More salacious than it needs to be, but ultimately an interesting and thorough companion book to the Charters bio, which I read almost 20 years ago. I'm torn between whether to describe this book as "unflinching" or "sensationalized" in its overall portrayal of Kerouac; regardless, Amburn touches on a lot of material that others have glossed over. The book culminates in a blow-by-blow description of Kerouac's death, which has never been done in any other biography, as far as I know. And it is nightmarish.
"Nightmarish" is also a good descriptor of the behavior of Kerouac and much of his ilk. And yet, I remain fascinated by their manic swings from one extreme to another; at their best, the Beats epitomized youthful exuberance, freedom, and romantic self-mythologizing for which I will always have an appreciation; at their worst, well, they represented narcissism at its most self-destructive, devastating those they purported to love. And I feel like that's putting it lightly.
Kerouac -- the center of this historical literary maelstrom that, as of this writing, is survived by merely a lone central figure (Gary Snyder) and a couple outliers (Charles Plymell? Ed Sanders?) -- will always capture my imagination, in no small part because his books (namely Dharma Bums and Lonesome Traveler) were so central in motivating my own travels in my youth (and the fact that I realized you could use the US government to fund such travels, as I took a job with the NPS to realize my first trip out West).
But Kerouac's story, no matter who tells it -- Amburn, Charters, Carolyn Cassady, Kerouac himself -- is heartbreaking. So tread carefully. Read Amburn's account as a cautionary tale. Don't get too caught up in the myth or the reality. Because the myth is a beautiful, unattainable lie, and the reality is that Kerouac's spirit was done in by crushing disillusionment after his spectacular life still fell far short of his own aggrandization of self, friends, family, and a shaky belief system. There is nothing but sorrow and stunted growth if either myth or reality speak to you. Kill your darlings, kill your idols, start with Kerouac. Jesus, I'm 41 years old and I'm talking to myself on Goodreads.