The Shadowlit Realms
| Labyrinth of the Mind |
On the RoadI have recently just started reading On the Road by Jack Kerouac, and it is all about the Beat generation, and it is quite different from anything I have read before. With the exception of some Beat Poetry, of much of which I admitidly do not care for all that much, I haven't really read anything coming from the Beat generation, and Kerouac is thought as being one of the "kings" of the Beat's and in fact cridited with coming up with the term, Beat. The book is in a tone and style that is quite unlike the things I have read before, as it does have a very "hippy" feeling to it, because the Beats were very akin to the hippies, in thier attitudies, in a way they are like hippies of the liteary world. As most the Beats were writers, poets, and other artists.
While I am too soon into the book, to really know what I think of it, right now I do have certain ambigious feelings about it, so far it is not really drawing me in, but it is quite a new experince, but I did think this passage was really quite marvelous. Something about it just really struck me.
I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn't know who I was--I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I'd never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn't know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn't scared; I was just somebody else, some strange, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost. I was halfway across America, at the dividing line between the East of my youth and the West of my future, and maybe that's why it happened right there and then, that strange red afternoon.
10:08 AM - 7/2/2009 - post comment
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 For though All are not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to judge them. ~The Monk
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