So I finally finished Kerouac’s On the road, oh that beat generation: high on life, lust and drugs. “Burn burn burn as spiders across the sky”, and even stars go black and beat. But dig it and kick it:
“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.”
“At lilac evening I walked with every muscle aching among the lights of 27th and Welton in Denver colored section, wishing I were a Negro, feeling that the best the white world had offered me was not enough ecstasy for me, not enough life, joy, kicks, darkness, music, not enough night.”
(See, black people are cooler!)
“But they need to worry and betray time with urgencies false and otherwise, purely anxious and whiny, their souls really won’t be at peace unless they can latch on to an established and proven worry and having once found it they assume facial expressions to fit and to go with it, which is, you see, unhappiness, and all the time it all flies by them and they know it and that too worries them no end.”
Well, this roaring superficial rampage and consumption of life seems though to lack something in the end. There falls a melancholy or neglect of something when all is done. This beatness is not just tiredness.
Kerouac knows; the book’s last sentence unveils Dean, the rampager in excess, not finding his roots and values. There is no goal, no A to B reasoning, no stronghold, just reckless search with own lust as primus movens
Say, is it Kierkegaard roaming in the back of the head? Dean the Aestetic?
(Was it Andersen who said “to travel is to live”, but Kierkegaard never could understand pathetic Andersen, and Kierkegaard did certainly not travel much.)