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The Dharma Bums:
Jack Kerouac’s classic novel about friendship, the search for meaning, and the allure of nature
First published in 1958, a year after On the Road put the Beat Generation on the map, The Dharma Bums stands as one of Jack Kerouac's most powerful and influential novels. The story focuses on two ebullient young Americans--mountaineer, poet, and Zen Buddhist Japhy Ryder, and Ray Smith, a zestful, innocent writer--whose quest for Truth leads them on a heroic odyssey, from marathon parties and poetry jam sessions in San Francisco's Bohemia to solitude and mountain climbing in the High Sierras.
First published in 1958, a year after On the Road put the Beat Generation on the map, The Dharma Bums stands as one of Jack Kerouac's most powerful and influential novels. The story focuses on two ebullient young Americans--mountaineer, poet, and Zen Buddhist Japhy Ryder, and Ray Smith, a zestful, innocent writer--whose quest for Truth leads them on a heroic odyssey, from marathon parties and poetry jam sessions in San Francisco's Bohemia to solitude and mountain climbing in the High Sierras.
231 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1958
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About the author
Jack Kerouac
362 books11.6k followersJean-Louis Lebris de Kérouac, known as Jack Kerouac, was an American novelist and poet who, alongside William S. Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg, was a pioneer of the Beat Generation.
Of French-Canadian ancestry, Kerouac was raised in a French-speaking home in Lowell, Massachusetts. He "learned English at age six and spoke with a marked accent into his late teens." During World War II, he served in the United States Merchant Marine; he completed his first novel at the time, which was published more than 40 years after his death. His first published book was The Town and the City (1950), and he achieved widespread fame and notoriety with his second, On the Road, in 1957. It made him a beat icon, and he went on to publish 12 more novels and numerous poetry volumes.
Kerouac is recognized for his style of stream of consciousness spontaneous prose. Thematically, his work covers topics such as his Catholic spirituality, jazz, travel, promiscuity, life in New York City, Buddhism, drugs, and poverty. He became an underground celebrity and, with other Beats, a progenitor of the hippie movement, although he remained antagonistic toward some of its politically radical elements. He has a lasting legacy, greatly influencing many of the cultural icons of the 1960s, including Bob Dylan, The Beatles, Jerry Garcia and The Doors.
In 1969, at the age of 47, Kerouac died from an abdominal hemorrhage caused by a lifetime of heavy drinking. Since then, his literary prestige has grown, and several previously unseen works have been published.
Of French-Canadian ancestry, Kerouac was raised in a French-speaking home in Lowell, Massachusetts. He "learned English at age six and spoke with a marked accent into his late teens." During World War II, he served in the United States Merchant Marine; he completed his first novel at the time, which was published more than 40 years after his death. His first published book was The Town and the City (1950), and he achieved widespread fame and notoriety with his second, On the Road, in 1957. It made him a beat icon, and he went on to publish 12 more novels and numerous poetry volumes.
Kerouac is recognized for his style of stream of consciousness spontaneous prose. Thematically, his work covers topics such as his Catholic spirituality, jazz, travel, promiscuity, life in New York City, Buddhism, drugs, and poverty. He became an underground celebrity and, with other Beats, a progenitor of the hippie movement, although he remained antagonistic toward some of its politically radical elements. He has a lasting legacy, greatly influencing many of the cultural icons of the 1960s, including Bob Dylan, The Beatles, Jerry Garcia and The Doors.
In 1969, at the age of 47, Kerouac died from an abdominal hemorrhage caused by a lifetime of heavy drinking. Since then, his literary prestige has grown, and several previously unseen works have been published.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 4,570 reviews
April 23, 2011
That's a completely nostalgic four stars of course. Has there been a writer whose reputation has plummeted quite so much between the 70s and now as jolly Jack and his tales of merry misogynism? But like Bob Dylan says
While riding on a train goin’ west
I fell asleep for to take my rest
I dreamed a dream that made me sad
Concerning myself and the first few friends I had
With half-damp eyes I stared to the room
Where my friends and I spent many an afternoon
Where we together weathered many a storm
Laughin’ and singin’ till the early hours of the morn
With haunted hearts through the heat and cold
We never thought we could ever get old
We thought we could sit forever in fun
But our chances really was a million to one
As easy it was to tell black from white
It was all that easy to tell wrong from right
And our choices were few and the thought never hit
That the one road we traveled would ever shatter and split
Well that was me and my pals. I know where each of them are to this day, but we don't see each other. The choices multiplied and it became no longer easy to tell black from white.
