Of An Author Remembered
Those of you who have visited my website (www.thomaswdevine.com ) will know that I was influenced at the end of the 1950s by the Beatnik subculture. I was therefore delighted to come across an article by Ben Stanley (Sunday Star Times 24.02.13) about his visit to Jack Kerouac’s grave in Edson Cemetery, Lowell (near Boston) USA.
Ben says that discovering and reading Kerouac’s book “On the Road” had “a resonance that seemed to be as true [then] as it must have been in 1947” when it was written.
It influenced his life and perhaps more profoundly than mine. He was 21 when he read it and dropped out of university. I became spellbound by Kerouac’s literary works when I was a teenager but certainly never contemplated dropping out of high school for a more adventurous life. The most adventurous I’ve ever become is in writing thrillers.
Ben found a young Danish couple at Kerouac’s gravesite. Ben records the immortal words of the male thus: “Isn’t it awesome. It’s Jack, man. Shit!” His partner seemed more interested in her cellphone.
Now for a writer, after being dead for 40 years or so, that’s near immortal fame.
I have a modest collection of fiction, some bought new and some second-hand, but I seem to have parted company with my copies of Kerouac’s works somewhere along the way. It’s hard to believe now that he was born 22 years before I was. He felt like a contemporary back then.
Perhaps it’s lucky I never pursued a more adventurous life. Kerouac died at 47, a “fat alcoholic washout”, Ben says. Sad.
Ben says that discovering and reading Kerouac’s book “On the Road” had “a resonance that seemed to be as true [then] as it must have been in 1947” when it was written.
It influenced his life and perhaps more profoundly than mine. He was 21 when he read it and dropped out of university. I became spellbound by Kerouac’s literary works when I was a teenager but certainly never contemplated dropping out of high school for a more adventurous life. The most adventurous I’ve ever become is in writing thrillers.
Ben found a young Danish couple at Kerouac’s gravesite. Ben records the immortal words of the male thus: “Isn’t it awesome. It’s Jack, man. Shit!” His partner seemed more interested in her cellphone.
Now for a writer, after being dead for 40 years or so, that’s near immortal fame.
I have a modest collection of fiction, some bought new and some second-hand, but I seem to have parted company with my copies of Kerouac’s works somewhere along the way. It’s hard to believe now that he was born 22 years before I was. He felt like a contemporary back then.
Perhaps it’s lucky I never pursued a more adventurous life. Kerouac died at 47, a “fat alcoholic washout”, Ben says. Sad.
No comments have been added yet.
