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Venu dans notre pays pour rechercher l'origine de son nom véritable, Jean Louis Lebris de Kerouac, le chef de file du mouvement beat, s'aperçoit de retour en Floride qu'il a reçu, au cours de ce voyage, une sorte d'illumination, un satori. Ne sachant à quel épisode précis attribuer cette révélation, il va revivre avec le lecteur ces dix journées passées en France. Journées où abondent les situations inattendues, et où l'on sent ce besoin de sympathie et de chaleur humaine que Kerouac manifestait en maintes occasions.
128 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1966
62 people are currently reading
1584 people want to read
About the author
Jack Kerouac
269 books11.6k followersJean-Louis Lebris de Kérouac, known as Jack Kerouac, was an American novelist and poet who, alongside William S. Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg, was a pioneer of the Beat Generation.
Of French-Canadian ancestry, Kerouac was raised in a French-speaking home in Lowell, Massachusetts. He "learned English at age six and spoke with a marked accent into his late teens." During World War II, he served in the United States Merchant Marine; he completed his first novel at the time, which was published more than 40 years after his death. His first published book was The Town and the City (1950), and he achieved widespread fame and notoriety with his second, On the Road, in 1957. It made him a beat icon, and he went on to publish 12 more novels and numerous poetry volumes.
Kerouac is recognized for his style of stream of consciousness spontaneous prose. Thematically, his work covers topics such as his Catholic spirituality, jazz, travel, promiscuity, life in New York City, Buddhism, drugs, and poverty. He became an underground celebrity and, with other Beats, a progenitor of the hippie movement, although he remained antagonistic toward some of its politically radical elements. He has a lasting legacy, greatly influencing many of the cultural icons of the 1960s, including Bob Dylan, The Beatles, Jerry Garcia and The Doors.
In 1969, at the age of 47, Kerouac died from an abdominal hemorrhage caused by a lifetime of heavy drinking. Since then, his literary prestige has grown, and several previously unseen works have been published.
Of French-Canadian ancestry, Kerouac was raised in a French-speaking home in Lowell, Massachusetts. He "learned English at age six and spoke with a marked accent into his late teens." During World War II, he served in the United States Merchant Marine; he completed his first novel at the time, which was published more than 40 years after his death. His first published book was The Town and the City (1950), and he achieved widespread fame and notoriety with his second, On the Road, in 1957. It made him a beat icon, and he went on to publish 12 more novels and numerous poetry volumes.
Kerouac is recognized for his style of stream of consciousness spontaneous prose. Thematically, his work covers topics such as his Catholic spirituality, jazz, travel, promiscuity, life in New York City, Buddhism, drugs, and poverty. He became an underground celebrity and, with other Beats, a progenitor of the hippie movement, although he remained antagonistic toward some of its politically radical elements. He has a lasting legacy, greatly influencing many of the cultural icons of the 1960s, including Bob Dylan, The Beatles, Jerry Garcia and The Doors.
In 1969, at the age of 47, Kerouac died from an abdominal hemorrhage caused by a lifetime of heavy drinking. Since then, his literary prestige has grown, and several previously unseen works have been published.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 199 reviews
September 15, 2023
There’s possibly a great Kerouac novel lurking inside ‘Satori in Paris,’ yet little of it materialises on the printed page. Disjointed cultural references and an abundance of unnecessary French/Quebecois observations and dialogue litter every page but the effect is little more than window-dressing.
Yet I’m hesitant to consign Kerouac to the overrated category just yet - let me first read ‘On the Road’ and a couple of other Beat classics and hope that ‘Satori in Paris’ is merely an unfortunate starting point.
Yet I’m hesitant to consign Kerouac to the overrated category just yet - let me first read ‘On the Road’ and a couple of other Beat classics and hope that ‘Satori in Paris’ is merely an unfortunate starting point.
