How could I possibly have missed this? Shelf Awareness pointed me to a NY Times article that celebrates two very different yet bestselling books of 1957: Peyton Place, which I haven't read, and On the Road, which I have read at least half a dozen times. Iconic, culturally for so many reasons, it's important to me, not just as my go-to 'favourite' book, but for what it represents: reading at different stages.
I have my battered stolen school library copy of On the Road that I've carried to university and back, through young adulthood and into my, ahem, golden years. I've got the copy I bought in university when I had to do a shared project with a fellow in my class that I ended up having a giant crush on. I've got the copy I read when I finished school, and together the RRHB and I had 4 or 5 copies of the book when we merged households almost 9 years ago.
It's a book that I don't care to study. A book that I don't care to analyze. It's a book that causes me comfort just knowing that it's on the shelf. It's not something I can explain, this love for Jack Kerouac, but I've avoided reading so many of his books just because I know there are a limited amount, and I always want something new. I realized my mistake when I discovered Henry Miller when I turned 19. I read everything he ever wrote and then some and soon realized that it's like eating all your Hallowe'en candy, too much of a good thing and all that.
When we took our trip to California a few years ago, I read Big Sur, the copy of which we had picked up visiting City Lights in San Francisco. I read Dharma Bums when I felt like I needed it in between university and grad school, when I was still considering getting an advanced degree. And that's kind of what Kerouac is for me, a representation of art at its most meaningful, when it jumps over the line from entertainment to ethos, when it bleeds into ever little bit of your being and when it forces me to change the way I think about all things. Now, I roll down the window while the car speeds along, stereo on, wind knotting my hair, and never stop imagining that perfect trip that never ends.
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I always loved that excerpt you sent me about the cat after dear little Mojo died.
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