On the Road: The Original Scroll

by Jack Kerouac, Howard Cunnell (Contributor), Penny Vlagopoulos (Introduction)

The legendary 1951 scroll draft of On the Road, published as Kerouac originally composed it

IN THREE WEEKS in April of 1951, Jack Kerouac wrote his first full draft of On the Road—typed as a single-spaced paragraph on eight long sheets of tracing paper, which he later taped together to form a 120-foot scroll. A major literary event when it was published in Viking hardcover in 2007, this is the uncut version of an American classic—rougher, wilder, and more provocative than the official work that appeared, heavily edited, in 1957. This version, capturing a moment in creative history, represents the first full expression of Kerouac’s revolutionary aesthetic.
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Genres: Fiction, Classics, Travel, Literature, American, Novels, Audiobook

428 pages, Kindle Edition

First published September 5, 1957

About the author

Jean-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.

Reviews

[Alice · Rating 5 out of 5]

I've been meaning to review this book for a while, but I get sort of emotional reading what other people think about Kerouac, and it has been hard to figure out what I want to say. I feel almost personally insulted by some of the more negative reviews which is totally weird and inappropriate of me. I guess I identify with Kerouac because in his heart he's not really all that unconventional, but he loves the company of wild adventurers and can be talked into almost anything.

I reread the original (well I guess the scroll is the real original, but you know what I mean) before I read this, and they are very similar. On the Road is an amazing book & the scroll is the same amazing book minus paragraphs, plus all the sex, drugs and real names. The biggest surprise for me was that Carlo Marx was Alan Ginsberg. How did I not know that? Including the sexual relationship between Carlo Marx/Alan Ginsberg and Dean Moriarty/Neal Cassady changed the dynamic of the book's Denver portion quite a bit. Cassady's bisexuality is hinted at in the edited OTR but spelling it out the way Kerouac does in the scroll makes the whole situation more complex. In OTR as originally published, Marx & Moriarty have a weird dynamic. Marx always seemed a little jealous of Dean's girls, but I never really got why. Now it makes more sense. Another interesting bit cut out of the edited OTR is Kerouac's visit to his ex-wife. All that gossip and trivia aside, the spirit of On the Road feels the same in this version.

I read OTR for the first time when I was in high school, and every time I've read it since then I learn something different about the characters and myself. There is so much in this book I never get tired of: the motion, the adventure, the sense of an America of boundless size and possibility...

Okay, I'll stop gushing now. I guess I can understand why Kerouac isn't for everyone, but he changed my life for better or worse and helped make me the sort of person who feels compelled to drive aimlessly around the country every few years just to see what's out there. I'll never regret the road trips I've taken, and though there are many writers whose travel narratives have inspired me, Kerouac will always be my first love in that category.

I have to admit that with the exception of Dharma Bums I'm not crazy about his other books. I’ve tried to get into them, but I never could. I think Big Sur is the only other one I've managed to finish and it depressed the hell out of me. The exuberance and optimism that made me fall in love with On the Road faded quickly for poor Kerouac.

[Chrissie · Rating 3 out of 5]

Jack Kerouac (1922 – 1969) is the author of this book. He is considered a pioneer of the Beat generation, along with Allan Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs. If you are considering whether to read the book you must decide which edition to read. The book first came out in 1957 with the title On the Road. In 2007, the 50th anniversary edition of the book was published under the title: On the Road: the Original Scroll, which is what I have chosen to read and what I am reviewing.

This, the Scroll version, is a transcription of the original draft typed over twenty days from April 6 through April 26, 1951. It was typed as one long paragraph on sheets of tracing paper which Kerouac taped together to form a 120-foot (37 m) scroll. This "final draft" was not totally new, being based on earlier journal entries. The content is autobiographical and is based on real events and real people in the author's life. Kerouac writes of four road-trip adventures taken with his buddy Neal Cassady (1926 – 1968), three across the United States and one to Mexico City. The first trip was taken in 1947.

In the first edition pseudonyms were used, not so in the 50th anniversary edition, which is also said to be more sexually explicit. By today's standards though, the writing cannot be classified as graphic. The spontaneity of the text is said to be more evident in the Scroll.

Sex, alcohol, drugs, theft and other immoral behavior do make up a large part of the events described. Don't expect to fall in love with Kerouac or his friends. That is certainly not the point of the book!

What this book does draw well is the friendship between Jack and Neal and other friends too. It captures the feel of the Beat movement, which later became the Hippie movement we all know so well. I cannot say I admire Jack, Neal or their friends, but I do understand what they were searching for….even if much of the times things did get totally out of control! I am glad I read the book because it recalled for me some of the dreams I had as a youth, albeit in less dramatic form. Don't you remember that time in your younger days when you thought you would and could pursue freedom and individuality and would get every ounce of enjoyment out of life?! The belief that one could and would live life to the fullest. Then comes reality, not bad, but more down to earth.

Kerouac captures well the feel of a road trip across America at the end of the 40s. Of course not in fancy hotels, but instead hitchhiking and totally broke. That is to say really being on-the-road. What might you see? Who might you meet? How does the feel of the land change?

Some people say this book has religious undertones. I don't see that in the least.

There are portions that could definitely have been tightened. I am glad I read it, but now I am glad it is over.

The audiobook is narrated by John Ventimiglia. In his reading he wonderfully captures the spirit of the Beat movement. I have given the narration five stars. He captures well Kerouac's spontaneous prose and its intensity.

[Beth · Rating 2 out of 5]

I felt hungover by the time I was done reading this book. I couldn't wait for it to end and it's not because I wanted to find out what was going to happen.

While there are a few great lines like, "My mother once said that the world would never find peace unless men fell at their women's feet and asked for forgiveness...," and the famous, " ...Because the only people who interest me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing...but burn, burn, burn like roman candles across the night" most of the book is quite banal.

The book starts out evoking a sense of adventure, freedom, zest for life, and the allure of an unfettered lifestyle. Some of the depictions - like of the jazz halls and the people who they come across are interesting, but like an addiction - which they all obviously had - it becomes a tiresome, irrational, "senseless nightmare road" and highlights their selfishness, irresponsibility, misogyny, and destructiveness. I thought there would at least be some interesting conversations while on the road about their observations and meaning of life, but for the most part it read like a self-indulgent, maniacal, peter pan on drugs, bromance.

[Dmitry Berkut · Rating 5 out of 5]

I reread On the Road for the third time. About fifteen years passed between each reading. Which means I opened this book three times — and each time in a different life. Each time it was a different text. Or a different me. It’s hard to say where the line is.

Kerouac is not a mirror but rather a prism, refracting light depending on the angle from which you look at it. At twenty, you see freedom there and the headlights of oncoming cars; at thirty-five — fatigue and the tragedy of blurred relationships; at fifty — perhaps only noise and the echo of a vanished era. On the Road is often read as a hymn to freedom. That reading works — but only on the surface, until you begin to notice how the text itself undermines its own myth. For me now, it is no longer a novel. It is an asthma attack on paper. An endless, hoarse cry that at first feels like a hymn, but on closer inspection turns out to be a flight from inner emptiness.

Dean Moriarty is the living engine of the book. He has what the others lack: speed, energy, a sense of the present moment. Through him, Sal — and the reader — gain access to a life not broken down into plans and obligations. The initial romance is the belief that movement in itself is already liberation. But Kerouac is not writing about life; he is writing about how to avoid encountering it. This frantic rhythm, jazz, amphetamines, endless roads — all of it is an attempt to reach a speed at which thoughts cannot catch up with you. They are not moving toward something, but away: from dullness, from responsibility, from themselves. As the journey continues, the structure of the novel begins to falter: trips repeat themselves, conversations blur, scenes lose clarity. This is not a flaw but a principle. The form reproduces the condition of the characters: acceleration without a goal, a flow without a center. The language first captures you, then exhausts you — just like the life it describes.

There is another level, visible only in the original scroll. Kerouac does not divide the text into paragraphs or chapters, does not punctuate it: one syntactic event follows another without hierarchy, without pause. The editors at Viking in 1957 smoothed all of this out: they added punctuation, broke it into chapters, softened the rhythm. The text became more readable — and slower. In the scroll, the principle is clear: language must move at the speed of experience, at the speed of ecstasy. Syntax can be pushed aside. Convention can be discarded. In this sense, the scroll is more honest than the book — though harder to read. Kerouac did not describe speed; he reproduced it. To feel this, you have to read a text that has not yet been processed for the reader. The publication of the original scroll is, in itself, a paradox. Kerouac fed a roll of paper into his typewriter and wrote without stopping: no paragraphs, no chapters, one continuous flow. The publishers reproduced this principle by simply cutting the roll into pages. And then generously supplied it with scholarly apparatus: three academic essays, an editorial note, reading recommendations. A text that was a cry against any convention is wrapped in the most conventional of packages. It turns the book into a literary object — almost like a modernist artifact in a museum display.

