There is little plot in On the Road. Jack Kerouac, in the character of Sal Paradise, recounts his travels around the country, primarily in the company of Dean Moriarty (real name Neal Cassady). They barrel around the continent -- New York, Denver, California, and finally into Mexico -- with no real plan or specific intentions. They are just compelled to be in motion. They are searching for something spiritual, but what it is they do not know, nor can they describe it. Yet they dash about the country in beaters or borrowed cars, live hand to mouth, impose on friends and strangers, chase women, indulge in drink and tea (marijuana), all the while reveling in the world and the people they meet. As Dean Moriarty would put it, they are searching for "It."
Here's the famous quote that sets the tone:
"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..."Now you tell me: Is Kerouac really searching for "It" or is he just looking to be entertained by the world?
This is, of course, what youth is all about. You have no idea what you are doing or why, but the compulsion to move and search is irresistible. And, as in most youthful endeavors, people get hurt in the process, generally wives and girlfriends, and innocent bystanders are usually left to clean up the mess. Such actions are shallowly acknowledged then almost immediately rationalized away in the standard manner of post-adolescence. For the middle-aged, this book is a sincere look back past 20 or 30 years of personal development; all the energy, madness, hubris, frustration and pain are there to see.
To anyone old enough to "look back" at youth, this is old news. But what I found most interesting about it was the sincerity and, to a lesser extent, the naivete. As Sal and Dean dart about the countryside, they truly open themselves to the people they encounter. Some of these are people who would eventually become that core of what was known as the Beat Generation. Others are standard workaday folks. A few are real low-lives. But in all cases they listen, watch, and speculate on these people -- their inner natures, their dreams -- all done with the expectation that there is something in there worth learning, something they don't already know.
One of the attractions of On the Road is nostalgia, although the American landscape described is not all that much different. Yes, things are more convenient and homogenized now, and no one hitchhikes anymore, but speaking as someone who has done a number of road trips out west, it's still easy to get off the beaten path. What is really lost from those times, and probably never to be retrieved, is the unaffectedness of the people. I know twelve-year olds who are more cynical than Sal and Dean. These guys sit and chat with drunkards, petty operators, and a variety of other marginal characters and try to intuit something from them, some sort of deeper understanding. Most of the young people I know are too affected by sensory overload and way too drenched in irony for any such thoughts. They would pass these people off with a disdainful "whatever" and some snidery. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing. Although it seems cold, a natural skepticism protects those who aren't necessarily experienced enough to spot troubling circumstances reliably. The fact of the matter is, a lot of what Sal and Dean engage in is childish self-delusion and fantasy. On the Road could not be written today because we are too wise, too young.
In time, most of the real world counterparts to the characters in On the Road revealed themselves to be the lost causes that a middle-aged man like me would see them for. William Burroughs (Old Bull Lee) spent most of his life drugged and wasted, eventually accidentally murdering his wife while "playing William Tell." There is a section of the book where Dean and Sal bunk at the house of Old Bull Lee/Burroughs and his wife. It's very creepy to read this knowing her fate. Neal Cassady managed to inspire many fringe types well into the '60s eventually driving the bus for Ken Kesey and his band of freaks, although in his old age, he fretted over the life he'd led and the mess he had made of his children. Alan Ginsberg (Carlo Marx) faired pretty well. He gained fame (or perhaps infamy) for his poetry, eventually turning to activism, devoting his creative energy to the transient socio-political concerns which, given the scope of what Kerouac and Cassady dreamed of, seems a bit small.
Kerouac himself never fell for the infantile lunacies of the '60s counter-culture. If he was just hoping to be entertained, he eventually went beyond that. He continued writing, completing several more books. His quest for the spirit of things quite logically turned to Buddhism. It seems Keroauc was the only one who came to see that there was no "IT" to find, or that the journey was the "IT." He drank himself to death in 1969.
As with any book, what's left when you strip away the cultural baggage is the writing, and the writing is worth far more than the price of admission. Whatever you may have read about the energy and poetics are true. The book begs to read through in long intense stretches. What's even more remarkable is that when you step back and think about the events that transpire, they are often very prosaic -- an extended and uncomfortable car trip, a dingy job to come up with enough money to move on, a meal in a diner -- and yet it all becomes very compelling.
The Beats, and Kerouac especially, were probably the last real literary movement. Journalists like Tom Wolfe and Hunter Thompson took the style to heart and brought about the primacy of non-fiction we have had since. After them the world moved on to film and video as its primary source of cultural cohesion. Because of its powerful influence On the Road may not seem all that special, the effect having been diluted by decades of progeny, but it still stands out and still arrests your attention.
Even if you are a middle-aged, you should read it. I may have seemed a bit put off by its juvenile excesses, but I am very glad I did. It's all well and good to look with distaste on the shameful behavior of youth, but I can't help but acknowledge that 25 years ago, if Dean Moriarty pulled up in a beat up old car pointed west and asked me to get in, I'm sure I would have. Or regretted it if I didn't.
