In Why Kerouac Matters, John Leland’s bio criticism of Jack Kerouac and on the road, there are the raw materials for a fine, well thought out book; one that might convince even the most misanthropic of Kerouac detractors to rethink their opinion of him. The scholarship and criticism surrounding him has been surrounded by such a level of hysteria, deism, and emotional invective, that it was refreshing to hear one of his defenders attempt to format an actual literary argument, something that Leland accomplishes at the books more bearable moment’s. When Leland steps out of his own id and array of beat poses, he paints a convincing picture of a conscious young writer attempting to grasp the American landscape and synthesize his demons. Unlike the myth of the dope addicted Wildman who wrote his scroll like novels in three days(a myth that he sadly bought into later)Kerouac at his best was a conscious artist, taking literary cues from James Joyce and Thomas Wolfe. Although one might disagree to the extent of how he( Kerouac) succeeded, it is commendable that Leland created a template in which a reader can discuss him.
If Leland had left the book at that, burnished the biographical parts, added a little more of a literary context to his theories, and kept some of his personal neuroses to himself, he might have created a damm fine scholarly piece or a short academic book. What we have, however, is a work that is less about Kerouac than Leland’s fixative devotion him, and a work that tells a lot more about the various neuroses of the beats. For when Leland’s strays away from the story of on the road and how it was developed, to his celebrity, his fame, and his personal worship of every recycled romantic cliched about him, the book quickly devolves from a fine study of the writer, to yet another prostlyzation of him. Riddled with inane, paternalists, and racially problematic views on race, sex, and hipsterism( I AM NOT MAGICAL, GODDAMMIT), the worst aspects of Why Kerouac Matters would be excruciating in a jaded coffee house ramble. Taken to the level of a book, it is more fuel to the fire of those who find the beats unbearable, one that does no justice to the writer that Leland deems to worship.
That said, the book made me grow to hate him less. Most of the Kerouac readers I know don’t know his worst work, or are smart enough to sift through it and appreciate his best. What I still cant stomach is the Kerouac that sees him as some kind of tragic, Keatsian figure, and not the violently racist sociopath that angered so many black and jewish intellectuas At his best,Kerouac was a fine expansionist prose writer. He was also the author of two of the most violently racist books I ever read( The Subtereanneans, Big Sur) , a vicious anti semite, and so viciously opposed to the civil rights movement that he was excluded from all polite company in the 60’s . I've learned to appreciate the first Kerouac. I wish more of his fans would come to grips with the second. That just about describes my reading experience toward Kerouac Matters. It is also just about all the good I can say toward the white writer ( Kerouac) who got away more racial shit than anyone in the history of American literature without being called on it.