- Edition
- ISBN 9780140042597
Reviews
On the Road captures Americana in a stronger and more vivid fashion than John Steinbeck did The Grapes of Wrath. On the Road covers the same route (and more) but doesn't water down the regional flavors with allegory. Instead American from New York to California and all parts in between is shown for its good, bad, rich, poor, and various ethnicities with humor and honesty. Through Sal's numerous transcontinental road trips, Kerouac describes the regional beauty, quirks, culture and geography of every city and state the protagonist passes through. Of the cities I've either lived in or visited that are visited in this book I enjoyed the most--especially his numerous pilgrimages to San Francisco. His first entry into San Francisco is classic: "Over the Oakland Bay Bridge I slept soundly for the first time since Denver; so that I was rudely jolted in the bus station at Market and Fourth... and there she was, Frisco - long, bleak streets with trolley wires all shrouded in fog and whiteness... . Weird bums (Mission and Third) asked me for dimes in the dawn..." This opening paragraph to San Francisco is still apt, if not, perfect. While the book is an icon of the Beat generation and Sal, the narrator, desires to be among that set, he's abysmal at it. Throughout the book he worships his friend Dean who is the wildly cool womanizing, debauched, drug addicted man Sal wants to be but Sal just can't manage to follow in Dean's footsteps. Whereas Dean will drive over 100 mph, steal cars and delight in getting drunk, Sal will either drive the speed limit or hide in the back when Dean is driving, try to return Dean's joy ridden cars, or want to sleep off the booze he's drunk when around Dean. It's Sal's valiant attempts to be like Dean while being unable to follow through that add a delicious irony to the novel. In the end Sal and Dean and the rest of the gang part ways, having grown apart as they've matured over the course of the two years this book covers. The book ends on a somewhat sad note, looking back across the days of those crazy contiental trips with nostalgia and longing.
Maybe fascinating at some point, but for someone who grew up in a backpacker world it doesn't wow me very much to read this.
I sat on this for way too long. It was hard to read at times. I think Kerouac’s writing is a little over-romanticized, though I do mostly enjoy it. The last paragraph was my favorite bit.
1.5 mmkay
my expectations were far too high. this is objectively a mediocre book. some fleeting moments of beauty but a fair amount of logistical bla bla. still worth reading but rough around the edges.
That anyone would hitchhike from New York to San Francisco multiple times is an interesting enough topic for me, doesn't matter if that person happens to be Jack Kerouac. I particularly enjoyed Kerouac's description and immersion in jazz culture, and as always the beat generation's observations of the 50's in contrast to the malt-shop innocence and morality that dominated the pop culture of the time.
I think that stream of consciousness books are not for me.
Ohmygod it’s finally over!! I didn’t like this book. I don’t think it enriches you in any way. It’s dull, boring, full of stories of nothing. The whole book is basically one chapter repeated until exhaustion. The narrator, “Sal” has no personality and just lives through his friends’ (???) lives. It hurts to read and I just felt like slapping all of their faces.
“i like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.” Excerpt From On the Road Jack Kerouac not a book that’s completely without merit. it’s well written with nice pockets of prose that portrayed youth, confusion, and yearning well. a straight forward stream of consciousness kinda read that’s thorough in both philosophy and hedonism. a show it not say it kinda book which speaks to the talent of the writer. but its an example of what i hate most about “american” books and why im not inclined to read them.lol
I’m genuinely confused how this is deemed a classic but at the same time I get it? Like it’s written well and it’s not a bad story… but it’s boring and repetitive. And especially in modern day, the use of the n and f words are so… questionable on so many levels as to why, like many ‘classics’, it still holds the title of a classic. But … i finished it in one sitting. I’m genuinely so conflicted if I liked it or hated it so take with that what you will it wasn’t bad but it wasn’t fun ??
This book made me want to go train hopping or something. It gave me wanderlust.