Back then we built a whole galaxy of heroes up from wild trips to the art house cinema to quarry Bergman or Pasolini from the granite cliffs of existentialism, or raids on libraries and second hand bookshops when we got to hear first about Kerouac and Kesey, not to mention Tolkien and Mervyn Peake, not to mention Emily Dickinson and Captain Beefheart and folk music and Alan Lomax and Alan Watts and John Fahey and Buffy Sainte-Marie. In those days every discovery hit like an express train and every bookshelf held high explosives. Life is not lived at that intensity for too many years. So forgive me for my four stars for Kerouac, the old bum, the old broke down disgraced beat with his typing not writing and every other reviewer on this site liking to put the boot in, and justified too, really, they're not good books - would I recommed any young person with any marbles to read nearly the whole of Kerouac's pile of typing as I myself did? NO!! Read almost anything BUT Kerouac! But my half damp eyes are staring back to that room. It was on Willow Road in Carlton. You can find it on Google Earth but some other people live there now.
While riding on a train goin’ west
I fell asleep for to take my rest
I dreamed a dream that made me sad
Concerning myself and the first few friends I had
With half-damp eyes I stared to the room
Where my friends and I spent many an afternoon
Where we together weathered many a storm
Laughin’ and singin’ till the early hours of the morn
With haunted hearts through the heat and cold
We never thought we could ever get old
We thought we could sit forever in fun
But our chances really was a million to one
As easy it was to tell black from white
It was all that easy to tell wrong from right
And our choices were few and the thought never hit
That the one road we traveled would ever shatter and split
Well that was me and my pals. I know where each of them are to this day, but we don't see each other. The choices multiplied and it became no longer easy to tell black from white.
Back then we built a whole galaxy of heroes up from wild trips to the art house cinema to quarry Bergman or Pasolini from the granite cliffs of existentialism, or raids on libraries and second hand bookshops when we got to hear first about Kerouac and Kesey, not to mention Tolkien and Mervyn Peake, not to mention Emily Dickinson and Captain Beefheart and folk music and Alan Lomax and Alan Watts and John Fahey and Buffy Sainte-Marie. In those days every discovery hit like an express train and every bookshelf held high explosives. Life is not lived at that intensity for too many years. So forgive me for my four stars for Kerouac, the old bum, the old broke down disgraced beat with his typing not writing and every other reviewer on this site liking to put the boot in, and justified too, really, they're not good books - would I recommed any young person with any marbles to read nearly the whole of Kerouac's pile of typing as I myself did? NO!! Read almost anything BUT Kerouac! But my half damp eyes are staring back to that room. It was on Willow Road in Carlton. You can find it on Google Earth but some other people live there now.
August 7, 2008
Too much bum, not enough dharma.
October 19, 2022
[Revised, pictures and shelves added 10/19/22]
Published in 1958, this book is a fascinating preview of the 1960s. Like On the Road, it is based on Kerouac's adventures in the late 1940s and early 1950s as he and his buddies helped create the counterculture. They migrated cross-country between bases in Greenwich Village and San Francisco. They hopped freights as hobos (at the end of that era).
Kerouac and buddies talk endlessly about Buddhist concepts including dharma of the title. One definition (of many) for this word is "cosmic law and order, as expressed by the teachings of the Buddha.” I should also say that none of these concepts are discussed in any depth in the book – they are just throw-aways.
Kerouac is credited with inventing the phrase ‘beat generation’ but his group disowned it when the press turned it into the pejorative ‘beatnik,’ precursor of flower children and hippies.
So, Jack and his buddies hang out in San Francisco, partying. You can always spot Jack at the party: he's the guy chugging from a jug of cheap wine, a precursor to his death from alcoholism in 1967. The group also occasionally goes backpacking. A good part of the book is an excellent stand-alone backpacking story.
This is a good story with good writing but there is an annoying "Oh gosh! Golly gee" aspect to the writing as if Jack were the world's biggest Eagle Scout, gone bad with the booze and the women.
To me it's fascinating to see this work as a precursor to the cultural revolution of the 1960s. Here in the late 1940s and early 1950s we have: Zen vs. materialism; haiku; criticism of suburban ‘TV zombie families;’ revolt against the suburban lifestyle; hot tubs; love of nature and backpacking; buying your clothes at Goodwill; yogurt; free love; taking all your clothes off at parties (still hasn't quite caught on); cooking with mesquite; hibachis (remember those?), and, of course, jeans and guitars. Hard drugs weren't in yet, at least in Kerouac's crowd.