Dean, Sal, Marylou — they are not heroes. They are ghosts trying to fill themselves with anything: alcohol, sex, words — and more words. This is a very male, very adolescent rebellion — heroic only as long as you yourself are in your twenties. They are chasing “pure experience,” a life without obligations or unnecessary explanations. At first, it feels like freedom. The further it goes, the clearer it becomes that the body pays the price: heat, fatigue, sweat. By the second half, everyone is drenched in sweat — and it stops feeling like freedom. Their movement does not liberate; it wears them down. What seemed light and pure turns out to be heavy and sticky. The key moment comes when Dean’s energy stops reading as “living wildness” and begins to read as an inability to stop. He destroys things, relationships, trust — and does not see a problem in it. When you are young, you do not see the destruction — speed blinds you, and you sincerely believe he is breaking hearts and lives in pursuit of some higher zen. With the distance of those same fifteen years, it becomes obvious: he cannot stop not because he is free, but because he has no brakes. This is no longer rebellion — it's convulsion. His freedom is a flight from silence, where he is left alone with himself. Kerouac does not dismantle the myth directly. He drives the movement to its limit and lets it wear itself out from within. The romance is not denied — it is worn down. The final feeling of the book is not destruction but exhaustion. A quiet understanding that endless movement leads nowhere. This, perhaps, is the novel’s precision. On the Road is not a text about freedom, but about its limits. About how easily freedom can be confused with the inability to stop. And how long — a very long time — it can go unnoticed. Roughly fifteen years at a time.

[David Carrasco · Rating 5 out of 5]

He vuelto a subir al coche de Kerouac muchos años después y he comprobado dos cosas: que él sigue pisando el acelerador y que yo ahora miro un poco más el indicador de gasolina.

La primera vez leí la versión comercial, En el camino. El rollo mecanografiado original me ha devuelto casi intactas las mismas sensaciones: libertad, aventura y desafío. Eso dice bastante de la fuerza del libro y quizá algo comprometedor sobre mí, porque bastan unas cuantas páginas para que atravesar un continente con cuatro dólares en el bolsillo empiece a adquirir una lógica preocupante.

Esta edición conserva los nombres reales. Jack Kerouac es Jack Kerouac; Neal Cassady, Neal Cassady; Allen Ginsberg y William Burroughs tampoco se esconden detrás de sus equivalentes literarios. El cambio parece pequeño hasta que desaparece esa ligera protección que ofrecían Sal Paradise, Dean Moriarty y compañía. Aquí cuesta más pensar que asistimos únicamente a las peripecias de unos personajes. Kerouac ha abierto la puerta de su vida, ha dejado entrar a toda la pandilla y ha empezado a contar antes de que alguien pudiera pedirle discreción.

La novela reúne los viajes que realizó por Estados Unidos y México entre finales de los años cuarenta y comienzos de los cincuenta: autostop, autobuses, coches prestados o medio destruidos, trabajos provisionales, habitaciones compartidas, jazz, alcohol, encuentros sexuales, amores fugaces y una obsesión permanente por llegar a otro lugar. Nueva York, Denver, San Francisco, Nueva Orleans o Ciudad de México aparecen como promesas de una vida distinta. Poco después se convierten en sitios de los que hay que marcharse.

Todos esos desplazamientos giran alrededor de una palabra deliberadamente imprecisa: «ESO».

Jack y Neal lo buscan en una carretera, una conversación, una mujer, un club de jazz, una noche sin dormir o un viaje hacia el sur que quizá los acerque por fin al corazón de las cosas. Nunca consiguen definirlo porque hacerlo supondría detenerse, y detenerse es precisamente lo que no saben hacer. «ESO» puede ser la libertad, la autenticidad, la revelación, el éxtasis, un hogar o la esperanza de que en la próxima ciudad la vida empiece de una vez.

Lo importante es seguir moviéndose. Neal Cassady es el motor de todo aquello. También es el hombre al que jamás confiaríamos las llaves del coche, la cartera, la pareja, una mascota ni, probablemente, una maceta durante el fin de semana.

Su energía resulta deslumbrante porque parece vivir varios segundos por delante del resto. Habla, conduce, seduce, promete, abandona, reaparece y vuelve a ponerse en marcha antes de que los demás hayan entendido qué acaba de suceder. Tiene el entusiasmo de quien cree haber descubierto una puerta secreta hacia la vida y la responsabilidad de quien ha perdido la llave cinco minutos después. Es también ese hombre capaz de arrastrarte a la mejor noche de tu existencia y desaparecer al amanecer dejándote la resaca, la cuenta y unas cuantas explicaciones que dar.

Kerouac lo contempla con fascinación, afecto y estupor. Jack no viaja exactamente junto a Neal: viaja detrás de él, intentando averiguar qué secreto de la vida parece conocer su amigo. Para él, Neal encarna la posibilidad de vivir sin aplazar nada. Para sus parejas, sus hijos y muchas de las personas que dependen de él, semejante libertad adquiere un aspecto bastante menos glorioso. Neal posee un magnetismo extraordinario, pero va dejando tras de sí un reguero de promesas incumplidas, frustración y abandono. Resulta imposible apartar la mirada y bastante sensato no prestarle el coche.

Ahí se concentra buena parte del mito beat: la vida entendida como movimiento continuo, la amistad como una conspiración contra el horario, el jazz como una forma de conocimiento y la carretera como el último lugar donde todavía parece posible convertirse en otra persona.

Kerouac vuelve física esa fantasía. Sentimos el cansancio, el hambre, la velocidad, el dinero que desaparece, los paisajes interminables, las conversaciones de madrugada y la alegría insensata de alguien que propone cruzar medio país como si estuviera sugiriendo bajar a tomar un café.

Y funciona. Vaya si funciona.

A mí me arrastró la energía del libro. Hubo momentos en que me daba casi igual adónde se dirigían. Quería que siguieran moviéndose, que apareciera otro coche, otra ciudad, otro club de jazz, otra noche en la que nadie supiera muy bien dónde iba a dormir. Kerouac consigue que la improvisación parezca más inteligente que cualquier plan y que perderse por América sea, durante unas páginas, una decisión perfectamente sensata.

La carretera funciona como espacio real y como desafío a los valores del Estados Unidos de posguerra. Frente al trabajo estable, la casa, la familia convencional y la prosperidad ordenada, Kerouac coloca una pandilla de jóvenes empeñados en vivir antes de que la respetabilidad los alcance. Su rebelión se expresa en el cuerpo y en la vida cotidiana, de una manera desordenada y a menudo contradictoria: hacer autostop, escuchar bop, cruzar el país, escribir, beber, amar y desaparecer antes de que la experiencia se convierta en costumbre.

El viejo sueño estadounidense de escapar hacia un territorio abierto ya recorría las páginas de Walt Whitman, Mark Twain y Jack London. Kerouac le dio un coche, una banda sonora de bop y la ansiedad de la posguerra.

Pocos libros han contribuido tanto a transformar la carretera en un mito moderno. Kerouac dejó aquí uno de los códigos fuente del inconformismo contemporáneo: moverse primero, decidir después; confiar en el impulso; sospechar de las vidas demasiado previstas. Décadas de contracultura, música y literatura viajera encontraron en estas páginas una imagen poderosa de la libertad, aunque muchos de sus herederos prefirieran olvidar las averías y quedarse solamente con el descapotable.

La forma del rollo intensifica esa impresión. La narración avanza en un bloque inmenso, sin capítulos ni los descansos tipográficos habituales. Las frases acumulan voces, nombres, ciudades, cuerpos, canciones, carreteras y ocurrencias, y lo empujan todo hacia delante como un vehículo que teme no volver a arrancar si se detiene.

Kerouac escucha el bop y escribe como si cada frase tuviera que descubrir sobre la marcha cuál será la siguiente nota. Lanza un motivo, lo abandona, regresa a él, acelera, se desvía y de pronto encuentra una imagen capaz de iluminar una llanura entera. Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie y Dexter Gordon forman parte de la banda sonora, y el riesgo, la velocidad y la improvisación de esa música pasan también a la sintaxis.

Vale, a veces el solo se prolonga demasiado. Hay repeticiones, pasajes desiguales y momentos en que la velocidad sustituye al discernimiento. El libro exige aceptar que la intensidad no siempre sabe administrarse. Pero cuando la prosa encuentra su ritmo, el lector acaba dentro del coche, procurando no preguntar quién conduce.