June 15, 2019
I was never a fan of 'On The Road', and have found other works of his to be a mixed bag. This though is one of my favourites, but not simply down to the fact it's Paris. He was a bit older here, in his forties, and shows a more mature side in his writing. It's still witty and amusing and alcohol is always in full flow, as he moves around Paris attempting to piece together some family history. He mingles with the locals rather unsuccessfully (don't know how they would have perceived him), marvels at the wonderful Parisian lifestyle, and overall provides a light and entertaining piece of semi-autobiographical writing. It's a little on the short side, but I really enjoyed it. Not the best place to start for the kerouac newbie, as you really need to get to know him in previous books first, like 'On the Road', 'The Subterraneans' or 'The Dharma Bums'.
March 23, 2021
Time Travel
Jack Kerouac goes on a quest to find his alleged Breton ancestor De Keroac in post- WW2 France, resulting in a trippy, otherworldly report of the writer's journey in Paris, Brest and Paris again!
Unreasonnably funny :^)
----
Excerpt from a conversation with Matthew about Maggie Cassidy:
This story certainly makes for a change among Kerouac's writings, right? ;)
Speaking of Kerouac, I'm living a mere 2h30's drive from the place where J. Kerouac's ancestor Urbain-François Le Bihan is said to have been born, before fleeing justice and emigrating in North America :) It is called Huelgoat... By an extraordinary fluke of chance in June 2019, my younger brother and I happened to pass by the very church Urbain-François' father helped building in 1698... while being on a roadtrip of our own in Brittany :)
In 1965, Jack tried (unsuccessfully) to spot the place and recounts in Satori in Paris, going as far as Brest to find clues about him... By my troth, this novella is wild! :)
Here is a couple of (French) articles about the whole story and the investigations surrounding Urbain-François' dwellings in Huelgoat if you feel curious and patient enough to read it through:
http://an-uhelgoad.franceserv.com/ker...
http://kerouac.huelgoat.monsite-orang...
Thanks for the vivid prose of your review, it's a treat to read, as usual :)
----
A study I intend to read to try and make more sense out of Kerouac's family history and his quest :
Jack Kerouac Breton d'Amérique
Memorial to Jack Kerouac's ancestor Urbain-François Le Bihan, sieur de Kervoac
French article about the memorial in the Breton newspaper 'Le Télégramme'
--------
Matching Soundtrack :
The Gumbo Variations - Frank Zappa
Jack Kerouac goes on a quest to find his alleged Breton ancestor De Keroac in post- WW2 France, resulting in a trippy, otherworldly report of the writer's journey in Paris, Brest and Paris again!
Unreasonnably funny :^)
----
Excerpt from a conversation with Matthew about Maggie Cassidy:
This story certainly makes for a change among Kerouac's writings, right? ;)
Speaking of Kerouac, I'm living a mere 2h30's drive from the place where J. Kerouac's ancestor Urbain-François Le Bihan is said to have been born, before fleeing justice and emigrating in North America :) It is called Huelgoat... By an extraordinary fluke of chance in June 2019, my younger brother and I happened to pass by the very church Urbain-François' father helped building in 1698... while being on a roadtrip of our own in Brittany :)
In 1965, Jack tried (unsuccessfully) to spot the place and recounts in Satori in Paris, going as far as Brest to find clues about him... By my troth, this novella is wild! :)
Here is a couple of (French) articles about the whole story and the investigations surrounding Urbain-François' dwellings in Huelgoat if you feel curious and patient enough to read it through:
http://an-uhelgoad.franceserv.com/ker...
http://kerouac.huelgoat.monsite-orang...
Thanks for the vivid prose of your review, it's a treat to read, as usual :)
----
A study I intend to read to try and make more sense out of Kerouac's family history and his quest :
Jack Kerouac Breton d'Amérique
Memorial to Jack Kerouac's ancestor Urbain-François Le Bihan, sieur de Kervoac
French article about the memorial in the Breton newspaper 'Le Télégramme'
--------
Matching Soundtrack :
The Gumbo Variations - Frank Zappa
March 6, 2018
Absolutely unrecognisable.
The book opens with Kerouac declaring during his ten days in Paris he experienced an illumination of some kind, or a "Satori" - a Japanese word for 'sudden illumination' or 'sudden awakening'. Though on finishing this book, when and how this experience took place remains to be seen.
