On the Road Review

In my friend’s room, some years ago, there was a poster of Jack Kerouac (left), looking pensively into the lens. One night, somewhat inebriated, I read the quote underneath. Anyone who has ever read On the Road, or anyone who has read an interpretation or a review of On the Road, will know this quote.

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” 

That same intoxicated night, as I stumbled out of his dishevelled university housing and somehow made my way home, the same quote resonated in my mind. The next morning, waking up in that preliminary stage of a hangover, where one feels partially drunk and partially repugnant, where one considers the fragmented sequence of events from the night before, I remembered the poster on the wall, and the beauty of that quote.

Now, in an effort to avoid sentimentalizing On the Road, it’s important to note that I finished my current novel, Buchan’s 39 Steps, and then purchased On the Road from Amazon. A tale somewhat devoid of romance and certainly antithetical to the lifestyle that Kerouac’s ‘Beat Bible’ expounds.

I was 18 when I read it, as everyone seemed to be, and unfortunately, to accord to the commonplace, I was astonished by it. I am far older, far wiser and certainly more indebted to the world of literature now, so my second reading may not be as commonplace.

Firstly, let me make this very clear from the outset, I loved and still love this book. However, without the rose tinted beat glasses and the thirst for adventure, exploration and personal discovery, I am happy to concede that this book has its faults.

The vocabulary is far from extensive, the prose is often overly romantic and the story is at times fragmented.  Commentators often attribute, and arguably excuse, these faults to the legend that surrounds this novel: the three week burst in which it was written, the haze of drugs that apparently played a role in such an expeditious accomplishment and perhaps most notoriously, the monolithic 100+ foot scroll on which it was produced (right).

Nonetheless, this legend, for solely literary reasons, must be ignored. One of the problems with the novel, as mentioned earlier, is that it is often sensationalized. It is viewed as a sort of nostalgic, adolescent treasure that played an all encompassing role in its reader’s formative years. And much like Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye, its legend often proceeds it’s literary achievement.

The book, in a purely non-romantic, literary sense, is still extremely readable. What I found most enjoyable on the second read is how it opens up and challenges the conventions of literature. By employing his ‘spontaneous prose’, Kerouac opens the story up, and while this inexorably fragments it, the result is a fast, dynamic tale of camaraderie,  love and adventure. The autobiographical essence of the book evokes feelings of verisimilitude and brutality to the novel. It awards it with a sense of honesty.

The novel follows protagonist Sal Paradise, Kerouac’s alter-ego, on various cross country trips through America, and down to Mexico, joined for the large part by his mercurial friend Dean Moriarty, based on Neal Cassady. Dean is the heart of the story; his wild, unpredictable endeavours, his lust for life and his regression from mad hero to pitiful fool provide the novel with its finest moments.

Dean embodies the spirit of the Beat Generation, a post-war American subculture headed by the likes of Kerouac, William Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg. His perpetual quest to find jazz, sex, drugs and love, that are immortalized in these pages, exemplifies the ethos of all those who are considered ‘Beat’.

As the story progresses, the trips seem less and less rewarding. The novel ends with Sal and his new girl planning on moving to San Francisco, and Dean appearing to help with the move. Everything falls through however, and Dean disappears for a final time, leaving Sal to reminisce about their adventures, seeming strangely bereft. The novel ends as nostalgically as it began, with Sal dreaming of Dean Moriarty.

The second read is interesting; you are still rewarded with the sense of adventure and the fast, incomparable prose. What is taken away is the life-affirming feeling that teenagers receive, and it's replaced by a feeling of emptiness, perhaps a disappointment that you can’t heed the same results. 

On the Road is still a good novel, and I would recommend it to anyone who hasn't read it, however once I tore myself away from the glare of sentiment and the overbearing shadow of nostalgia, I saw some of its faults and came to the realization that while it is still emphatically interesting and entertaining, I can no longer consider it the finest piece of American literature.

Ernest Hemingway

To end what has somewhat accidentally become Ernest Hemingway week, I thought it was fitting to add this photo. I have shown photo's of two of his other hedonistic desires, guns and alcohol, in previous posts, but it is important to end the week showing what he does best, writing.