La leyenda cuenta que Kerouac escribió el rollo en tres semanas, alimentado por benzedrina y una inspiración prácticamente sobrenatural. Las tres semanas son ciertas; la benzedrina y la aparición milagrosa, bastante menos. Hubo mucho café, eso sí, pero detrás de aquellas páginas había también años de viajes, cuadernos, borradores, cartas y ensayos narrativos. El rollo fue una descarga, aunque la electricidad llevaba mucho tiempo acumulándose. La espontaneidad de Kerouac era un método de composición sostenido por mucho trabajo.

El texto publicado en 1957 tampoco debe tratarse como una versión domesticada que unos editores prudentes arrancaron de las manos del autor. Kerouac continuó revisando la novela durante seis años. La edición comercial ofrece una arquitectura más clara, avanza con mayor rapidez gracias a sus cortes y deja aflorar una melancolía que en el rollo suele quedar sepultada bajo la acumulación de experiencia.

El rollo, por su parte, conserva una cercanía más cruda, una sexualidad más explícita —incluida la dimensión homosexual y bisexual del grupo, muy atenuada en 1957—, ciertas zonas que después desaparecieron y la intimidad inquietante de reconocer a las personas reales bajo cada episodio.

No sabría decir cuál de las dos versiones es superior. La de 1957 convierte aquellos viajes en una novela más trabajada. El rollo permite sentir la experiencia cuando todavía huele a gasolina, sudor, tabaco y madrugada. Para un primer acercamiento, la versión comercial quizá resulte más amable. Para comprender la combustión que alimentó el mito beat, esta edición tiene algo difícil de sustituir.

Ese mito conserva una capacidad de contagio enorme, aunque conviene mirar también quién paga el viaje. La libertad de estos hombres suele apoyarse sobre mujeres que esperan, cuidan, trabajan, crían hijos o recogen los restos cuando Neal decide que otra carretera reclama su presencia. Su admiración por los músicos negros y por México contiene curiosidad y entusiasmo, pero también una tendencia a convertir mundos ajenos en territorios de revelación para el viajero blanco. La novela pertenece a su época incluso cuando intenta escapar de ella.

Ahí está la contradicción central del libro. Su idea de la libertad es profundamente seductora y bastante peligrosa: vivir sin aplazar el deseo, moverse antes de que llegue el miedo, aceptar que una vida ordenada puede convertirse también en una forma de ausencia. El problema aparece cuando esa libertad empieza a repartir sus facturas entre los demás.

Kerouac percibe, además, que la huida puede acabar pareciéndose a otra forma de encierro. Neal necesita moverse con una ansiedad que ya no siempre recuerda a la libertad. Cada llegada contiene el germen de la siguiente partida. Cada revelación dura hasta que aparece otra carretera. Bajo la euforia se adivinan hombres que buscan una familia que no saben conservar, una fe que apenas consiguen nombrar y un lugar donde quedarse sin sentir que se están perdiendo la verdadera vida en otra parte.

Esa tensión mantiene el libro vivo. La carretera promete autenticidad y termina revelando que uno puede atravesar un continente entero sin dejar de llevar consigo aquello de lo que pretendía escapar. Kerouac conoce la alegría del viaje, pero también sabe que ningún coche alcanza suficiente velocidad para dejar atrás la soledad.

Aun así, la llamada permanece.

Muchos años después de mi primer viaje con Sal Paradise y Dean Moriarty, ahora convertidos de nuevo en Jack Kerouac y Neal Cassady, el tiempo y una relación algo más sensata con las obligaciones no han reducido del todo su efecto.

Terminé este libro con una idea bastante poco razonable: que cualquier obligación podía esperar y que lo urgente era encontrar un coche apuntando hacia el oeste. Luego uno mira el calendario, la cuenta corriente y el precio de la gasolina, y se le pasa un poco. Pero solo un poco.

Por fortuna, al cerrar el libro no había ningún Neal Cassady llamando al timbre. No estoy seguro de que hubiera tenido la sensatez de dejarlo fuera.

DC

[P.E. · Rating 3 out of 5]

Finished in the original.

Matching Soundtrack :
Jubilee Stomb - Duke Ellington


I find Jack Kerouac's spontaneous prose up to the task.
On the other hand, the five "books" are really uneven, which can somewhat drag you down, however it bears credit to the extensive use of spontaneous prose throughout : the typescript is alleged to have been written in a week.


Here goes a collection of personal observations on the book :

- On the Road is reminiscent of French Blablacar, especially in its first third with nothing but a mad series of hitchhiking rides with a wide variety of motorists, informing a compact oral history of the United States, complete with a history of underground music.

- Spontaneous prose intends to capture change, telling you about fleeting memories as they reel, letting the flow go to IT without hindrance, a technique looking up to E.Hemingway.
The narration is sometimes deceivingly blank, as if it was being conveyed by a child, with no logic between events but chronological succession, gathering of memories, digressions. This is in keeping with the child-like presence and attention given to the moment by Jack and Neal. And comes to fruition in passages when Neal behaves like a Herodotus gone mad in his will to dig people.

- Curious echoing and reiterations on the road from one travel to the other, making the call of the road feel like an arrant drive to seek answers for yourself and find more confusion and bewilderment instead.

- Jack's situation as a narrator makes you associate him with Nick Carraway in TGG or "Fred" in Breakfast at Tiffany.

[Tosh · Rating 5 out of 5]

Five stars is not enough for this book: it should be ten stars! This is a very beautiful book and rightfully an American classic. Stunning!



"On The Road" is the real deal. I just started reading this and it's just a fantastic read. The energy just pops out of the page. The punk rock of novels. Mr. Jack just had the 'moment' when he wrote this, and it is incredible experience to share that 'moment' with the great man. Great.

[Žilvinas Gečiauskas · Rating 5 out of 5]

1951 m Balandžio 2 dieną Jack Kerouac į spausdinimo mašinėlę sugrūdo 36m ilgio ritinį ( Aleno Ginsbergo sumanymas) , per tris savaites , bibopo , benzedrino ir kavos pagalba parašė „Kelyje“ Knygą. Bet apie tai nesiplėsiu , kadangi vertėja Irena Balčiūnienė viską labai gražiai aprašė šios Knygos įžangoje. Įdomu tai , kad nors Knygą parašė viso labo per 3 savaites , Knyga išspausdinta tik 1957m , pakoreguota ir sutrumpinta ir su pakeistais vardais. O originalaus ritinio tekstas skaitytojus pasiekė tiktai 2006 m , praėjus 50m nuo autoriaus mirties.
Iš tiesų ritinys yra tobulai šią Knygą atspindintis simbolis , nes Jack Kerouac , kaip koks viduramžių metraštininkas parašė jazzu alsuojanti palaimintai prarastos kartos metraštį . Kartos kuri ieškojo atsakymų į savo klausymus , kartos kuri bandė būti originali ir sukurti kažką naujo ( ir jiems tas pavyko) , kartos kuri tuo metu laužė visas nusistovėjusias normas , kartos kuriai nematerialūs dalykai buvo gerokai svarbesni nei materialūs , kartos kuri ieškojo savojo Dievo, kartos kuriai mūsų karta turi būti dėkinga ( labiau nei hipiams , kurie ir gimė iš Bitnikų ) už dalykus kurie mums atrodo savaime suprantami. Čia Jack meistriškai aprašė kartos virsmą , tad kelias čia ir metafora.
„Kelyje“ siužetas nėra labai svarbu , kas tobulai derinosi su spontanišku Kerouac rašimo stiliumi. Jackui kur kas labiau rūpėjo asmenybių vystymas , jausmai , įvairios detalės ir dalykai kurie paviršutiniškai žiūrint atrodo nesvarbūs , bet iš tiesų yra svarbūs. Kažkur teko skaityti , kad Knygoje nerasta pačios Amerikos ir jos kultūros , bet tai yra visiškas melas , Amerika ir jos kultūra čia išsilaisvina iš geležinių kapitalizmo gniaužtų ir gražiausiomis spalvomis plūsta iš kiekvieno puslapio. Kerouac meistriškai piešia Amerikos peizažus , pasirinktos metaforos nuostabiai žaidžia su skaitytojo vaizduote ir leidžia pačiam viską pamatyti ir patirti. Jau nekalbant apie tai , kad trumpai , bet itin vaizdingai perteikė Amerikos miestų sielas ir tai kokius jausmus jie sukėlė autoriui.
Paviršutiniškai daugumai , kuriai Hemingvėjaus „Senis ir jūra“ tėra pasaka apie senį ir žveją , kuriai Bukowski tik nešvankias nesąmones rašantis girtuoklis , kuriai viskas turi būti patiekta ant lėkštutės ir kuriai nepatinka ieškojimai ir Jack Kerouac „Kelyje“ tebus Knyga apie bohemiškus nevykėlius , kurie nemoka gyventi ir viskas ką jie supras bus jazzas , narkotikai , alkoholis ir visas kitas paviršius. Likusiems , net jeigu „Kelyje“ ir nepaliks didesnio įspūdžio , iš šios kelionės pasisems tikrai nemažai.