The story concerns Kerouac wandering around France trying (and largely failing) to learn something of his ancestry, drinking too much and showing off his knowledge of French dialects.
The writing has none of the charm of his earlier work, his continuous prose feels more like disjointed incoherence and the handful of anecdotes are self-indulgent and nugatory. Most 'characters' in the book seem to want nothing to do with him, it's pretty sad in a way, almost every encounter is preceded by Kerouac being drunk and lonely and generally making a nuisance of himself.
More than anything there doesn't really feel like any point to the book, it mostly reads like a disconnected chain of thoughts, as though he was trying to recapture his former style but failing to execute it - without his reputation from previous works it's hard to believe that this would ever have been published.
Would only recommend as a point of interest for any beat fans looking for examples of Kerouac in decline.
The book opens with Kerouac declaring during his ten days in Paris he experienced an illumination of some kind, or a "Satori" - a Japanese word for 'sudden illumination' or 'sudden awakening'. Though on finishing this book, when and how this experience took place remains to be seen.
The story concerns Kerouac wandering around France trying (and largely failing) to learn something of his ancestry, drinking too much and showing off his knowledge of French dialects.
The writing has none of the charm of his earlier work, his continuous prose feels more like disjointed incoherence and the handful of anecdotes are self-indulgent and nugatory. Most 'characters' in the book seem to want nothing to do with him, it's pretty sad in a way, almost every encounter is preceded by Kerouac being drunk and lonely and generally making a nuisance of himself.
More than anything there doesn't really feel like any point to the book, it mostly reads like a disconnected chain of thoughts, as though he was trying to recapture his former style but failing to execute it - without his reputation from previous works it's hard to believe that this would ever have been published.
Would only recommend as a point of interest for any beat fans looking for examples of Kerouac in decline.
September 9, 2023
My first review of 2020 goes to Kerouac. This is one of his last novels and it is, sadly, Kerouac in his ruin, I think.
I read this in Paris, which I thought would be great. Turns out, Kerouac doesn't (doesnt) really say much about Paris at all. There are two things in the title of this book, satori and Paris which are 'promised' and neither are really delivered. It's mostly Kerouac getting drunk, explaining he's drunk, and talking to random people. The dialogue is nothing like that of Kerouac's older books and although a quote on my edition says it's some of Kerouac's most lyrical writing in this, I completely disagree. Definitely his downfall. However, I like Kerouac and I liked some bits of it, and it is very short. The quickness of the read meant it didn't (didnt) disappoint for too long.
I read this in Paris, which I thought would be great. Turns out, Kerouac doesn't (doesnt) really say much about Paris at all. There are two things in the title of this book, satori and Paris which are 'promised' and neither are really delivered. It's mostly Kerouac getting drunk, explaining he's drunk, and talking to random people. The dialogue is nothing like that of Kerouac's older books and although a quote on my edition says it's some of Kerouac's most lyrical writing in this, I completely disagree. Definitely his downfall. However, I like Kerouac and I liked some bits of it, and it is very short. The quickness of the read meant it didn't (didnt) disappoint for too long.
September 17, 2025
”Somewhere during my ten days in Paris and Brittany I received an illumination of some kind that seems to have change me again… in affect, a Satori, the Japanese word for sudden illumination, sudden awakening, or simply kick in the eye.”
Satori In Paris was my second Kerouac novel, read nine years after first reading On The Road. It struck me then as being far different in tone and pacing — a mature man’s book as opposed to a young man’s.
On this re-reading, more than a quarter century later I am impressed by just how melancholy this short book is. On The Road had a subtext of loneliness if you looked hard enough beneath all the frenetic activity, partying, running back and forth coast to coast together with mates. But in Satori In Paris the loneliness is right there on the surface. He even calls himself “the loneliest man in Paris.” Instead of a young man driving the roads of his country high on tea with his bosom companions, here he is a pudgy, middle aged American tourist, all alone in Paris, staying drunk and debating with the residents the purity of his French Canadian French over the variety spoken by Parisians. He seems aware of his own decline and resigned to it:
”My manors, abominable at times, can be sweet. As I grew older I became a drunk, why? because I like ecstasy of the mind. I’m a wretch, but I love love.”
