidedly unfortunate character flaw.

Overall, while these films are supposed to offer some vintage escapism, their takes ring hollow. Kerouac may have been a tremendous writer, but the enormity of his art is largely left out of the film adaptations. Even for all the dramatic voiceovers of Kerouac’s prose, On the Road and Big Sur are mostly left to work with muddled and problematic plot points. Still, what’s most problematic about these films isn’t their artistry but their authenticity.

Yes, to some extent, the real Kerouac and Cassady will always be remembered as somewhat youthful. Seven years after the publication of Big Sur, Kerouac died of cirrhosis of the liver, nearly 30 years before both Burroughs and Ginsberg died; Cassady died the previous year at the age of 41. But despite the fact that they “died young,” both of them were said to look far older than their years. One could argue that these films are only trying to honor the spirit of the Beat Generation, but can you separate the “essence” of a story or a movement from what its progenitors really said and did, and at what point in their lives? Neal Cassady and Jack Kerouac were grown men who were also alcoholics, misogynists, and womanizers who killed themselves with substance abuse. Pretending Kerouac’s life was some sort of consequence-free dream not only does a disservice to viewers, but to the Beats, as well.

Even at its best, the idea of a revelatory and sensual Beat adventure is rather clichéd, but especially so when divorced from the movement’s great and lasting achievements: Their rebelliousness paved the way for the counterculture of the sixties, and artists from Patti Smith to Thomas Pynchon have hailed the Beats’ style of jazz-like improvisation as an influence. The Beats deserve to be celebrated for the way they lived and what they created, not just for how fun and sexy their escapades may have looked.

TRAILER FROM THE MOVIE “”ON THE ROAD”

http://youtu.be/WlZZntvJ8Q4