[Sheri · Rating 1 out of 5]

This might be my only 1 star review on Goodreads out of 300+ I've rated here so far. Why didn't I like it? In short, it's a buddy-travel-memoir by an extremely immature and sexist 30-something written in a single paragraph. That's right. All 300+ pages of this book (and I'm not counting the 100 pages of introductions by the so-called scholars and critics who adore Kerouac and this book) are a single paragraph. About a quarter of the way through this behemoth paragraph, it was all I could do not to put it down and count it in that handful (and I do mean handful) of books that I've started and then decided not to finish.

One brilliant sentence on page 206 caught my attention (and I'll quote it here so you don't have to read the whole nightmare paragraph just to stumble onto it yourself): ""Somebody had tipped the American continent like a pinball machine and all the goofballs had come rolling to LA in the southwest corner." As for the writing in the rest of the book? It's pretty Dick-and-Jane-ish. Which isn't surprising given that Kerouac wrote this in about a month after he'd completed all four journeys across the US that are the subject of the book.

So why is this book on the list of great and impactful American works that everyone is supposed to read? As near as I can figure, (1) critics were wowed by the entire book-as-one-paragraph concept; (2) Kerouac was cool & hip because he wrote about smoking marijuana (tea, as he called it); and (3) being wild and immature and attempting to screw every female you met was also considered cool and hip.

Bottom line: if you like buddy travel memoirs, go back and read Huckleberry Finn again. It's still the best buddy travel memoir in the English language. And if you're looking for idiosyncratic punctuation, read anything by Jose Saramago (but especially Blindness, his best book). Skip "On The Road."

[Diana · Rating 5 out of 5]

The first time I read On the Road I was 23, which is probably the perfect age to read it. Now, 30 years later, I've just read On the Road: The Original Scroll, and I have to say, my impressions are different now that I'm older, although I still loved the book and was moved by it.

I liked being able to read it exactly as Jack Kerouac typed it way back in 1951: all one giant block of type, with no paragraphs or even separate chapters, but merely "BOOK II" and "BOOK III" etc. at the beginning of each big chunk of the story. All the typos were left intact too, as well as the real names of all the characters. The effect was that the book seemed more true, and sadder and more real. For example, here's the first sentences in the edited version that came out in 1957: "I first met Dean not long after my wife and I split up. I had just gotten over a serious illness that I won't bother to talk about, except that it had something to do with the miserably weary split-up and my feeling that everything was dead. With the coming of Dean Moriarty began the part of my life you could call my life on the road."

Now, contrast that with what Jack originally wrote: "I first met Neal not long after my father died...I had just gotten over a serious illness that I won't bother to talk about except that it really had something to do with my father's death and my awful feeling that everything was dead. With the coming of Neal there really began for me that part of my life that you could call my life on the road."

The second, original beginning is far superior to the first, edited one. There's really no good reason to change the reason for his illness from his father's death to his split-up with his wife, except to try to make him seem like more of a grown-up, I guess, but that's stupid. And editing the last sentence to make it more succinct doesn't make it better, because the original sentence sounds more expressive and like he's talking to you.

Anyway, it was nice to revisit the book in this way. I had forgotten most of it, but I never forgot the feeling it gave me. Poor Jack. Poor Neal. They both died in their 40s. I don't think either one of them wanted to get old. They didn't know how to be old, and who can blame them.

P.S. I am aware of the misogyny in this book. I was aware of it then, when I first read it in 1991, and I am aware of it now. The only thing that has changed is that society is less tolerant of blatant misogyny now. But this is how I still feel about it: this is Jack Kerouac's account from his perspective. I would never want someone to not be honest about their true feelings in order to better fit in with some puritan ideal of having only nice, societally approved thoughts and feelings. How bland and boring and untrue that would be.

[K.D. Absolutely · Rating 5 out of 5]

What I find intriguing about this book was how it was spontaneously written: 3 months on a scroll of papers. Jack Kerouac (1922-1969) did not have formal training on writing and probably he wanted to make a statement by packing up his things and write his experience while on the road with a friend, Neal Cassady (1926-1968). The book was largely autobiographical and describes Kerouac's road-trip adventures across the United States and Mexico with Cassady in the late 40s, as well as his relationships with other Beat (a group of authors whose literature explored and influenced American culture in the 1950's) writers and friends.

Compared to William S. Burrough's Naked Lunch (also 5 stars), the book is easier to read and the narrative is more straightforward. Though it deals on the same subject matters, e.g., drugs, religion, counter-materialism, etc., it also deals on relationships. I particularly liked the parts when Sal (Jack) tries to work as cotton picker and he realizes that he is not for that kind of job. Young and able to explore, I wish I was able to do that when I was much younger. In the Philippines, the job that you end up after graduation normally becomes your career path throughout your working years. When you reach 30 and much more 40, it is hard to have a career change because of the bleak economic condition.

Central to the story is the strong male friendship between Sal (Jack Kerouac) and Dean (Neal Cassady). They are not homosexuals as they have the furry of women that they lived with and got pregnant. What I am trying to point out is that they are buddies, traveling together, fighting and pissing each other off. But in the closing scene of the book, when looking at the harbour, Sal uttered silently ". . . I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty." I mean it so poignant that you will think of lost beautiful relationships that you had in your life. It's like Jack Keroauc summing up what life is all about: it's about people you loved and lost that make you value those who still remain all through the years.

[Stephen · Rating 5 out of 5]

The continent "groans" again and again.

The night is too often "sad," the cities are "mad" or "wild" and "sad" some more. New York is the "edge of the continent," and San Francisco, too and sometimes they're the "rim of the world," or some similar allusion.

Jack Kerouac and his friends, would be considered drunks and losers by the standards of most. The author's muse and messiah, Neal Cassady, is a fellow too easily distracted, undisciplined and, by today's measurements, a candidate for depression medication.

In the recently released "scroll" version of "On the Road," Cassady's criminal bent and disregard for his friends are drawn in much starker contrast than in the toned-down Viking Press 1950s version.

But it works and wonderfully so.

Whatever the personal flaws of the roadgoers,whatever the prosodic sins of their faithful secretary Jack, The Scroll is blessed with energy and truth and dynamism, a beatific rhythm and sound that hold up, even though we've read it all before.

But where what was once novel becomes cliché with the passing of time, The Scroll takes on enhanced value as snapshot of a country long-disappeared.

The Scroll is a sweeping panorama of America beaten out on teletype paper by a guy on speed; maybe drug speed, maybe coffee, but probably something else that burned out of Kerouac like heavy kerosene and which caused his death when the last vapors rose from his being and poofed out into the dusty firmament.

It has politics without the jeremiads, whole manifestoes in a masterful word-stroke such as "sullen unions," a flavor and entire reality nailed to the mind's wall.

It is loving landscape portraiture as in this passage laid down about their departure from New Orleans:

"Port Allen -- Poor Allen -- where the river's all rain and roses in a misty pinpoint darkness and where we swung around a circular drive in yellow foglight and suddenly saw the great black body below a bridge and crossed eternity again. What is the Mississippi River -- a washed clod in the rainy night, a soft plopping from drooping Missouri banks, a dissolving, a riding of the tide down the eternal waterbed, a contribution to brown foams, a voyaging past endless vales and trees and levees down, down along, down along, by Memphis, Greenville, Eudora, Vicksburg, Natchez, Port Allen, and Port Orleans and Point of the Deltas, by Venice and the Night's Great Gulf out. So the stars shine warm in the Gulf of Mexico at night. From the soft and thunderous Carib comes electricity, and from the continental Divide where rain and rivers are decided come swirls, and the little raindrop that in Dakota fell and gathered mud and roses rises resurrected from the sea and flies on back to go and bloom again in waving mells of the Mississippi's bed, and lives again."

The passage lies at the book's midpoint; a fine spine to all the word swirling around it, like the Mississippi in its marriage with the landscape.

Everywhere lively applications, symbols, poetry pulled from the American map, magic in Mizzou and Mississippi, no invention, just the natural ordering of an evident song about the land itself.

Early in this passage the prose become unnecessary, but gripped by the author's sweaty hand, we are yanked along, pointed here and there on the keyboard toward ecstatic sites he has taken the time to see for us.

Is there such a thing as a mell or does his easy resort to something that sings make it go down so much easier, and isn't that part of the job?

Mell is a swell on the Mississippi and we know that, even if we didn't before.

It is not easy to sift through all the postmodern swill that has come after and still be awed at the pure audacity of Kerouac; the audacity to make up words, to appear at his New York editor's office sweating and stinking of chemical ooze with a manuscript written on 120 feet of rolled paper demanding respect of The Scroll as if it were plumbed from Dead Sea depths.