Gentle sadness mixed with humorous resignation seems to be the theme. That sharp, surprising Kerouac descriptiveness is still evident, but the pace has slowed to that of an aging drunk going to fat. And what of the satori of that clever title? First he muses that it may have been a cab driver. Later he allows that it might have been conversations over cognac with the natives. He never really illuminates anything that resembles a sudden illumination. It’s almost as if the title is part of a melancholy, drunken joke.
This book, published just three years before his death, is a necessary bookend to Kerouac’s career. If you are a fan, you definitely need to read it. Three and a half stars rounded up.
When God says, “I Am lived,” we’ll have forgotten what all the parting was about.
Satori In Paris was my second Kerouac novel, read nine years after first reading On The Road. It struck me then as being far different in tone and pacing — a mature man’s book as opposed to a young man’s.
On this re-reading, more than a quarter century later I am impressed by just how melancholy this short book is. On The Road had a subtext of loneliness if you looked hard enough beneath all the frenetic activity, partying, running back and forth coast to coast together with mates. But in Satori In Paris the loneliness is right there on the surface. He even calls himself “the loneliest man in Paris.” Instead of a young man driving the roads of his country high on tea with his bosom companions, here he is a pudgy, middle aged American tourist, all alone in Paris, staying drunk and debating with the residents the purity of his French Canadian French over the variety spoken by Parisians. He seems aware of his own decline and resigned to it:
”My manors, abominable at times, can be sweet. As I grew older I became a drunk, why? because I like ecstasy of the mind. I’m a wretch, but I love love.”
Gentle sadness mixed with humorous resignation seems to be the theme. That sharp, surprising Kerouac descriptiveness is still evident, but the pace has slowed to that of an aging drunk going to fat. And what of the satori of that clever title? First he muses that it may have been a cab driver. Later he allows that it might have been conversations over cognac with the natives. He never really illuminates anything that resembles a sudden illumination. It’s almost as if the title is part of a melancholy, drunken joke.
This book, published just three years before his death, is a necessary bookend to Kerouac’s career. If you are a fan, you definitely need to read it. Three and a half stars rounded up.
When God says, “I Am lived,” we’ll have forgotten what all the parting was about.
August 12, 2012
This was a very quick read but not a very good read. I mostly rolled my eyes at this man, Jack Kerouac. He drinks too much, he enlightens very little for a book about a supposed epiphany.
One day I also want to travel to my ancestor's homeland in search of my roots (it will be a little easier since I know what town to go to and who to ask for). Jack failed, he gave up in this way that he didn't even bother to admit it. The more I think about him the less I like him. Lusting after a nineteen year old (he is forty three or so in this one).
The most telling anecdote is at the end when he chugs a beer with a cabbie and explains that he learned this technique of opening up one's gullet and letting the beer flood in while he was in a frat. Yes I read this whole book and I am sure that Jack Kerouac sees better days (I still plan to read Dharma Bums which I have heard great things about), but sometimes he might just be a misinterpreted Tucker Max.
One day I also want to travel to my ancestor's homeland in search of my roots (it will be a little easier since I know what town to go to and who to ask for). Jack failed, he gave up in this way that he didn't even bother to admit it. The more I think about him the less I like him. Lusting after a nineteen year old (he is forty three or so in this one).
The most telling anecdote is at the end when he chugs a beer with a cabbie and explains that he learned this technique of opening up one's gullet and letting the beer flood in while he was in a frat. Yes I read this whole book and I am sure that Jack Kerouac sees better days (I still plan to read Dharma Bums which I have heard great things about), but sometimes he might just be a misinterpreted Tucker Max.
September 22, 2017
I think that this review is perhaps a reflection on my intellect more than anything else, but I just don't think I "get" it. I didn't have a clue what the Satori was supposed to be (though tbf Kerouac/ the protag/ whatever amalgamation of voice was narrating the story, didn't seem to either). I didn't seem to get any sense of a spiritual journey at all. I didn't get how one man can be so pleased that his French was passable for as long as this dude was. And I especially didn't get how someone can survive solely on cognac for as long as he claims to.