Top photo: Figaro Café in Greenwich Village, a ‘beatnik’ hangout frequented by Kerouac from forbes.com
The author (1922-1969) from biography.com
Published in 1958, this book is a fascinating preview of the 1960s. Like On the Road, it is based on Kerouac's adventures in the late 1940s and early 1950s as he and his buddies helped create the counterculture. They migrated cross-country between bases in Greenwich Village and San Francisco. They hopped freights as hobos (at the end of that era).
Kerouac and buddies talk endlessly about Buddhist concepts including dharma of the title. One definition (of many) for this word is "cosmic law and order, as expressed by the teachings of the Buddha.” I should also say that none of these concepts are discussed in any depth in the book – they are just throw-aways.
Kerouac is credited with inventing the phrase ‘beat generation’ but his group disowned it when the press turned it into the pejorative ‘beatnik,’ precursor of flower children and hippies.
So, Jack and his buddies hang out in San Francisco, partying. You can always spot Jack at the party: he's the guy chugging from a jug of cheap wine, a precursor to his death from alcoholism in 1967. The group also occasionally goes backpacking. A good part of the book is an excellent stand-alone backpacking story.
This is a good story with good writing but there is an annoying "Oh gosh! Golly gee" aspect to the writing as if Jack were the world's biggest Eagle Scout, gone bad with the booze and the women.
To me it's fascinating to see this work as a precursor to the cultural revolution of the 1960s. Here in the late 1940s and early 1950s we have: Zen vs. materialism; haiku; criticism of suburban ‘TV zombie families;’ revolt against the suburban lifestyle; hot tubs; love of nature and backpacking; buying your clothes at Goodwill; yogurt; free love; taking all your clothes off at parties (still hasn't quite caught on); cooking with mesquite; hibachis (remember those?), and, of course, jeans and guitars. Hard drugs weren't in yet, at least in Kerouac's crowd.
Top photo: Figaro Café in Greenwich Village, a ‘beatnik’ hangout frequented by Kerouac from forbes.com
The author (1922-1969) from biography.com
September 10, 2019
I was super into Kerouac in college – which I supposed is the time in one’s life where you are supposed to be into Kerouac. Re-reading “On the Road” in my thirties might not have been my best idea, because it served only to show me how drastically my perspective on things had changed in a decade, and how Jack’s freewheeling madness might have been occasionally beautiful, but it had also had tragic consequences I couldn’t ignore. I thought about putting his books away for good, but I found I couldn’t because of how strong an impression he had once left on my young mind. Kerouac’s books are like my first tattoo, a very silly tribal dragon on my shoulder (this was years before Steig Larsson’s books, for the record): I’ll never get that covered up, because it’s nice to have a reminder that there was once a version of me who thought that was the most bad-ass thing… like, ever!
And I kept thinking about “The Dharma Bums”. I was not interested in Buddhism yet the first time I read it (Buddhism was my dad’s thing, and you know how when you are nineteen, nothing your parents do is cool…), but now, after a decade of studying Soto Zen, I wondered what I’d make of Jack’s attempt at meditation practice… I came across this gorgeous untitled poem he wrote for his first wife:
“The world you see is just a movie in your mind
Rocks don’t see it.
Bless and sit down.
Forgive and forget.
Practice kindness all day to everybody and you will realize you’re already in heaven now.
That’s the story.
That’s the message.
Nobody understands it, nobody listens,
They’re all running around like chickens with heads cut off.
I will try to teach it but it will be in vain,
S’why I’ll end up in a shack praying and being cool and singing by my woodstove making pancakes.”
Clearly, he’d understood SOMETHING, he’d had SOME insight. He’d actually written a biography of the Buddha in 1955 (it wasn’t published as a book until about ten years ago, and which I now I have to read to satisfy my completist curiosity)! So I figured I could revisit “The Dharma Bums”, in the full knowledge it wouldn’t be the book I read fifteen years ago because I am not the person I was fifteen years ago.
After the unexpected success of his novel, Ray Smith wants respite from his sudden fame and popularity. He takes off to California where Japhy Ryder, a fellow writer deeply immersed in Zen Buddhism, takes him under his wing. Ray and Japhy discuss Buddhism and poetry, go mountain-climbing and party hard. He eventually gets a gig as a firewatcher, on a lonely mountain peak in Washington State, and plans on using this isolation to deepen his meditation and attempt at reaching satori.