So goes it with the aspiring philosopher whom, even if he is a bum, still philosophizes, and not just for those of high brow:

"death will overtake us before heaven. The one thing that we yearn for in our living days, that makes us sigh and groan and undergo sweet nauseas of all kinds, is the remembrance of some lost bliss that was probably experienced in the womb and can only be reproduced -- tho we hate to admit it -- in death. But who wants to die. More of this later."

And The Scroll renders social commentary still relevant today:

"On the sidewalk characters swarmed. Everybody was looking at everybody else. It was the end of the continent no more land. Somebody had tipped America like a pinball machine and all the goofballs had come rolling to LA in the southwest corner. I cried for all of us. There was no end to the American sadness and the American madness. Someday we'll all start laughing and roll on the ground when we realize how funny it's been. Until then there is a lugubrious seriousness I love in all of this."

There's that "end of the continent" bit while "sadness and madness" appear elsewhere in a vignette of Kerouac's entitled "October In the Railroad Earth," as "end of the land sadness end of the land gladness" not precisely alike, but essentially the same literary trick.

Yet if you're hip to all of this, if you can dig it and know time, then it's not lack of imagination so much as your favorite band playing the same songs at a second show.

And then there's Neal; stripped of Dean Moriarity's mask and draped in a legend Cassady came to embody for three generations of misspent youths, stealing four cars at a roadhouse party outside Denver, denied entry into the homes of kith and kin alike, boy to his father's bum and disappeared dad, wrangler, brakeman, seducer of everybody else's girlfriends (and boyfriends), absentee father himself.

Says "Naked Lunch" author William Burroughs of Cassady when they visit him in the Louisiana swamps, "He seems to be headed for his ideal fate, which is compulsive psychosis dashed with a jigger of psychopathic irresponsibility and violence."

Pretty smart fellow Bill Burroughs, as were they all, in spite of their nasty habits.

Cassady floats free of all preconceived notions regarding expected behavior, free of the bars other attempt to bind him with through holy judgments...part-time N.Y. hipster and happy pervert to Kerouac's ambiguous French-Catholic curiosities.

"He lived with Diane in a coldwater flat in the East Seventies. When he came home at night he took off all his clothes and put on a hiplength Chinese silk jacket and sat in his easy chair to smoke a waterpipe loaded with tea. These were his coming-home pleasures: together with a deck of dirty cars. "Lately I've been concentrating on this deuce of diamonds. Have you noticed where her other hand is? I'll bet you can't tell. Look long and try to see." He wanted to lend me this deuce of diamonds, which depicted a tall mournful fellow and a lascivious sad whore on a bed trying a position. 'Go ahead man, I've used it many times!'"

Drunken romantics bound early to your graves. Who should purchase your peddlings?A dank Detroit theater is no palace at 4 a.m. and an alley is an alley is an alley in the crappy part of a marginal Texas town. Or is it? Throwing down your challenge, your example was enjoyment. "Man can you dig the beauty and kicks!"

"We wandered out and negotiated several dark mysterious blocks. Innumerable houses hid behind verdant almost jungle-like yards' we saw glimpses of girls in front rooms, girls on porches, girls in the bushes with boys. 'I never knew this mad San Antonio! Think what Mexico'll be like. Lessgo! Lessgo!'"

Yet for all its ebullience, "On the Road" is but a marginally successful search for joy that, at bottom, asserts something is not right in these sojourners nor in the America which spawned them.

"Looking at snapshots of Cassady's children Kerouac writes, I realized these were all the snapshots which our children would look at someday with wonder, thinking their parents had lived smooth and well-ordered lives and got up in the morning to walk proudly on the sidewalks of life, never dreaming the raggedy madness of the riot, or our actual lives, our actual night, the hell of it, the senseless nightmare road. Juices inform the world, children never know."

Nightmare and dream sit on different sides of the same coin and to know one, you must be familiar with the other.

The extension of the Mexico trip, trimmed to a classical dénouement in the edited version, renders the American break with an organic world wrought by the big bomb drops on Japan.

It is mentioned vaguely, as if to do so more emphatically might conjure another nuclear massacre, but in this passage we hear it and understand that, for all their rebellion and dissociation, the roadgoers are tainted by food from the same poisoned factory farm.

The indigenous peoples they saw, knew who was the father and who was the son of antique life on earth, and made no comment. For when destruction comes to the world people will stare with the same eyes from the caves of Mexico as well as from the caves of Bali, where it all began and where Adam was suckled and taught to know.

Jack and Neal and the third wheel rolling with them are no heroes. They are car escapees from the psychic slaughter unleashed in their homeland, a sudden clanking folly from America with its three broken bozos inside. And the choice has been the same for half a century now: to be with them or against them.

Lead the way you lost and lonely bozos.

[Carrie · Rating 4 out of 5]

I became a fan of the 'original' version around my second year of high school. I remember idolizing these crazy characters - to the point of writing a paper for English class on 'The Beats'. When I heard that this minimally edited version was available, I looked forward to reliving my love of this wild bunch of friends...jumping madly across the continent. Free of conformist society, traditional writing methods, and the mindless responsibilities of the new modern life.

At first I was intimidated by the visually dense pages of text - unbroken by paragraphs or chapters (except for the BOOK 2, BOOK 3, BOOK 4 titles within the lines of text), but Kerouac's energetic and often humorous storytelling made the book's 400 pages zoom by - like the cows and telephone poles along the Mid-Western highway.

Overall, this version wasn't as different as I thought it might be. It was a little raunchier - there were a few more detailed sex scenes and some homosexual moments were left in the manuscript, but it wasn't shocking reading it from the perspective of someone living in 2010. The extra material also didn't change much of the tone or path of the story. Most of the now uncut bits just provided another scene of something crazy.

I didn't read it concurrently with the established version, but I felt that the 'scroll' version was more descriptive - especially near the end of the book while the group was driving through Mexico. I enjoyed seeing the 'real' names of the characters like Allen, Neal, and Bill. I also thought that showing Jack as a guy living with his mother in the scroll was much more straightforward than placing him with some mysterious aunt in the mainstream version. It brought one of the less savory aspects of the beat lifestyle into focus. It was harder to be awestruck with the 'king of the beats' when he's a man living with his mother...in her apartment in Queens...constantly bumming money off of her.

I don't know if it's because of the decade that's passed since I first read On The Road or if this version of the book just presents the characters in a more dejected light...but I found myself feeling more saddened by the characters' lifestyles than inspired by them. Sure they were free of the daily grind, but they were also free of a way to support themselves (for the most part), free of a stable home, free of solid romantic relationships, and free of self-esteem. The fact that these characters had either failed at their relationships and jobs, or (most of the time) failed to even try at anything other than running away really struck me this time. They even reached a point where they didn't know what they were running from anymore...just go go go road is life...

Maybe I've just become a bit of a square, and I'll balance out in the next decade. As a book I still do recommend giving it a try. It's a piece of cultural history, and it's written like a letter from a close friend - who brings me into his inside jokes and trys to enlighten me with societal observations....unfortunately Jack's a friend that I used to look up to more when I was 15.

[Erk · Rating 2 out of 5]

นี่ถือเป็นประสบการณ์อ่านหนังสือที่โคตรแปลกที่สุดที่เคยอ่านมาเลย

แปลมาจากต้นฉบับแท้ๆ ไม่มีการขึ้นย่อหน้าใหม่ใดๆ ไม่มีการแบ่งบท ตัวหนังสือเรียงร้อยติดกันยืดยาว มันเป็นหนังสือที่บ้ามากๆเลย เต็มไปด้วยพลังดิบเถื่อน คำหยาบคาย sex ยาเสพติด การโบกรถและการเดินทางบนท้องถนนเป็นพันๆไมล์ทั่วอเมริกาจนไปถึง Mexico

ด้วยเราไม่ค่อยชอบเดินทางไกล (เป็นคนเมารถ) เลยไม่อินหรือได้รับแรงบันดาลใจใดๆทั้งสิ้น แต่เรายังสามารถดื่มด่ำไปกับธรรมชาติ วิถีชีวิต ดนตรีแจ๊ส และผู้คนยุคนั้นได้ แม้จะต้องกุมขมับกับการกระทำสุดห่ามของแต่ละคน ซึ่งเราพยายามจะเข้าใจแต่ก็ไม่สามารถจริงๆ 😌

[Bean · Rating 5 out of 5]

My first time reading the ‘Original Scroll’. It was much better uncensored and without the name changes.

My physical “Kerouacing” days are behind me. No more clothes stinking of cigarettes and stale beer. No more blinding hangovers if I can help it. No more sleeping on floors and couches and in hammocks. But the mind still goes and I still think of my country the way Jack did. It is no longer the same place, far from it, but it is the same in my mind.

Plenty of my own memories are mixed in with the pages. I’ll be back again most certainly.

