Big Sur Book

Kerouac's last stand, for all intents and purposes. The Beat Legend is in top form here, as he describes as best as we could ask him to the sickness and insanity that plagued his final years, shortly after the publication of On the Road. We watch in horror and sometimes sick fascination as his mind and body deteriorate under the pressures of the bottle, the sudden fame, and the sadness of existence which took his life just a few years after the novel's publication. I couldn't help but feel guilty to even be reading this, and hooked on it, like a grim soap opera where I want to see just how shitty things can get for our dear protagonist over the course of the events being described.

Ah, Jack, you were one of the best we had and I believe I owe you an apology. I'm sorry I ever said a bad word about the writing you left behind for us, and I'm sorry I criticized your style for not being polished enough, not quite "F. Scott Fitzgerald" enough. It is my hope that in death you found not the horror you have outlined here, but the peace that's described in the Zen, Bhuddist, and Christian scriptures you so often cited. You were more human than you ever gave yourself credit for, and as such, subject to heights and depths of light and darkness that most of us will never be able to imagine. Whether describing joy or utter despair, you did it with a tender generosity that could make even a nervous breakdown seem like a perfectly logical response to this modern world of ours. So, thank you.