Oddly enough, I'm not all that familiar with the Beat writers. Theirs are books that I keep meaning to read, but which keep getting moved down the list in favor of something else. Naked Lunch is the only book from this group that I've read cover to cover, consumed, predictably, during my angst-ridden teenage years. I've only a marginal knowledge of Ginsberg's and Kerouac's writing. This is something I came upon purely at random while browsing the shelves at the main branch of the Toledo library system.
This edition is from 1976, seven years after Kerouac's death, so the, at the time, nearness of the trio and their exploits informs the author's critique of their work. He seems quite in awe of their writing, maybe a bit too much, convinced that it will bring about one of those nebulous, ill-defined "revolutions." Thankfully, he doesn't suger-coat any of the events from the three mens' lives. While I can appreciate some of the experiences in their lives up to the point when this book was written, and the imagery invoked by some of their writing, my final impression is that the three were, at base, dreadful, hateful people, each singularly, and supremely, self-absorbed. In other words, human.