[Fehiman · Rating 5 out of 5]

Yorumun aslı ve devamı Yorum Cadısı'nda.

Yolda, daha önce okuduğum hiçbir kitaba benzemiyor: doğal ve çarpıcı anlatımıyla yoğun bir kitap. Kitabın editörü Howard Cunnell'ın deyişiyle ise doğrudan, samimi, ipsiz sapsız, vahşi ve "hakiki" bir eser. Bir şekilde bir yerlere bağlı olan ama içindeki maceraperest ruhu da görmezden gelemeyen herkesin, Yolda'yı okumasını tavsiye ederim.

[Gerhard · Rating 3 out of 5]

Über den Roman kann man hier und im Web vieles lesen, das muss man nicht wiederholen. Die Geschichte und ihre Figuren blieben mir fern, so dass er mir zu lang vorkam. Ich hätte den Roman wohl Jahrzehnte früher lesen sollen!

[Gideon · Rating 2 out of 5]

The road is long and winding, and so is Jack Kerouac’s writing, but it doesn’t make for a very enjoyable novel. As Truman Capote famously said, “None of these people have anything interesting to say,” he observed, “and none of them can write, not even Mr. Kerouac. [What they do] isn’t writing at all—it’s typing.”

I understand what Kerouac is trying to do here: to represent life in the wandering way that life exists, and to present two characters that don’t know quite what they’re looking for and don’t find it. Does anything exemplify the post-WWII generation more? We’re still living with these consequences. Travel for the pure enjoyment of travel is good, even great. The intention of expanding yourself, and being with friends, and smelling the mountain and sea air, none of these are bad, but without any kind of connective tissue or narrative intention, it doesn’t make for a good book.

Partially this may be due to this version being the “original scroll” that Kerouac wrote on a single long piece of paper over three weeks. It’s barely edited, uncensored, and ugly in form. I have to assume the book is helped by the presence of an editor, otherwise I fail to see how this captured the minds and hearts of photo-hippies of the 50s and true hippies of the following decades.

The first part of the book, prior to the scroll, consists of introductions by scholars justifying this as a scholarly work. Much time is spent defending Kerouac's rampant racism and sexism - but why is it defended? Anyone who is not white is idolized in the book, yet they're idolized from a superiority point of view while neglecting the downsides of not being white in the 50s or before. Kerouac's tone-deafness leads him to imagine himself as an old Negro, without a care in the world.

Sure.

White women fare even worse - they're not at all idolized. Women in general are beings to be used sexually by men, and any female characters that appear have no personality (which isn't saying much, not many of Kerouac's characters do). Kerouac seeks humanity, yet fails to realize the enormity of humanity: he sees only the enormity of America.

If you’re looking for a road or travel book, I’d recommend The Road by Cormac McCarthy, a fictional, depressing novel set in a nuked America where almost no living thing exists, but hope glimmers at the edges of the waste. For something more in line with On the Road, I much preferred John Steinbeck’s Travels With Charley. It’s funnier, more focused, and gives more of a feel for the United States than Kerouac ever even attempts.

If you type enough some poetry will come out, and here are some lines I liked -

- And there in the blue air I saw for the first time, in hints and mighty visitation, far off, the great snowy–tops of the Rocky Mountains. I took a deep breath.
- ...air you can kiss…
- I want to marry a girl so I can rest my soul with her till we both get old.
- God exists without qualms.
- ...she won't understand how much I love her---she's knitting my doom.
- I stood poised on the great western plain and didn't know what to do.
- Things are so hard to figure when you live from day to day in this feverish and silly world.
- Women can forget what men can't.

[Max Nemtsov · Rating 5 out of 5]

Хорошие сопроводительные материалы к тексту свитка, развенчивающие ряд мифов о романе, ну а сам свиток - это, конечно, совершенно отдельное произведение, где-то между собственно подчищенным опубликованным романом и вариациями на ту же тему, вроде "Видений Коди". Если боги будут милостивы, и его переведем, это будет интересно (в особенности в тех местах, которые в опубликованном романе намеренно оставлены темными).

[Suphanat Boonyiamyien · Rating 4 out of 5]

ผ่านชีวิตวัย 20+ และ 30+ มาโดยที่ไม่รู้จัก Sal paradise และ Dean Moriaty

หนังสือบันทึกการเดินทางเล่มแรกๆที่เราอ่านคือพวก เนปาลประมาณสะดือ โตเกียวไม่มีขา ของนิ้วกลม ซึ่งกว่าจะเริ่มมาอ่านหนังสือจริงจัง ก็เข้าวัย 30+ แล้วในตอนนั้น

On the road เวอร์ชั่นแรกที่ได้อ่าน เมื่อเข้าวัย 40+ คือฉบับม้วนกระดาษพิมพ์ดีด (The original scroll) เล่มนี้ ถ้าเปรียบเทียบกับงาน stream of consciousness ที่เคยผ่านๆมา เล่มนี้ถือว่าอ่านไม่ยากมาก (อ่านง่ายสำหรับเราน่าจะเป็น The catcher in the rye และ อ่านยากคืองานของ Faulkner กับ James Joyce) แต่ต้องลำบากตัดแว่นสายตายาวสักหน่อย(ในวัยนี้แล้ว) เพราะไม่มีการแบ่งบท ไม่มีย่อหน้าอะไรทั้งนั้น มีแต่ตัวหนังสือเรียงยาวเป็นพรืดดด

ตอบไม่ได้ว่า ถ้าได้อ่านในช่วงเวลาวัย 20+ หรือ 30+ จะทำให้อยากเก็บกระเป๋าออกเดินทางมั้ย หนังสือที่อ่านในช่วงเวลานั้นก็ไม่ได้ทำให้รู้สึกเช่นนั้น อาจเป็นเพราะภาระงาน การเรียน การเงิน ต่างๆก็เป็นได้ และเราไม่ได้ถูกสั่งสอนมาให้มองว่า -การเดินทางออกไปแบบมีจุดหมายปลายทางจับต้องยากๆ แล้วเกิดค้นพบอะไรบางอย่างในตัวเอง อะไรประมาณแบบนี้เป็นเรื่องที่ “สำคัญ” บางทีคนรอบตัวก็จะนิยามให้ด้วยว่า ไร้แก่นสาร ไร้สาระ เสียเวลา เราซึ่งแม่งไม่ค่อยมีเวลาและความมั่นใจในการทำอะไรแบบนี้อยู่แล้ว เลยมักใช้เวลาพักร้อนหรือหยุดยาวต่างๆ นอนเกาพุงอยู่บ้านเฉยๆ เพื่อนหลายคนเค้าก็โบกรถนั่งรถไฟอะไรกันไปเป็นเรื่องเป็นราวสวยงาม

แต่ในตอนนี้ เมื่อได้อ่านเล่มนี้จบ แน่นอนว่ามันเกิดความหงุดหงิด งุ่นง่าน อยากจะจัดกระเป๋า อยากจะหาอุปกรณ์ตั้งแคมป์ อยากจะโทรศัพท์หาเพื่อนในกลุ่มสมัยก่อน ซึ่งไม่เคยได้เจอหน้ากันอีกเลยตลอด 10+ ปี แล้วออกไป road trip กันสักที่ 5-6 วัน อีกสิ่งหนึ่งที่ช่วยกระตุ้นให้เรารู้สึกแบบนี้คือ รายการ ติดเที่ยว ทางช่อง เร่ร่อน ใน Youtube ดูแล้วโคตรนึกถึงเพื่อนเก่า นึกถึงปาร์ตี้สุดสัปดาห์ สมัยทำงานใหม่ๆ ตอนนั้นเราไม่ได้เดินทางข้ามทวีปอะไรแบบในหนังสือ ไม่ได้เดินทางข้ามประเทศแบบในรายการ Youtube เราแค่เดินทางข้ามถนน 1 block จากหอพักไปผับในตัวเมือง นึกถึงเช้าวันรุ่งขึ้นที่ตื่นมาพบว่าตัวเองนอนกอดโถส้วมอยู่ในห้องน้ำ จำไม่ได้ว่ากลับมาที่ห้องได้อย่างไร ผมคิดถึง นีล แคสซาดี ของผม (ทุกคนต้องมีเพื่อนชื่อ นีล แคสซาดี อยู่ในกลุ่มสักคนแหละน่า) เราซึ่งไม่เคยอ่าน พันธุ์หมาบ้า จำต้องพยายามค้นหามาอ่านเพื่อประกอบอีกสักเล่มหนึ่ง เอาไว้ติดไปอ่านระหว่าง road trip กับเพื่อนๆก็ยังดี ถ้าได้ไปนะ

[Jim Cherry · Rating 5 out of 5]

The plot to “On The Road” wouldn’t really tell you what “On The Road” is about because the travels of Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarity are more existential than overt action. Yes, they drive from coast to coast, meet people, go to parties, but it’s not the action that is important but the experience Sal and Dean derive from each adventure.