Before reading this book I was totally buying the romance of Jack Kerouac. Hopping trains and bumming around and being an artist all sounded like the cat's pajamas. Who needs to revise? Just spiritually connect with living in the moment and write down your constant brilliant epiphanies. This book sorta disenchanted me. You see, even as a high school senior I recognized that this book was pretty mediocre, and wasn't super-deep, and was like an older and shittier version of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. If Dean Moriarty weren't always travelling, he'd be impossible to deify. He'd be just another frat boy. Kerouac himself wasn't a troubadour. He had natural talent, but never honed his skill, and in my opinion he now pales in comparison to Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti. That was his choice, and I'm sure some people will strongly disagree, but it only took this one book for me to decide I was done with Kerouac. But, I can't give it less than three stars because he had one moment of amazing inspiration in here and gave me one of my favorite quotes ever: “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!”
Perhaps this requires background reading on the history of this movement and this author, but I was surprised and underwhelmed by a book that has supposedly inspired a generation of people to up and leave for 'the road'. Some lovely turns of phrases, but mostly I was just, like, "debauchery," and "ugh", and "what's your point, though?"
Easy to read, simple concepts with notes of nostalgy. A good introduction to Jack Kerouac's writing.
Overall I liked it, but reading it is a new king a torture, everything goes haywire and everything is almost blurry like a picture that has troubles staying put
A book describing the travels of a rudderless ship that has the most powerful engine in the world, and the narrator that follows him. I wanted to read this book because it comes up frequently in lists of books that inspired others, and because it is somewhat credited with starting the beatnik movement. I did not enjoy the book, but I did appreciate the glimpse into American history that it detailed. And I also somewhat appreciated the poetic writing style of Kerouac, but it wasn't enough to make it enjoyable. The main characters come across like modern day frat boys that are starved for sex and adventure as they travel back and forth across America in the 1950's. If you must read this book, I highly recommend the Audible version, as Will Patton did an exceptional job of narrating.
fast, frivolous, honest, down to earth, sense of freedom
„Bitterness, recriminations, advice, morality, sadness - everything was behind him, and ahead of him was the ragged and ecstatic joy of pure being.“ - the vibe of the book summed up in one sentence.
Kerouacs style of writing might not be everyone’s tea; I adored it. He filled my head with visions of wild open American plains, roadside diners, mountains, and extraordinary sunsets. He made me feel the wind in my hair, smell the road, getting chills while watching stars on a clear night in the middle of nowhere. Just imagine what it must have been like, traveling without cell phones, weeks of planning. Only you, your company, the road and endless possibilities. These are the joyous and exciting parts. Then there’s the opposite. Kerouac has a talent to put so much power in really short sentences expressing desperation, hurt and disappointment questioning life, love and friendship. I loved how subtle he did it. It didn’t feel like obviously quotable quotes but something he simply needed to get off his chest.
What partly annoyed me was the plot itself. This is not a book you read for the plot and I‘m totally fine with that. I can sit there, indulge in a uncomplicated plot and enjoy the vibe. That didn’t always work in this case because I ended up being confused and lost in the story too many times. There is an extraordinary bunch of (side) characters, places, backstories, acquiantances and random plotlines which are only relevant for like .. 5 pages? My brain wasn’t able to follow that.
I started this book knowing people have very controversial opinions about it. And I see where the critics come from. I perceive the misogyny, racism, homophobia and the stereotyping of the superior white american man who can do whatever he wants as very problematic as well. I just wish people would also consider the time and the context the book was written. This book isn’t meant to accommodate our current values. But it provides much possibility to reflect where some stereotypes come from and why they are dangerous.