BUT the prose was just so chipper, and the sketches of minor characters so charming that it actually was an enjoyable 100 pages. Would probs read again in a few years and see if I've gained any philosophical insight.
BUT the prose was just so chipper, and the sketches of minor characters so charming that it actually was an enjoyable 100 pages. Would probs read again in a few years and see if I've gained any philosophical insight.
November 13, 2014
Late Kerouac, fueled by alcohol and loneliness.
October 31, 2024
On the man:
I’ve never read Kerouac before and my initial impression of him is that he writes like an undergrad English major trying earnestly to prove both that he doesn’t care and has impeccable style. Calculated nonchalance (derogatory). There’s this mix of honesty and irony that seems downstream from a mix of unaddressed insecurities and unfounded confidence. An insufferably regular guy who wants your validation that he has some special combination of rolling wit and eclectic culture but packaged in the novelty of a low brow, self assured Americana. Both oblivious and trying really hard, he is proof that anyone simulating interesting thought can use writing to get laid when the bar is low and the zeitgeist is new.
Unclear if he was fun to drink with or if he just got drunk and wanted you to think he was the most interesting person you’d ever met.
On the book:
Which doesn’t mean he lacks a natural talent for storytelling. This memoir-that-would’ve-been-an-amateur-blog-post-today lets him lead with his strengths; he’s got this effortless way of taking you on a ride to reveal it was all in service of some point he was making, that is at its best genuinely charming. Sometimes his point is just some subtle emotional tone (beautiful) while other times his point is a vague sense of stylish edge (pedestrian).
Let’s say you picked this up for Kerouac’s journey of self discovery, though. He doesn’t learn anything about himself. He doesn’t learn anything about his family. He barely even tries. And it’s not even about the journey to discover more about himself and his family for him. Based on how much verbal real estate he commits to this search, it just doesn’t seem as important to him as curating a branded image of himself.
Personally, I was in it for his account of satori, though, and was genuinely excited to see what this legendary writer’s thoughtful take on such an experience might be. You know, because I hadn’t read him yet. But his account of satori never shows up in the story. What a cop out; you’re an artist. Don’t give us a set up and then leave the pay off 💫 to our imagination💫 Do your job.
What we can tell, however, from his accounts is that he maintains no practice of insight meditation whatsoever. And satori is not something you achieve by merely thinking you’re special and partying. So it seems more likely that he had a moving but normal experience that any introspective asshole could have, like someone who isn’t a runner running once and experiencing a runner’s high. He might have been in what Zen Buddhists call Makyo (read: one of a family of mental states that are easy to fall for when you’ve erroneously preconceived of the truth as something sexy). Given all of this, claiming he’s experienced satori is ridiculous, and the summary on the back of the book mischaracterizes it, which doesn’t add confidence. His claim to satori without being a meditator is like a guy who’s never lifted claiming he pulled 700 lbs his first time on a deadlift platform. Shut up dude you’re embarrassing yourself. That’s not a number anyone can hit without consistent effort. Even The Buddha needed to meditate consistently to find the profound neutrality of truth. This is what happens when Asian fetishism goes unchecked by pig headed self importance.
I’ve never read Kerouac before and my initial impression of him is that he writes like an undergrad English major trying earnestly to prove both that he doesn’t care and has impeccable style. Calculated nonchalance (derogatory). There’s this mix of honesty and irony that seems downstream from a mix of unaddressed insecurities and unfounded confidence. An insufferably regular guy who wants your validation that he has some special combination of rolling wit and eclectic culture but packaged in the novelty of a low brow, self assured Americana. Both oblivious and trying really hard, he is proof that anyone simulating interesting thought can use writing to get laid when the bar is low and the zeitgeist is new.
Unclear if he was fun to drink with or if he just got drunk and wanted you to think he was the most interesting person you’d ever met.
