One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.
— Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums
Inspiration overload on the road
One of my first impressive encounters with American literature was Jack Kerouac and his most famous book, On the Road. I was about 14, and because I had already been to the US twice, I could remember the wide and open landscapes he wrote about. Landscapes so open and free that I felt like falling into them, learning from the land, the open sky, and its nature. I was 14; I hated school; I hated obligations, and I hated the small Austrian town I was living in.
There was nowhere to go but everywhere, so just keep on rolling under the stars.
— Jack Kerouac On the Road
I too wanted to ride into an adventurous, unknown future amidst the best of friends. I, too, wanted to be free. And I too wanted to be Dean Moriarty — like so many others — the alter ego that wasn’t Jack’s but haunted him to the grave. Dean, the one who never stopped, always kept going, always moving on on on. Jack of all trades, life of the party, breaker of hearts, manliest man ever, at least in Sal’s (Jack’s?) eyes. Most of all, the character that was Neal Cassady and never ever Jack Kerouac — even though many got that wrong, at least initially. As far as I can remember, at 14 I didn’t think about possible real-life connections between the characters and the author’s life. I just wanted to go go go as well.
Reading Jack Kerouac pt. 1
After the whirlwind that was On the Road (which at 14 I read in its German translation) a few years later, I read The Dharma Bums, The Subterraneans (both in German and English),The Town and the City, and Maggie Cassidy(just the German translation). I mention this not to flex my exceptional language skills (they are average at best) but because when it comes to Kerouac’s prose, there is a huge difference between the English original and probably any translation, certainly the German one. Writing with a jazzy melody in mind, the words have a certain rhythm that is hard to reproduce in German, at least in my opinion, as German is not as ‘soft’ and flowy as English. (Sorry to sound a tad esoteric, but keep in mind, I’m not a linguist…)
My karma was to be born in America where nobody has any fun or believes in anything, especially freedom.
— Jack Kerouac The Dharma Bums
Though it has been a while since I’ve read these books, I remember that his spontaneous, uninhibited prose is most noteworthy in On the Road. The Town and the City seems to be his most ‘polished’ work, when he still followed the paths of other great American authors like John Steinbeck. Apart from On the Road, The Dharma Bums too left a deep impression on me. Once again I felt a longing for solitude, nature, and being free, exploring the land in my own time and space. I was in my early 20s then, but that didn’t make any difference. I guess it would even happen today, over 10 years later — it’s my personal Kerouac effect 🙂
Reading Jack Kerouac pt. 2 — the older the better?
Just recently I started to re-read Jack Kerouac’s works, and in some of them in the original English version for the first time. Two early works of Kerouac — The Sea is my Brother and The Haunted Life — were published ‘just recently’ (a.k.a within the last few years — the well-known Tupac/Cobain effect of constantly rediscovering unknown material) and this prompted me to get back to Jack after so much time had passed since our last encounter years earlier.
You’d never care to plant some roots in society, I suppose, […]
— Jack Kerouac The Sea is my Brother
When I started reading Jack Kerouac in my teens and continued to do so throughout my early twenties, I was myself an avid writer. Like so many others before (and after) me, I was heavily influenced by Jack. Not so much his style — I’m not musical enough, though I love jazz — but rather by his passion, his philosophies, and his life in general, always on the move, always traveling and moving through the country, always writing…
At least that was what I thought. Much later, I found out that most of his books published after On the Road were written well before, and that Jack had serious problems to produce any sort of writing later in life, especially after his drinking got out of hand. That he moved back in with his mother. That he fell asleep drunk during a press conference in Milan. That his drunken mind fled back to the conservative catholicism of his childhood. That his understanding of freedom at some point meant an additional bottle of whiskey…
Dream on…
But back in the early days, I wanted to live like Jack and write like Jack. Which was, of course, not possible for al myriad of reasons. Thankfully. Also, I never had the stamina to aim for a novel. I prefer short stories. This may be my way of truly appreciating Jack’s life and personal (hi)story, his unsteadiness and constant rambling cross-country (even when it was just in his mind): not being able to stick to one long story but rather jumping from one to another as I like.
I have not written anything ‘creative’ (‘arty’) in ages, for various reasons: playing with my demons, working to get a degree, working as a freelance writer (which is ONE GREAT WAY to ruin any sort of creative writing becausecanyoubevlievethestuffIhavetowrite??!??!!??!!). But, as I recently rediscovered good old Jack and am currently about to find out if his work is still as inspiring or even entertaining as ever, I’m also curious if the pure act of reading Kerouac once again may serve as a catalyst for my own writing.
I don’t know, I don’t care, and it doesn’t make any difference.
— Jack Kerouac (Interviews, Letters)
It’s not that I’m overwhelmed by my own greatness, but rather that I’ve always loved writing, especially before my demons made their first appearance. Besides, it’s pretty much the only talent I have (I can also just stand upright and breathe regularly on my own, but that’s rather training than talent).
As a way to spur my academic works (and writing) as well, I just recently started to write daily, in various forms, may it be a blog post, a lengthy diary entry, or part of my dissertation (or my talk!!!). It works just fine, at least for now, and maybe, maybe, one day, I may finally find that Jack is resurrecting my inner writer one way or the other.
Maybe…