The novel is fairly episodic, and the pace much less frenetic and disorienting than in “On the Road” (https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...). Knowing his books are heavily autobiographical, I often have the urge to give Kerouac the benefit of the doubt: it is possible that he never met genuinely intellectually or spiritually curious women (wince). It is possible that the guys he hung out with and idolized were really good dudes in person (eyeroll) and that the filter of his pen distorted them. But whatever might have happened, the people in the book are often rather repulsive. The best parts are almost always when Ray is alone on the mountain or hopping trains across the country, trying to find a good place to meditate. The way Kerouac wrote about nature, the landscapes he took in, the way food and water tasted on his journey, well it makes me feel like travelling and it makes me hungry. I don’t even like blueberry pie, but the way Ray enjoys it, it seems like the most delicious thing on earth and now I want some.
The Beats were much more interested in what they referred to as Buddhist anarchism (which is kind of a hodgepodge mix of cherry-picked Buddhist practices and ideas and proto-hippie philosophy and lifestyle), as opposed to actual Buddhism: so it’s not really surprising that both Ray and Japhy play very fast and lose with oversimplified interpretations of things like the Precepts, meditation practice and so on, and use words like bodhisattvas, bhikkus and satori willy-nilly. I think their hearts were in the right place, but that a complete lack of experienced guidance and discipline made their earnest and ambitious efforts very scattered and vain. There is no doubt that promising chicks enlightenment experiences through tantric sex was an effective pick up method in 1950s Frisco, but I don’t think either one of those guys knew the first thing about Vajrayana tantra (neither do I, for the record, but I’m pretty sure it’s not what’s going on in the book)... In fact, it comes off as super sleazy! I get that this was when Buddhism was just starting to become an interest in the West, but I can’t help but feel that someone who spend years studying Zen in Japan, as Japhy claimed to have done, ought to know better… Kerouac was also never really able to polish off the Catholicism he was brought up on, and it tinted his spiritual studies.
I think the redeeming grace of this book is really the musical cadence and vividness of the prose, and the self-awareness. You can say a lot of bad things about Kerouac, but its undeniable that he knew how to string a sentence together with all the energy and rhythm a musician uses to play a solo. There are times when I had to just stop reading for a moment, to savor the word-riff he had just thrown at me. As for the self-awareness, it is very clear that Ray/Jack knows he’s not monk-material, that he’s flawed and that it seems unlikely he’ll ever be able to really get over the hurdles that hinder him. But he keeps trying. To be fair, that’s an incredibly important aspect of Zen – perseverance. It’s a shame that his efforts were so misguided, and that he so often hung out with people who brought out the worst in him.
“The Dharma Bums” keeps the 4 stars rating I’d given it before, despite the fact that it made me much sadder this time around than it had fifteen years ago. I will be driving by Lowell, Massachusetts, next month, and I think I might make a small detour to go pay my respects to Jack: he doesn’t hold the place he had in my heart when I was in college, but I can’t help thinking about him with a certain tenderness.
And I kept thinking about “The Dharma Bums”. I was not interested in Buddhism yet the first time I read it (Buddhism was my dad’s thing, and you know how when you are nineteen, nothing your parents do is cool…), but now, after a decade of studying Soto Zen, I wondered what I’d make of Jack’s attempt at meditation practice… I came across this gorgeous untitled poem he wrote for his first wife:
“The world you see is just a movie in your mind
Rocks don’t see it.
Bless and sit down.
Forgive and forget.
Practice kindness all day to everybody and you will realize you’re already in heaven now.
That’s the story.
That’s the message.
Nobody understands it, nobody listens,
They’re all running around like chickens with heads cut off.
I will try to teach it but it will be in vain,
S’why I’ll end up in a shack praying and being cool and singing by my woodstove making pancakes.”
Clearly, he’d understood SOMETHING, he’d had SOME insight. He’d actually written a biography of the Buddha in 1955 (it wasn’t published as a book until about ten years ago, and which I now I have to read to satisfy my completist curiosity)! So I figured I could revisit “The Dharma Bums”, in the full knowledge it wouldn’t be the book I read fifteen years ago because I am not the person I was fifteen years ago.
After the unexpected success of his novel, Ray Smith wants respite from his sudden fame and popularity. He takes off to California where Japhy Ryder, a fellow writer deeply immersed in Zen Buddhism, takes him under his wing. Ray and Japhy discuss Buddhism and poetry, go mountain-climbing and party hard. He eventually gets a gig as a firewatcher, on a lonely mountain peak in Washington State, and plans on using this isolation to deepen his meditation and attempt at reaching satori.