The real story of “On The Road: The Original Scroll” isn’t in the book but in how Kerouac created it. The autobiographical elements that made up “On The Road,” Kerouac and Neal Cassady taking three road trips across the United States occurred between 1947-1949. After years of false starts, Kerouac decided to lay out the whole story and write it from beginning to end on one roll of paper so he wouldn’t have to stop his train of thought replacing page after page as he finished it. Inspired by Jazz improvisation and spontaneity, Kerouac undertook to get the novel he had in his head onto the page. He got a roll of teletype paper, and with help from Benzedrine and coffee Kerouac wrote the novel in marathon sessions of writing over the course of 3 weeks. When he was done he took it to his editor, Robert Giroux, who was dumbfounded when Kerouac unfurled it in his office.

“On The Road” the version that was released in 1957 was a masterpiece and changed the rules of writing fiction, as well as inspiring a generation of teenagers that would go on the road in the 60’s in search of their own existential adventures and kicks. Reading “On The Road: The Original Scroll” you realize that the story flows much better in Kerouac’s original vision of it. Giroux as editor had with all good intentions made Kerouac’s book salable for the times, without removing Kerouac’s artistic achievements but left a somewhat clunky novel that later readers have found hard to get into. I think if they read “On The Road: The Original Scroll” they’ll find that shortcoming removed.

For the avid Kerouac fan and aficinado “On The Road: The Original Scroll” will be a revelatory look at Kerouac’s process of writing in what he had originally intended. And there’s a certain fun in reading the book with all the people’s real names intact, instead of character names that the publisher insisted on to avoid lawsuits. If you’re coming to Kerouac new, I think this original version of Kerouac’s work will highlight the spontaneity of Kerouac’s work and the reader will come away with an appreciation of the freshness of Kerouac’s work.

[Rainb0warri0r · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Questa è la storia dell'America. Tutti fanno quel che credono di dover fare."

Tutti conoscono Sulla strada, romanzo manifesto della beat generation, troppo d'avanguardia per gli anni in cui fu pubblicato eppure inevitabilmente prodotto intimo di quegli stessi anni. Migliaia sono le opere, le creazioni, che quel romanzo simbolo ispirò, rendendo oggi fin troppo abusata l'idea stessa del viaggio sulla strada, da costa a costa. Eppure forse pochi sanno che il "vero" romanzo si nasconde altrove: un "rotolo" scritto in tre settimane che, come aveva vaticinato lo stesso Kerouac, è stato pubblicato postumo. E' questo il "vero" On The Road: fosse solo per l'uso dei nomi originali di tutti i personaggi coinvolti.
Quale dei due, dunque? Quale edizione leggere? Confesso che il mio snobismo letterario mi ha sempre proibito di leggere lo strabusato Sulla strada, preferendo altri romanzi e altre opere più marginali - e forse per questo, più significative - della beat generation. Leggere il testo inedito di On The Road senza però aver letto l'altro si è rivelato in parte un errore. Lo dico senza timori: On The Road è praticamente illegibile. Un "rotolo", appunto, di oltre trecento pagine, seguendo l'intricato flusso dei pensieri e dei ricordi di Kerouac senza un solo punto e a capo. Tutto di seguito: e quando ti tocca di fermarti e poi di riprendere è la fine.
Ma la verità è che, come del resto vale per gran parte dell'intera produzione dei beatnik, al di là del contenuto ciò che conta veramente è l'esperienza di lettura, alienante, dissociata, travolta dalle allucinazioni, smarrita. La grandezza di Kerouac sta nell'aver scritto qualcosa fin troppo in anticipo coi suoi tempi (e da questo, la travagliata storia editoriale del romanzo), e che tuttavia è intimamente connessa con quei tempi. Quella di On The Road è davvero l'America degli anni Quaranta e Cinquanta, ma vista di notte. E la notte, si sa, tutto appare diverso.

[Yasmin · Rating 3 out of 5]

Well it is actually hard to say if I enjoyed this book, it wasn't terrible, but this is one of the occasions when a better word should be used. So I think three stars is fair. At first I thought to say straight away that Kerouac was a sort of son to Steinbeck's short stories like Sweet Thursday, Cannery Row, etc. etc. and that his road odyssey was him and some pals escaping death and situations they couldn't handle. But it is much more than that, in fact it was so many things that I wondered at the end if I was in a deluge! It was as he said some friends went on a journey looking for something, they didn't find it but they found something else instead. Now what they were looking for and ended up by finding I would say is up for each reader to evaluate for themselves. When he writes about the country and the people over all that is when he is most like Steinbeck, unfortunately when he writes the talking points between characters that's when it gets confusing. Some could say it's for a set generation and therefore dated, I didn't find it dated because I think in a lot of ways we are all seeking our odyssey out on the road, literally or figueratively, maybe both, perhaps the methods are different but the purpose is the same. I think what spurred on Kerouac was disalluisonment and a sense of profound loss that he couldn't find a way to deal with. His brother and his father. What a great confusion it was for a great many people at the time, one war was barely ended and yet peace was out of reach. What can you do? Where can you go? When all that fighting and suffering was experienced and was it all to end in a nuclear explosion? And yet it seems to me that we have never stopped living in times of uncertainty, they are continous, but sometimes you have to get out and get away and try and find your place in the world. You may not find that answer but you may find something else. If you can remember what it is you're getting away from. There was a reoccurring theme when Kerouac said he felt like he had forgotten something, but didn't know what. Sometimes when I leave a place, even though I have all my belongings, it has felt as though I had left something behind, something I forgot. Somehow I don't think for Kerouac that feeling ever went away...but perhaps it did. What a surprise to find he was French-Canadian! His family came from Quebec originally, one great land mass to another, one identity to another, or rather attempting to find another identity. There is so much in this book that it may take me awhile to understand, I may never find that time to work it all through. He is well worth the read.

[SamanthaLee · Rating 5 out of 5]

Perhaps it's because I am a 19-year-old liberal arts college student or perhaps it's because I always have and probably always will yearn for excitement and beauty and adventure, but whatever the reason may be, I absolutely loved Kerouac's On The Road>i>. Every passage drew me in deeper and deeper until I could hardly stand just how much I wanted jump in the car or on a train or bus and make it across the country to the West Coast. Even the frantic tales of endless NYC nights beckoned me to get on the LIRR and see what trouble I could get into in the city. While the continuous block of text this "original scroll" is presented in made it a somewhat daunting task to complete, once immersed in the rhythm and excitement this prose had to offer, I found myself reading huge chunks of the novel at one time. If nothing else, On The Road has inspired me to truly dig life-to not let anything pass me by without making some kind of impression, to take each opportunity as it comes my way.

[Lysergius · Rating 4 out of 5]

Having read the original novel over 50 years ago, I was keen to see what had been removed and changed. The clear eyed vision of America evident in the "original" novel is gone. America is a darker and uglier place, the romantic vision has soured and all that is left are the ugly meat hook realities. Cassady is as mercurial as before, and the final chapter in Mexico as I remember it. A kind of pointlessness, a hopelessness comes across from this version. Why run from one side of the country to the other? No explanation is given. For kicks? To dig it? Hmm, I almost regret having read this version.

[AC · Rating 5 out of 5]

A book I first read nearly half a century ago. Thought I had outgrown it. If you have tried to read the 1957 published version and given up in disgust at its mediocrity, know that what you read was what the publishers did to Kerouac mournful prose. This is the version that quivers with all the beauty I had remembered.

What I had forgotten was how utterly sad this book was...

[Maria · Rating 2 out of 5]

It seems like I don't get along well with Mr. Kerouac. Maybe some other time.

[Bert Hirsch · Rating 5 out of 5]

Book Review- On The Road and Windblown World

Having been a New York City high school student in the mid 1960s Jack Kerouac’s On The Road has long been a literary touchstone. As a teenager I became enamored with its tale of exploration and beatnik culture. Kerouac, Ginsberg and Corso provided a trilogy of poetic vision which helped formulate my own philosophy of living.

About two years ago, while browsing the bookshelves in the Barnes and Noble in Brooklyn Heights, I came across a new publication: On The Road,The Original Scroll, edited by Howard Cunnell. Once home, it found a resting spot in my bookshelf where it remained until a few months ago. Bored between books I picked it up and started to read first the four introductory essays describing the process by which the scroll found a publisher; eventually, the legendary editor Robert Giroux was presented with the 120 foot long scroll Kerouac had typed out in a 30 day benzedrine haze, a single paragraph of creativity. When Giroux told him it would need to be edited, Kerouac protested insisting “the Holy Spirit” had dictated the work. After months of cajoling, the finished product was published with Chapters, names changed to protect against libel and became an instant best seller and modern classic.