On the book:
Which doesn’t mean he lacks a natural talent for storytelling. This memoir-that-would’ve-been-an-amateur-blog-post-today lets him lead with his strengths; he’s got this effortless way of taking you on a ride to reveal it was all in service of some point he was making, that is at its best genuinely charming. Sometimes his point is just some subtle emotional tone (beautiful) while other times his point is a vague sense of stylish edge (pedestrian).
Let’s say you picked this up for Kerouac’s journey of self discovery, though. He doesn’t learn anything about himself. He doesn’t learn anything about his family. He barely even tries. And it’s not even about the journey to discover more about himself and his family for him. Based on how much verbal real estate he commits to this search, it just doesn’t seem as important to him as curating a branded image of himself.
Personally, I was in it for his account of satori, though, and was genuinely excited to see what this legendary writer’s thoughtful take on such an experience might be. You know, because I hadn’t read him yet. But his account of satori never shows up in the story. What a cop out; you’re an artist. Don’t give us a set up and then leave the pay off 💫 to our imagination💫 Do your job.
What we can tell, however, from his accounts is that he maintains no practice of insight meditation whatsoever. And satori is not something you achieve by merely thinking you’re special and partying. So it seems more likely that he had a moving but normal experience that any introspective asshole could have, like someone who isn’t a runner running once and experiencing a runner’s high. He might have been in what Zen Buddhists call Makyo (read: one of a family of mental states that are easy to fall for when you’ve erroneously preconceived of the truth as something sexy). Given all of this, claiming he’s experienced satori is ridiculous, and the summary on the back of the book mischaracterizes it, which doesn’t add confidence. His claim to satori without being a meditator is like a guy who’s never lifted claiming he pulled 700 lbs his first time on a deadlift platform. Shut up dude you’re embarrassing yourself. That’s not a number anyone can hit without consistent effort. Even The Buddha needed to meditate consistently to find the profound neutrality of truth. This is what happens when Asian fetishism goes unchecked by pig headed self importance.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
August 10, 2018
The title should be "Alcohol in Paris", as Kerouac most certainly talks more about his drinks rather than "a moment of enlightment". Kerouac at his usual, messing around, drinking, travelling from place to place like a madman.
August 3, 2011
An unintentional record of the artist in decline.
June 27, 2023
Beatnik zkt verlichting
Een in alcohol gedrenkte en op het ritme van de Beat geschreven vertelling van een zoeker, een literatuurliefhebber en levensomarmer, die als excentrieke eenzaat in Parijs en Bretagne op zoek gaat naar zijn familiewortels.
Of hij echt iets gevonden heeft (informatie over zijn voorouders of een 'satori') betwijfel ik maar hij schreef met dit boekje wel een geestig en volstrekt uniek reisverslag.
Een in alcohol gedrenkte en op het ritme van de Beat geschreven vertelling van een zoeker, een literatuurliefhebber en levensomarmer, die als excentrieke eenzaat in Parijs en Bretagne op zoek gaat naar zijn familiewortels.
Of hij echt iets gevonden heeft (informatie over zijn voorouders of een 'satori') betwijfel ik maar hij schreef met dit boekje wel een geestig en volstrekt uniek reisverslag.
July 19, 2016
He Went to France and Saw Lady's Underpants (But Lost His Luggage)
Jack Kerouac starring in On the Road In Paris, a short novel/memoir hybrid that was originally published in three installments in Evergreen Review.
Early on, Kerouac lays down the ground rules of both this late-in-life (how was he to know?) assignment and his overall body of work, stating that it is a "tale that's told for no other reason but companionship, which is another (and my favorite) definition of literature...in other words, and after this I'll shut up, made-up stories and romances about what would happen IF are for children and adult cretins who are afraid to read themselves in a book just as they might be afraid to look in the mirror when they're sick or injured or hungover or insane. (emphasis Kerouac's)
If you go into this book with the knowledge that it's not supposed to be a superhuman scroll poet-prophecying the zeitgeist but rather a late night conversation between you (silent, taking notes, pouring more beer, running to the store for cognac) and your favorite drunk uncle (laughing, rambling) about the time he went to France for some quick family research but ended up fucking even that up, well, you'll enjoy this just fine.