The novel is fairly episodic, and the pace much less frenetic and disorienting than in “On the Road” (https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...). Knowing his books are heavily autobiographical, I often have the urge to give Kerouac the benefit of the doubt: it is possible that he never met genuinely intellectually or spiritually curious women (wince). It is possible that the guys he hung out with and idolized were really good dudes in person (eyeroll) and that the filter of his pen distorted them. But whatever might have happened, the people in the book are often rather repulsive. The best parts are almost always when Ray is alone on the mountain or hopping trains across the country, trying to find a good place to meditate. The way Kerouac wrote about nature, the landscapes he took in, the way food and water tasted on his journey, well it makes me feel like travelling and it makes me hungry. I don’t even like blueberry pie, but the way Ray enjoys it, it seems like the most delicious thing on earth and now I want some.
The Beats were much more interested in what they referred to as Buddhist anarchism (which is kind of a hodgepodge mix of cherry-picked Buddhist practices and ideas and proto-hippie philosophy and lifestyle), as opposed to actual Buddhism: so it’s not really surprising that both Ray and Japhy play very fast and lose with oversimplified interpretations of things like the Precepts, meditation practice and so on, and use words like bodhisattvas, bhikkus and satori willy-nilly. I think their hearts were in the right place, but that a complete lack of experienced guidance and discipline made their earnest and ambitious efforts very scattered and vain. There is no doubt that promising chicks enlightenment experiences through tantric sex was an effective pick up method in 1950s Frisco, but I don’t think either one of those guys knew the first thing about Vajrayana tantra (neither do I, for the record, but I’m pretty sure it’s not what’s going on in the book)... In fact, it comes off as super sleazy! I get that this was when Buddhism was just starting to become an interest in the West, but I can’t help but feel that someone who spend years studying Zen in Japan, as Japhy claimed to have done, ought to know better… Kerouac was also never really able to polish off the Catholicism he was brought up on, and it tinted his spiritual studies.
I think the redeeming grace of this book is really the musical cadence and vividness of the prose, and the self-awareness. You can say a lot of bad things about Kerouac, but its undeniable that he knew how to string a sentence together with all the energy and rhythm a musician uses to play a solo. There are times when I had to just stop reading for a moment, to savor the word-riff he had just thrown at me. As for the self-awareness, it is very clear that Ray/Jack knows he’s not monk-material, that he’s flawed and that it seems unlikely he’ll ever be able to really get over the hurdles that hinder him. But he keeps trying. To be fair, that’s an incredibly important aspect of Zen – perseverance. It’s a shame that his efforts were so misguided, and that he so often hung out with people who brought out the worst in him.
“The Dharma Bums” keeps the 4 stars rating I’d given it before, despite the fact that it made me much sadder this time around than it had fifteen years ago. I will be driving by Lowell, Massachusetts, next month, and I think I might make a small detour to go pay my respects to Jack: he doesn’t hold the place he had in my heart when I was in college, but I can’t help thinking about him with a certain tenderness.
April 6, 2007
This was really a pleasant surprise. After making my way through "On the Road" and a few other things by Kerouac, I had come to the conclusion that the dude is a hack, and that the other Beats were really on some way better shit. I just couldn't feel that "rambling" ass style that he writes in, even though I acknowledge that it was a conscious decision of his to write that way.
I get it -- he writes the way he travels, making quick decisions and trying to be spontaneous and spiritual. But to me it's kind of just a garbage decision stylistically...personally, I like writers to show a little discipline and take heed to the laws of grammar and punctuation. Plus I think he was just drunk half the time. I write a lot of stuff when I'm drunk too -- it doesn't mean I would try and get it published unless I sat down and edited the fuck out of it, with a clear head one day. Drugs and booze can be good for the creative process, but at some point you've got to sit down and get serious, whittle down your ideas to a respectable form.
Which is what I think Kerouac did here. There is some great writing in "Dharma Bums", and even when he rambles, it flows with the ease and beauty of a rolling freight train, or a babbling brook. Finally, you feel like one of Kerouac's characters have gained something useful and spiritual from the life of being a hobo. Ray Smith, the protagonist, embodies the strengths and faults of a lot of guys I know, myself included sometimes. I only wish I could have been around in the days where the happily homeless poets would congregate in San Francisco, and talk about the kind of shit that these guys do. Sadly, the days where stuff like this happens in America are pretty much long gone, I fear.
I think I will take a second look at some more Kerouac after being pretty durn impressed by this. Namely, "Big Sur" is now on the list. After taking in "The Dharma Bums" and the fantastic introduction which was included in the edition I read, I feel a newfound respect for what Jack K did and the legacy he left behind. He was far from perfect, and a lot of the writing and relationships he left behind make this more than evident. But more than anything I think Kerouac was honest (about everything including his own self-demise, which he foreshadows eerily in parts of this novel). If honesty was his main goal as a writer, in that respect he was definitely a success.