I remember reading it with eyes wide open delighting in Kerouac’s adventures crisscrossing the continental United States with a side trip to Mexico. It was populated with aimless adventurers focused on living free of convention with drug induced visions of an alternative consciousness.
As I revisited the book in its original form I was astounded at the poetic flow, a rush of words and scenes depicted as if I had a backseat perch in the old Hudson or variety of other cars Kerouac and Cassidy hightailed on the roads of America…

“that magnificent car made the wind roar; it made the plains unfold like a roll of paper; it cast hot tar from itself with deference---an imperial boat.”
This was a totally different reading experience, within which I felt emerged like a diver in a deep body of water.

At the same time, I had the good fortune of spending considerable time in the Rose Reading Room, a research space located on the third floor of the main branch of the New York Public Library building on 42nd Street and Fifth Avenue. There, I also discovered a one-off copy of Windblown World: The Journals of Jack Kerouac 1947-1954, edited by the American historian Douglas G. Brinkley. In my hands at the library was Kerouac’s personal thoughts and notes about his process while writing On The Road and vast notes taken while he was out on the road traipsing from North Carolina where his family lived and then to Queens, New York where they relocated. His mother an inescapably key figure in supporting the author in his down and out times. Additionally, the journals noted his interactions with other writers and the key figures in the finished classic as he and Neal Cassidy spent considerable time in NYC, Denver, Colorado, San Francisco, New Orleans (hanging out with William Burroughs and family), and finally Mexico City. Within these journal pages Kerouac provides insight into his own state of mind…

“one has to learn history and the stupid study of cause and effect, to enter into an understanding of eternity so far as we may know it. Cause-and-effect is also a prurience of mind and soul, because it pettishly demands surface answers to bottomless matters, though it is not for me to deny the right of men to build bridges over voids…but why walk on such a bridge; an elephant can do that; only a man can stare at the void and know it. Only man cares, not elephants and asses.”

…and his sense of humor
“If you can’t get a girl in the
Springtime
You can’t get a girl
at all.”

...after which Kerouac notes a WC Fields line: “you’re as funny as a cry for help.”

And still from the journals, a direct link to the road trips:

“Neal and I were still dreamily uncertain of whether it was Market St. in Frisco or not – at dreamy moments. This is when the mind surpasses life itself. More will be said and must be said about the sweet, small lake of the mind, which ignores Time & Space in a Preternatural Metaphysical Dream of Life…On we went into the violet darkness up to Baton Rouge on a double highway. Neal drove grimly as the little blond dozed, I dreamed.”

The Windblown World ends with these words:

“And what a revelation to know that I was born sad-that it was no trauma that made me sad-but God-who made me that way...The Eternal Wheel is Infinite Joy…I’m really willing to be conscientious…Death…death…and nothing else. I have to be joyful or I die, because my earthly position is untenable in gloom and I betray God in spite of myself therein.
“I don’t have to go to museums, I know what’s there.”

So, there you have it. I am not so sure it would be feasible nor accessible for those reading this review to simultaneously read The Original Scroll in tandem with the Journals-Windblown World. I now consider this opportunity as being near the pinnacle of my life’s reading experience.

But, if you are interested in reading or revisiting ,On The Road, I urge you to read in its original form, the scroll; it is transformative in its poetry and pace to the edited published editions better known to the reading public.

[Anna Carina · Rating 4 out of 5]

Die Urfassung zu lesen war glaub ich eine gute Idee. Sie nutzt die original Namen der Personen und enthält deutlich mehr Szenen (450 Seiten). Insbesondere die Szene um den Aufenthalt bei Bill Burroughs hätte ich nicht missen wollen. Eine äußerst faszinierende Figur der Beatszene. Außerdem ist das 150 seitige Nachwort sehr bereichernd.
Schon der Beginn, wie Jack mit seinem "belämmerten Schwachmatenarsch" im Bus sitzt und diesen Sprachgebrauch konsequent durch das Buch zieht, ohne zu derb oder platt zu wirken, hat mir sehr gut gefallen.
Dass es keine Kapitel und Absätze gibt, hat mich überhaupt nicht gestört. Das Buch hatte einfach einen coolen Flow.
Was ich wichtig finde zu wissen ist, dass wir hier einen 3 teiligen Roadtrip erzählt bekommen, der auf kein großes Finale oder die große Erkenntnis hinausläuft. Wir begleiten Jack Karouac, Neal Cassady und andere beim Unterwegs sein und Ihrer Suche nach dem ES. Das Buch ist ein einziger Gedankenstrom.
Mir war das an einigen Stellen zu viel Brainfuck. Ich hab mich die ganze Zeit beim Lesen gefragt: WIESO??? Ihr dröhnt Euch voll, seid ständig unterwegs, kommt nie wo an, habt keine Zeit zu reflektieren. Wie wollt ihr da etwas finden, wenn ihr nie mal innehaltet?! Ihr seid pleite, abgebrannt, begeht Straftaten. Leute, das ist echt nicht cool!!!
Die Antwort bekam ich dann auch: "der gerade Weg führt zum Tod", daher haben sich diese Jungs in einem "ewigen Kreis der Verzweiflung" befunden.
Das Thema Tod spiel eine zentrale Rolle. Jack selbst erzählt von Träumen: egal wie sehr er sich anstrengt, der Tod kommt immer als Erster ins Ziel.
Ok, ich kann diese Lebensphilosophie, das geradlinige Leben daher abzulehnen nicht teilen, aber kann das Verhalten mit der Erkenntnis gut einordnen.
Neal Cassady hat bis auf einen Gedankengang, kaum sinnvolle Beiträge für mich liefern können. Aber dieser Gedanke war toll: "....Aber sie müssen sich Sorgen machen, ihre Seelen finden keinen Frieden, wenn sie sich nicht an einer wohlbekannten und bewährten Sorge hochziehen können.... die ganze Zeit geht alles an ihnen vorbei und das wissen sie und darum machen sie sich Sorgen ohne Ende."
Herrlich, da war ich direkt an einige Stellen aus Paul Watzlawiks Anleitung zum Unglücklichsein erinnert.
Eine gewisse Ambivalenz fiel mir direkt auf, als Jack die Sehnsucht nach einer guten Frau und einer harmonischen Ehe äußerte -Der Wunsch, neben dem ständigen getrieben sein und der Suche, dann doch in der Einfachheit des Lebens anzukommen, die in dem Roman jedoch ständig abgelehnt wird.

Ihr seht, für mich hatte das Buch so einiges zu bieten, weil es aneckt, weil es mich ärgert, weil ich die Handlungen verstehen will, weil mich der Gedanke, in der eigenen Heimat heimatlos zu sein fasziniert.
Ganz großartig war diese eine Jazzszene, in der fast zur Erkenntnis des ES kam. Gänsehaut!!!

[Alina · Rating 4 out of 5]

I was recommended to read this as a joke before undertaking a cross-country roadtrip, and I’d pass the book along under the same spirit. I haven’t read any Kerouac before, and at first it was exhilarating to read punchy and sensory descriptions of people and places. But it soon became tedious, as there is little development or progression in Kerouac’s own state over the course of his journey, and while there is some development in certain individuals he tracks, they are side characters, and it is not so gripping. I enjoyed imagining if there were novel-length memoirs each of some of the people Kerouac encounters. Longing for this was the most tantalizing part of my reading experience, perhaps.

One feature of the account struck me. Kerouac fetishizes a certain kind of American. It is a man, most often, who should be insane to the extent that they’d certainly be institutionalized if they were caught by authorities; while they are still high-functioning enough as to never be cruel to others, and to be capable of taking care of themself and pulling off adventure after adventure. This feels like a sort of logical consequence or endpoint of a certain ideal of the American, which is not uncommon to us, I’d think: someone who is unique and stands out for their uniqueness, which implies that they deviate from what is commonly perceived as normal, and thereby what is rooted in tradition.

Noticing how it is this sort of man whom Kerouac puts on a pedestal was meaningful. I tend to fetishize people who are “bizarre” and use this adjective as my highest complement to someone. My own version of this comes apart from that of Kerouac in only a superficial manner. I value when a person’s bizarreness goes hand-in-hand with extraordinary merit, according to commonly recognized standards of success in intellectual and creative fields; whereas his version rejects such standards and, in effect, raises as the standard that the more individualistic and untethered one is to responsibilities to other people, the better they are.

Nevertheless, both versions take scoring highly on some metric as a priority over that of caring for others. Under a certain light, having this priority ranking is selfish and ridiculous (to be able to become a bizarre person, one needs to rarely think about how others are perceiving oneself or to not care about the possibility of others' negative judgments, which in turn is often a matter of one not respecting their judgments or taking them to be legitimate), and so I now wish to be a little more hesitant in how I go about these values.