It's companionship of the highest order: a night visiting with the dearly departed, the dopey dead dude drinking deranged, delighted.
Jack Kerouac starring in On the Road In Paris, a short novel/memoir hybrid that was originally published in three installments in Evergreen Review.
Early on, Kerouac lays down the ground rules of both this late-in-life (how was he to know?) assignment and his overall body of work, stating that it is a "tale that's told for no other reason but companionship, which is another (and my favorite) definition of literature...in other words, and after this I'll shut up, made-up stories and romances about what would happen IF are for children and adult cretins who are afraid to read themselves in a book just as they might be afraid to look in the mirror when they're sick or injured or hungover or insane. (emphasis Kerouac's)
If you go into this book with the knowledge that it's not supposed to be a superhuman scroll poet-prophecying the zeitgeist but rather a late night conversation between you (silent, taking notes, pouring more beer, running to the store for cognac) and your favorite drunk uncle (laughing, rambling) about the time he went to France for some quick family research but ended up fucking even that up, well, you'll enjoy this just fine.
It's companionship of the highest order: a night visiting with the dearly departed, the dopey dead dude drinking deranged, delighted.
March 20, 2017
Nice little book with not that much satori in it, unless you're counting the cognacs that go along. Kerouac fancy himself a bit of blue blood, Breton descent, in search of his ancestry (not really, more boasting to his beatnik friends) but so lightly written, and funny, so all happy, including myself for reading it.
February 26, 2019
Bit random at times but interesting and still full of good adventures and amusing moments!
February 8, 2025
gets a little rambly, obnoxious, and boring and I genuinely didn't even know what he's talking about at some points, and yet I somehow I found it nostalgic, insightful, meaningful and loved it idk?
October 31, 2021
"I was already homesick.
Yet this book is to prove that no matter how you travel, how 'successful' your tour, or foreshortened, you always learn something and learn to change your thoughts".
I did not achieve Satori.
Yet this book is to prove that no matter how you travel, how 'successful' your tour, or foreshortened, you always learn something and learn to change your thoughts".
I did not achieve Satori.
July 12, 2008
It's Jack Kerouac.
December 27, 2013
Sparkling, lyrical and Beat-iful writing: Jack Kerouac down (and not quite out) with the Parisian hepcats. File under Jeanology...
April 2, 2019
delightful! thank you to my good friend jackson greer
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May 13, 2019
My first Kerouac. Not the last. I've got a taste for it, people are saying it's not his best.
August 18, 2025
"My manners, abominable at times, can be sweet. As I grew older I became a drunk. Why? Because I like ecstasy of the mind.
I'm a Wretch.
But I love love."
A book that would be funny if it wasn't so damn sad. I read it in three sittings. Decidedly not major Kerouac, one might say slight, but it ain't a bad read if you don't mind bumming around France with Jack as he mostly gets drunk and misses planes and trains and talks to cab drivers and tries to learn more about his heritage and also gets drunk (did I say that already?). At this point (1965, 43 years old) it feels as though he had resigned himself to the doomed Life of the Drunk and sealed his own fate. A sort of pitiful/pitiable sad clown. Booze for breakfast and whatever Buddhist inclinations he once held or clung to all but abandoned. Amiable still but more paranoid now, searching yet but with an almost tired half-heartedness(?) you could never have claimed was there in earlier outputs. A little bit spent. But he's mostly still up for it, still possessed by the wonder, still mythologizing and entranced by the quotidian and the mundane but again, mostly on a bender. The "satori" of the title is a Japanese word equating to something like "illumination" or "sudden awakening" and Jack does his best, I think, trying to convey the satori in question, but perhaps you can't fault a reader for wondering just where, or when, or how, or even what, it was exactly. But there's something apt about that too.
When God says 'I Am Lived', we'll have forgotten what all the parting was about."
I'm glad to have stumbled upon this book. I love the edition I found (a first UK edition I came across down at the bookshop by Khao San Rd that was in pretty decent condition. The cover of my edition, which I don't see here on Goodreads, is white, title in red, and depicts a torn open pack of cigs, smokes protruding, one bearing the colours of the French flag - it's a neat cover I dig very much).