This photograph is statuesque and in my opinion shows the power and presence the man ostensibly possessed.







'Every man's life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another' -
Ernest Hemingway (1899 - 1961)

Ernest Hemingway - For Whom the Bell Tolls

'Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.'

John Donne

Ernest Hemingway’s brevity has never been imitated or matched. His prose is fast, laconic, at times brutal and often breathtaking. He won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1954, shortly after his celebrated novella, The Old Man and the Sea. Hemingway was awarded the prize ‘for his mastery in the art of narrative’ and modestly claimed the award was undeserving, due to the aptitude of his competition, but stated that the prize money was still welcome.

Hemingway lived a tumultuous life, riddled with violence, depression and war. A life filled with wonderful romances and woeful separations. He frequently claimed to be lonely and desolate and believed this was the perfect psychological state for all good writers. He said in his Nobel acceptance speech that ‘writing, at its best, is a lonely life’.

All these troubles, his failed romances, his experience of war and his sustained injuries arguably culminated in his suicide in 1961. However, it was later found that he had a rare genetic disease; hemochromatosis, which was passed down from his father, who tragically reached his own suicidal demise. The disease doesn’t allow the body to properly metabolize iron, which can result in mental and physical deterioration.

One can hardly speculate as to whether he was depressed because of the horrors he had witnessed in war-torn Europe, or whether his 4 failed marriages were to be held somewhat culpable, or whether his depression was solely attributed to this rare disease; one thing we do know is the hardships, the atrocities and those painful, woeful moments are immortalized in his terse, yet wonderfully explicit, semi-autobiographical prose throughout every page his wonderful oeuvre.

Hemingway writes with astonishing verisimilitude, and while his life was noticeably painful, he never neglects moments of spontaneity and always presents his audience with extraordinary romances and friendships. His novels are inextricably fluctuating, expounding the extremes of all emotions in his most idiosyncratic and distinctive prose.

For Whom the Bell Tolls is no different. In fact, it is probably the best example of this erratic prose. The story follows protagonist, Robert Jordan, empathetically know as ‘English’, through the violence and terrors of the Spanish Civil War. He is sent to a camp of republican guerrillas, who are fighting against Franco’s Fascists, in a conflict that tore Spain apart and eventually saw Franco in power. Jordan, a dynamiter, is sent there to blow up a bridge in order to aid the republicans.

As the narrative progresses, the protagonist is seen falling in love with a young girl living at the camp named Maria. Maria is a victim of the Fascists, who executed her parents and proceeded to sexually abuse and rape her. Jordan and Maria's attraction is instant, and provides gentler tones to a book that is quite sanguineous and horrific by its very nature.

Throughout the novel, Jordan argues with the old camp leader Pablo, a drunk, who was once a brave and ruthless soldier, over his conspicuous ineffectuality and his perpetual inebriation. Other than this, Jordan for the most part becomes friends with those in the camp and listens to their copious stories, anecdotes and tales of war, none more frightful than those from when Pablo was in charge.

One sequence in particular sticks with the reader, a sequence as merciless as any to be found in modern literature. Pillar, Pablo’s wife and current leader of the camp, tells Jordan of Pablo’s cold-hearted brutality in the days when he drank less and fought more. This particular story is somehow picturesque despite its palpably vicious inclinations. It displays how Pablo led men of a cliff after threatening their lives. How a group of guerrillas lined up and killed Fascists, one by one, in regimented yet horrific fashion.

If you have, or even hope to read For Whom the Bell Tolls, you will know of this scene. It is quite brilliant. The way Hemingway describes, in his distinctive brevity, the action of each man who is led to their deaths, down the tunnel of guerrillas towards the cliff. The ones who try to escape, who are then beaten continuously until they either die from such beatings or try their luck of the cliff. The ones who accept their fate, who walk proudly off the cliff as if straight into heaven. The ones, who scream for forgiveness, ask for exoneration and beg for mercy.

In these frightful scenes, Hemingway describes how Pablo is cold and fearless, which lends the reader a degree of admiration for the drunk who has fallen from glory, who once fought valiantly and boldly against a Fascist regime. And at the same time you sympathize with the devil, these Fascists, some hard-line, some nascent non-believers, all seemingly on a journey through perdition.