One last thing I found cool about "The Dharma Bums" - a lot of American cultural references are derived from this novel. Not only from the hippies and the neo-hippies, but this is a very influential work in terms of modern artistry. The Anticon Records rappers/poets collective (including Dose One, Why?, and others) referenced this book heavily in a lot of their stuff during the late 90's/early 2000's Experimental Hip Hop Rennaissance. Lines like:
"Fresh bus station water...and it all ends up in tears anyway"
were lifted directly from the text, and put onto all these weird hip hop records I've been listening to for the past decade. I had no idea these were quotes from "Dharma Bums", but I guess I shouldn't be too surprised. Life and art tend to have circular qualities, indeed.
I get it -- he writes the way he travels, making quick decisions and trying to be spontaneous and spiritual. But to me it's kind of just a garbage decision stylistically...personally, I like writers to show a little discipline and take heed to the laws of grammar and punctuation. Plus I think he was just drunk half the time. I write a lot of stuff when I'm drunk too -- it doesn't mean I would try and get it published unless I sat down and edited the fuck out of it, with a clear head one day. Drugs and booze can be good for the creative process, but at some point you've got to sit down and get serious, whittle down your ideas to a respectable form.
Which is what I think Kerouac did here. There is some great writing in "Dharma Bums", and even when he rambles, it flows with the ease and beauty of a rolling freight train, or a babbling brook. Finally, you feel like one of Kerouac's characters have gained something useful and spiritual from the life of being a hobo. Ray Smith, the protagonist, embodies the strengths and faults of a lot of guys I know, myself included sometimes. I only wish I could have been around in the days where the happily homeless poets would congregate in San Francisco, and talk about the kind of shit that these guys do. Sadly, the days where stuff like this happens in America are pretty much long gone, I fear.
I think I will take a second look at some more Kerouac after being pretty durn impressed by this. Namely, "Big Sur" is now on the list. After taking in "The Dharma Bums" and the fantastic introduction which was included in the edition I read, I feel a newfound respect for what Jack K did and the legacy he left behind. He was far from perfect, and a lot of the writing and relationships he left behind make this more than evident. But more than anything I think Kerouac was honest (about everything including his own self-demise, which he foreshadows eerily in parts of this novel). If honesty was his main goal as a writer, in that respect he was definitely a success.
One last thing I found cool about "The Dharma Bums" - a lot of American cultural references are derived from this novel. Not only from the hippies and the neo-hippies, but this is a very influential work in terms of modern artistry. The Anticon Records rappers/poets collective (including Dose One, Why?, and others) referenced this book heavily in a lot of their stuff during the late 90's/early 2000's Experimental Hip Hop Rennaissance. Lines like:
"Fresh bus station water...and it all ends up in tears anyway"
were lifted directly from the text, and put onto all these weird hip hop records I've been listening to for the past decade. I had no idea these were quotes from "Dharma Bums", but I guess I shouldn't be too surprised. Life and art tend to have circular qualities, indeed.
August 23, 2018
Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums: "Hopping a freight out of Los Angeles at high noon one day in late September 1955 I got on a gondola and lay down with my duffel bag under my head and my knees crossed and contemplated the clouds as we rolled north to Santa Barbara."
Kerouac gives us the rambling masterpiece of a sentence with no punctuation and yet chock-full of description and character. The poverty/liberty of "hopping a freight", the locale firmly rooted in hippy California (Los Angeles, Santa Barbara), the laziness of contemplating the clouds: all of these are central to the narrator's character and his attitude. He is one with the road ("we rolled north") and in a meditative mood and this feeling saturates every page of this rollicking, humorous, orgasmic Beat classic. Just reading the phrase makes me want to throw off all the yokes of society and...ok enough of that...and on to the last one.
Kerouac gives us the rambling masterpiece of a sentence with no punctuation and yet chock-full of description and character. The poverty/liberty of "hopping a freight", the locale firmly rooted in hippy California (Los Angeles, Santa Barbara), the laziness of contemplating the clouds: all of these are central to the narrator's character and his attitude. He is one with the road ("we rolled north") and in a meditative mood and this feeling saturates every page of this rollicking, humorous, orgasmic Beat classic. Just reading the phrase makes me want to throw off all the yokes of society and...ok enough of that...and on to the last one.
September 25, 2017
"Yeah man, you know to me a mountain is a Buddha. Think of the patience, hundreds of thousands of years just sitting there bein perfectly perfectly silent and like praying for all living creaturs in that silence and just wwaiting for us to stop all our frettin and foolin."
- Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums
I recently started going to a weekly Kadampa Buddhism and meditation class at a local Unitarian church with a friend of mine. I'm far too skeptical to jump into or out of religions easily, but I have been attracted to secular Buddhism for awhile (for years I used to tell people I was a Zen Mormon). Anyway, this recent flirtation with meditation has launched me back into authors I haven't visited in a while. The last Kerouac I've read was 20 years ago, and I never read The Dharma Bums, so I figured it was a good place to start.
The novel is based losely on Kerouac (Ray Smith) and his relationship with Gary Snyder (Japhy Ryder). The book was an early shot in the counter-culture movement that included Buddhism, the hippy lifestyle, mountaineering, etc. Having grown up in Utah, California, etc., there has always been a resonance from this period. I remember friends of mine in HS and college hitchhiking, riding the rails, and heading into the mountains to commune, nearly naked, with nature. We were basically just kids playing at Buddhism, and sometimes it feels like Kerouac was too. I have to keep reminding myself that I'm not reading a cliché; that these are the guys who really started a lot of this. These are the beats, the generation that helped expand and energize the SF Renaissance.
Anyway, I enjoyed it; for the beats, the bums, the Buddhism, and yes even the bullshit.
- Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums
I recently started going to a weekly Kadampa Buddhism and meditation class at a local Unitarian church with a friend of mine. I'm far too skeptical to jump into or out of religions easily, but I have been attracted to secular Buddhism for awhile (for years I used to tell people I was a Zen Mormon). Anyway, this recent flirtation with meditation has launched me back into authors I haven't visited in a while. The last Kerouac I've read was 20 years ago, and I never read The Dharma Bums, so I figured it was a good place to start.
The novel is based losely on Kerouac (Ray Smith) and his relationship with Gary Snyder (Japhy Ryder). The book was an early shot in the counter-culture movement that included Buddhism, the hippy lifestyle, mountaineering, etc. Having grown up in Utah, California, etc., there has always been a resonance from this period. I remember friends of mine in HS and college hitchhiking, riding the rails, and heading into the mountains to commune, nearly naked, with nature. We were basically just kids playing at Buddhism, and sometimes it feels like Kerouac was too. I have to keep reminding myself that I'm not reading a cliché; that these are the guys who really started a lot of this. These are the beats, the generation that helped expand and energize the SF Renaissance.
Anyway, I enjoyed it; for the beats, the bums, the Buddhism, and yes even the bullshit.
August 1, 2025
چند سال پیش که فیلم به درون طبیعت وحشی را دیدم، جرقهای در ذهنم خورد؛ رؤیای فرار از نظم تحمیلی شهر و آزمودن بیپناهیِ داوطلبانهٔ در دل طبیعت. بعدتر که با ولگردهای دارما آشنا شدم، این رؤیا شکل گرفت، جان گرفت، و جاده دیگر فقط آسفالت نبود؛ راهی شد برای تجربهٔ معنا، برای گفتگو با غریبهها، و برای کشف خود در آینهٔ لحظههای ساده و خام.
چند کتاب هستند که نه فقط دربارهٔ زندگیاند، بلکه خودِ زندگیاند؛ تکهای سرگردان از تجربه، زمان، تنهایی، طبیعت و اشتیاق. ولگردهای دارما یکی از آن کتابهاست. اثری که نه در پی داستانپردازی کلاسیک است، نه دغدغهٔ ساختارهای روایی را دارد، و نه خود را مقید به منطق زمان خطی میداند. این کتاب، همچون نسیمی سرد از کوههای آمریکا، با روحی بیقرار، بدنی خسته، و ذهنی تپنده در جستوجوی معنا سرگردان است.
در نگاه نخست، ولگردهای دارما روایت زندگی جوانی به نام ری اسمیت (با الهام از خودِ کرواک) است که همراه با جپی رایدر (الگویی از گریگوری کورسو) در جادهها سفر میکنند، به دل کوه و دشت و شهر میزنند، در قطارهای باری میخوابند، و از طریق گفتوگوهای بیپایانشان دربارهٔ دارما، بودیسم، زن، شعر و معنا، جهانی دیگر را جستوجو میکنند. اما کتاب چیزی فراتر از یک سفرنامهٔ بیتیست؛ ولگردهای دارما جستوجوییست اگزیستانسیال برای یافتن معنای بودن در جهانی که بهجای «زیستن»، ما را به «زیاد بودن» و «داشتن» وامیدارد.