Is it just typing? I don't think so. It's strange, because I found some of it deadly dull at the time of reading, but then found that it stayed in my mind while I was going about my daily chores. I wish that I'd read this as a younger man, when travelling was on my roadmap more than it is now. I think it's that that has made it stay in my mind - it has me thinking back on my travelling days and looking at my kids as they grow into travelling ages and hoping that they get to do that. It also has me thinking about my life now, as I approach 50 and go nowhere, but even if I did go somewhere, it would be to visit, not to live, and with family and not friends. Not that that would necessarily be a bad thing, just a different thing. So the book has got me thinking, which is why I've given it four stars. The writing style suits the content perfectly. I think this is a book I'll read again in 10 years or so. Such a serendipitous find too - I went to the post office which just happens to sell books too, and they had this on the counter as an impulse buy, so I impulsively bought it.
It's well-written, but I don't get the hype.
There's a reason this novel defined a generation. The narrative is so fluid and poetic and rhythmic that it functions just as much as music as literature. Beautiful.
It was so very long ago. I was probably 13 years old! I vaguely remember reading it while on a road trip with my family.
HOLY SHIT!!!! who wants go on a big cacophony of an american road trip with me right now at this very moment
Took me a while to actually get through it--maybe because I found Sal Paradise's manic need to be always moving a little exhausting. But I also think it's supposed to be exhausting. I don't know if the version of America seen in this book exists anymore, but I admire seeing how Kerouac brings it to life through Sal's eyes.
Highlights
But then they danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!' What did they call such young people in Goethe's Germany?
All that old road of the past unreeling dizzily as if the cup of life had been overturned and everything gone mad. My eyes ached in nightmare day.
All the bitterness and madness of his entire Denver life was blasting out of his system like daggers.
Oh, the sadness of the lights that night!
Dean’s California—wild, sweaty, important, the land of lonely and exiled and eccentric lovers come to forgather like birds, and the land where everybody somehow looked like broken down, handsome, decadent movie actors.
they stand uncertainly underneath immense skies, and everything about them is drowned. Where go? what do? what for?
What is that feeling when you’re driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? —it’s the too-huge world vaulting us, and it’s good-by. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.
Soon it got dusk, a grapy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon fields; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgundy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries. I stuck my head out the window and took deep breaths of the fragrant air. It was the most beautiful of all moments.
And before me was the great raw bulge and bulk of my American continent; somewhere far across, gloomy, crazy New York was throwing up its cloud of dust and brown steam. There is something brown and holy about the East; and California is white like washlines and emptyheaded—at least that’s what I thought then.
I spent countless rainy hours drinking coffee
It was there, all tied up, the whole enormous sadness of a shirt.
the wild, lyrical, drizzling air of Nebraska.
I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost. I was halfway across America, at the dividing line between the East of my youth and the West of my future,
the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”
we tiptoed around each other like heartbreaking new friends.
He was simply a youth tremendously excited with life, and though he was a con-man, he was only conning because he wanted so much to live and to get involved with people who would otherwise pay no attention to him.
Bitterness, recriminations, advice, morality, sadness - everything was behind him, and ahead of him was the ragged and ecstatic joy of pure being.
Explaining the vibe and ambivalence of the book in one sentence.
What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? - it's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-by. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.
And is it a good or a bad feeling? Because for me it’s kind of both at the same time.
He seems to me to be headed for his ideal fate, which is compulsive psychosis dashed with a jigger of psychopathic irresponsibility and violence.
'Why do you have that ugly thing hanging there?' and Bull said, 'I like it because it's ugly'
All his life was in that line.
There’s so much power in this thought.
Lucille would never understand me because I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.
Isn't it true that you start your life a sweet child believing in everything under your father's roof? Then comes the day of the Laodiceans, when you know you are wretched and miserable and poor and blind and naked, and with the visage of a gruesome grieving ghost you go shuddering through nightmare life.
Ah, it was a fine night, a warm night, a wine-drinking night, a moony night, and a night to hug your girl and talk and spit and be heavengoing. This we did.
I love how Kerouac is able to describe situations in a way that you are able to feel them deep down in your body.
We lay on our backs, looking at the ceiling and wondering what God had wrought when He made life so sad.