January 31, 2023
Kerouac does it again. This could be Kerouac at his best. I read this cover to cover whilst waiting for a plane and feel ready to read it cover to cover again. It's rammed full of Kerouac wit, plays on words and sounds, and a notable sense that his writing is immune to judgement. This immunity, sometimes arrogance, means the story or narrative (sometimes neither - just a mélange of words) is printed exactly as made sense to Kerouac, whether it does to the reader or not. It gives the sense that no editor on earth has the authority to change the way a single word or punctuation falls.
The novella tells the autobiographical story of Kerouac's travels to Paris and Brittany to research his family history. Ironically, the area Kerouac's family had left is the area my family recently immigrated too, and so I enjoyed the humour around the Breton tongue, place names and geography.
Unsurprisingly of Kerouac, this great voyage to track his genealogy ended less in family research and instead in him simply walking the streets at night and enjoying the local bars.
The novella tells the autobiographical story of Kerouac's travels to Paris and Brittany to research his family history. Ironically, the area Kerouac's family had left is the area my family recently immigrated too, and so I enjoyed the humour around the Breton tongue, place names and geography.
Unsurprisingly of Kerouac, this great voyage to track his genealogy ended less in family research and instead in him simply walking the streets at night and enjoying the local bars.
June 10, 2023
I understand that not every novel is about characters or a plot or a climax, and that much of Kerouac's work is a challenge to the standard form of literature in that it is more about portraying a certain state of mind. I appreciate that Kerouac's postmodern writing challenges the linearity and sequential character of the novel. Having said this, I found this one quite dull and lacklustre. The Satori which is supposedly the core of the novel seems to appear randomly without being explained. I'm giving it three stars though because it was funny at times and I loved the historical details weaved into the narrative.
October 20, 2024
more of Kerouac's dull, fatuous self-indulgence ... despite the pretentious title, no genuine enlightenment or "satori" to be found, in Paris or elsewhere on these pages ... though I am amused at the contrast between the high opinion Kerouac has of himself - his pride in his clever wit, intelligence, writing style, literary references, conversation abilities, beer chugging, attractiveness to prostitutes - and his dopey inability to ever make it on time to a train or plane he has already bought a ticket for ... though ultimately it is hard to muster up the energy to be truly annoyed with writing this brief and innocuous ...
November 20, 2025
3.5! “It doesn’t matter how charming cultures and arts are, they’re useless without sympathy- All the prettiness of tapestries, lands, people: worthless if there is no sympathy- Poets of genius are just decorations on the wall if without the poetry of kindness and Caritas…”
First of all, idk what is up with this awful cover design shown on GoodReads. But anyways, great quick read. I love pseudo-fictional diary-esq writes of old. Similar in voice to Joan Didion or Eve Babitz. It’s nice to read into someone’s mind and perspective and thoughts from long ago. I should probably know more about Europe in order to understand this more fully, but it was still a nice read. Excited to read his other works but just happened to see this lesser known on my library shelf and figured I’d give it a go!
First of all, idk what is up with this awful cover design shown on GoodReads. But anyways, great quick read. I love pseudo-fictional diary-esq writes of old. Similar in voice to Joan Didion or Eve Babitz. It’s nice to read into someone’s mind and perspective and thoughts from long ago. I should probably know more about Europe in order to understand this more fully, but it was still a nice read. Excited to read his other works but just happened to see this lesser known on my library shelf and figured I’d give it a go!
January 5, 2026
tu tío borracho y bufarra contando una anécdota larguísima e inentendible totalmente en pedo y balbuceando pero en formato librito. una cagada. no conocía al autor pero me resultó insoportablemente pedante.
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January 11, 2026Quick little book by Kerouac. Reminded me a lot of Moscow to the End of the Line. I picked this up in San Francisco because I had never read Kerouac before (I know) and I liked that it took place in Paris. I really enjoyed the writing and the zaniness of it all.
September 3, 2020
Wanted to read it in Paris. Now I have. Nothing life-affirming, but entertaining nonetheless.
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