Much like Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia, Hemingway volunteered for the Spanish Civil war, lending the novel its inevitable biographical content and its veiled realism. The book can be exceptionally cold and at times perhaps a little too masochistic, but for me, it remains permanently entertaining.

The book is neither for the fainthearted, nor for those who enjoy drawn out, leisurely, Proustian prose. This novel is almost 500 pages of pure, unadulterated emotion, always extreme and always enjoyable. It has action, love, friendship and brutality almost in repetition, all embroidered and implemented with Hemmingway’s incomparable brevity and distinguished style.

Hemingway is often praised, and rightly so, for the Old Man and the Sea and A Farewell to Arms, but it is here where his disparate style, his laconic prose and his truly desolate literature is best displayed. Out of all of Hemmingway’s work, this is the book that encapsulates Hemingway, this is the book that shows how truly astonishing a writer he really is.

A New Paradigm

Saw this on another blog. Quite interesting

All about changing education paradigms. Seeing as this is a literary blog, this seems pertinent.

Interestingly, what this man says about coming out of university with a degree no longer guarantees a job, is something I fervently believe. I feel that I was lied to about the symptomatic effects of gaining a degree. It isn't a bridge to more money and guaranteed employment, that was a fallacy...

Nikolai Gogol - The Nose

For a few weeks I read solely short stories, this concluded with what I now consider to be one of my favourite books, Nikolai Gogol's The Nose 

It wasn’t until I read David Foster Wallace’s collection Oblivion that I realized how wonderful short stories can be. His most celebrated, and best, The Depressed Person, showed that shorter stories can be as enjoyable as many longer novels. Upon finishing this I read Lorrie Moore and Miranda July’s attempts, and while they didn’t quite match Foster Wallace’s effort, they were still fascinating.

I would advise reading Miranda July above Moore, if only because I was attracted to the use of experimental perversities that seems to play such a large role in her work. After reading these I came to the realization that I hadn’t read any classic short stories, of which many authors are famous for.

So I read Dubliners, and was instantaneously in awe with James Joyce’s seemingly abundant talents. Honestly, James Joyce might just be literatures monotheistic saviour. I went on to read a collection of Hemingway’s short stories, which included, The Old Man and the Sea, which is arguably a novella rather than a short story, either way it was magnificent.

Then there’s other novella’s that fall under this distorted category (that I would personally term short stories). Some notable examples are Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis and John Steinbeck’s The Pearl.

After Reading these brilliant works, I came across a collection of Nikolai Gogol’s short stories, entitled Diary of a Madman, the Government Inspector, & Selected Stories (Left). Amidst a somewhat disappointing start (I thought that Diary of a Madman, the esteemed titular short story, wasn’t very good) I stumbled across a story called The Nose.

The Nose is brilliant, it is as surreal as it is funny, really mindboggling stuff. It follows a respectable man who wakes up one morning and in horror is missing his nose. The man is understandably bemused and apoplectic, and wonders how to escape his predicament. Amidst his wonderings, he sees his nose, in the street, fully formed and of human size. The story follows this man, his thoughts and feelings while he tries to restore his face to its previous nasal normality.

It is a wonderful journey and unexpectedly humorous. Gogol, who was Dostoyevsky’s foremost influence, is an exceptional writer. Dead Souls, his magnum opus, is brilliantly written, however the overwhelmingly sombre undertones does mean, that while it is certainly a magnificent novel, it is quite difficult. The Nose is Dead Soul’s polar opposite, absolutely hysterical and whimsical yet retaining that brilliant Gogolian dialect that makes all his works so fascinating.

It seems that I have been primarily reviewing well know books that I have enjoyed, often without criticising them. And while I would love to break that trend, by being critical, it is perhaps not the time. The Nose is beyond criticism; it is so enjoyable and memorable that it would be a sin against literature not to advise it. It really is superb. 

5 of Don DeLillo's Best:

After the previous post glorified Don DeLillo's Falling Man, I felt obliged to share my personal favourites. Here are 5 of DeLillo's novels in no particular order:Sidenote: The three titles in the middle are published by Picador, if you are interested in this minimalistic design.

If I have one criticism of his oeuvre it would manifest itself amongst the pages of The Body Artist. Avoid this novel if possible. Other than that, enjoy DeLillo....

5 iconic covers for parts of Remembrance of Things Past through various Publishers

Marcel Proust – Swann’s Way (Part One of Remembrance of Things Past)

Marcel Proust’s masterpiece Remembrance of Things Past, or In Search of Lost Time, is renowned for both its size (3500 pages) and it’s seemingly effortless prose. I began part one, entitled Swann’s Way, this week with very little information about the author, and indeed the novel itself, and was pleasantly surprised from the first page. The vocabulary is exquisite and the prose itself is perhaps the most diligent and fastidious I have ever encountered, in the sense that it is difficult but ever-so rewarding.

Within the first one hundred pages the reader is encapsulated and in awe with the novel. The ‘episode of the Madeleine’, a sequence that I read unaware of its salient notoriety, was quite frankly astonishing. So astonishing in fact, that upon reading these two or three pages, I had made several notes, destroyed the page with ink, and quickly told one or two interested literary partisans about this rather brief passage.

This may seem slightly hyperbolic, but it really is marvellous. And while I am evidently drawing particular attention to these few pages, I certainly have no criticisms of the rest of the book, as it follows, more or less, in the same fashion.

What is so wonderful about the book is that the plot is noticeably ordinary. There is little action, very few likeable characters and the technique of ‘involuntary memory’ which is employed, doesn’t offer the reader intense emotion or collective tragedy, but this in itself is irrelevant. In fact, all this stands as a testament to the beauty of Proust’s work. From an outside perspective, to describe what the book is about, all 500 pages of this first part, would surely defer readers, as very little actually happens, but this certainly should not be the case. Proust is a superb author, and the mildness and vapidity of the text actually complements the brilliant writing.  It is slow, and at times difficult, but all this serves to highlight the sheer virtuosity of Proust’s work.It is exceptionally colourful and descriptive, and for such a seemingly ordinary storyline it has a way of truly encapsulating its readership.

This book is quite distinctive. If anything, it reminds me slightly of Nikolai Gogol’s Dead Souls, the comparison being that Gogol’s plot was seemingly ordinary yet still truly captivating, only Proust’s work is missing the element of intrigue that was so evident in Gogol’s magnum opus. These comparisons are small, Proust's work is undoubtedly unique.

After 500 pretty laborious pages, I have bought the second part of this 7 part classic, and quite look forward to reading it in due course. I would advise anyone to read this book; it is, quite simply, remarkable.

5 Iconic Book Covers

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance is renowned for being a book that combines philosophy and literature, and one that is supposed to create an exciting read whilst  enlightening it’s audience. The problem is that the abovementioned elements of this notoriously well-received and somehow 'best-selling' novel do not succeed.

The philosophical aspects of the novel are elementary, and while it borrows from some well known philosophers, such as Kant and Hume, it’s overall ‘thesis’ is underwhelming and falls short. The notion of a classic vs romantic view of the world, and the negation of technology, seems to differ only slightly from other philosophical theories while attempting to stand on its own. It fails to be either revelatory or substantial. Consequently, Robert Pirsig isn't, nor ever will be, considered a philosopher in the same class as some of those mentioned in this book.

In terms of its literary achievement, it lacks the quality to captivate its audience, it is a slow and lacklustre read, and it seems conflicted in what it is trying to accomplish. The best parts of the book are about his relationship with his son, and these are too infrequent and when they do arrive Pirsig, once again, veers off into the world of philosophy and creates a story that is difficult to follow.

Furthermore, the book is noticeably narcissistic and seems like an attempt to celebrate the authors own intellectual superiority. This makes the novel tedious at times, and a reader may well be inclined to raise his eyebrows above the page at the self-indulgent biographical narrator who seems stubborn and ultimately bland.

I wouldn’t advise this book to anyone. especially anyone who either loves literature or has a penchant for philosophy. In trying to combine the two he fails at both respectively. All this could be forgiven if the book was entertaining, but it is a difficult, slow and evidently monotonous read that fails to encapsulate, enlighten or even slightly engross its readers.