هیچهایک دیگر برایم «رایگانسواری» نبود؛ سفری درون خودم بود، عبور از بیقراریها، از نیاز به تعلق، از قیدهای بیفایدهای که شهر تحمیل میکند. جک کرواک با نثر تبآلودش نشانم داد که آزادی فقط در مقصد نیست، در میل به رفتن است؛ در آن لحظهای که ساکت کنار یک رانندهٔ خسته مینشینی و از پنجره بیرون را نگاه میکنی، بینیاز از رسیدن.
ولگردهای دارما پر از تناقض است: ستایش تنهایی و در عین حال عطش رفاقت، ستایش سکوت کوهستان و عشق به صدای جاده، میل به رهایی از زن و در عین حال وابستگی به حضور لحظهای او. روایت پر است از مستی، خنده، عرفان، شهوت، طبیعت، گرسنگی، بیپولی، و گفتوگوهایی که گاه سطحیاند، گاه عمیق؛ گاه شاعرانه اند، گاه شلخته.
سالها کولهگردی کردم، از روستا به شهر، از جاده به کوه، از آدما به خودم. سفر فقط جغرافیا نبود، مواجههای بود با بیچیزی، با خامیِ زندگی، با دردهایی که هیچ مکانی برای پنهانکردنشان نیست. ولگردهای دارما را باید با تمام وجود خواند، نه با ذهن. با پوست، با گرسنگی، با خستگی، با تنهاییِ شبهای سرد ایستگاه قطار. این کتاب مالِ آدمهاییست که بوی خاک و دود تنشان را برداشته و هنوز هم در ذهنشان یک نقشهٔ دستنویس هست، حتی اگر سالهاست جایی ساکن شدهاند.
کرواک در این اثر، برخلاف در جاده که بیشتر دربارهٔ شور است، اینجا به تأمل نزدیکتر است. ذن و دارما، همچون ریسمانهایی لرزان، میان تمام صفحات کتاب کشیده شدهاند. اما آنچه ارزش این کتاب را دوچندان میکند، صداقت کرواک است؛ اینکه نه خودش را پیامبر نشان میدهد، نه جپی را قدیس. همه چیز انسانیست، واقعیست، پر از شک و تضاد.
کرواک در ولگردهای دارما، از رنج عادی بودن مینویسد. از میل به «خارج بودن» از جهانِ تثبیتشده، از آن وضعیتی که آدم را به مهرهای در ماشین سرمایهداری و مذهب تبدیل میکند. اما برخلاف بسیاری از مانیفستهای ضدهنجاری، اینجا خبری از شعار نیست؛ هر چه هست، تجربه است. تجربهای گاه مسموم، گاه روشن، اما همیشه زنده.
کرواک، با سبک طوفانی و جملات سیالش، خواننده را به دلِ نثرهایی پرانرژی میبرد؛ جملاتی که بیوقفه از دهان نویسنده بیرون میریزند، درست مثل قطاری بیمهار. زبان او فرم زندگیست: بینظم، بیساختار، اما پر از خلوص. درست مثل راهی که نمیدانی به کجا میرسد، اما میروی، چون راه است.
کرواک در این کتاب، از ما نمیخواهد راهب شویم یا به کوه برویم. بلکه میگوید اگر نمیتوانی کوه بروی، کوه را در خودت پیدا کن. کافیست بلد باشی سکوت را بشنوی. و مگر نه اینکه همین توانایی، جوهرهٔ ادبیات است؟
برای آنهایی که از شهر خستهاند و دنبال نوعی رهایی میگردند، خواندن این کتاب را پیشنهاد میکنم. دیدن فیلم های به درون طبیعت وحشی و وحشی(۲۰۱۴) هم میتواند الهامبخش باشد.
ولگردهای دارما کتابیست برای کسانی که دنیا را نه در قدرت، نه در موفقیت، بلکه در راه رفتن، در گم شدن، و در زنده بودن میجویند.
من به آرزویم رسیدم؛ قبل از سیسالگی بیش از پنج سال را در سفر بودم. حالا فقط یک خواسته دارم: ده سال سفر دور دنیا، بدون مقصد، بدون نقشه، پیش از آنکه جهان چروک بگذارد روی صورتم.
چند کتاب هستند که نه فقط دربارهٔ زندگیاند، بلکه خودِ زندگیاند؛ تکهای سرگردان از تجربه، زمان، تنهایی، طبیعت و اشتیاق. ولگردهای دارما یکی از آن کتابهاست. اثری که نه در پی داستانپردازی کلاسیک است، نه دغدغهٔ ساختارهای روایی را دارد، و نه خود را مقید به منطق زمان خطی میداند. این کتاب، همچون نسیمی سرد از کوههای آمریکا، با روحی بیقرار، بدنی خسته، و ذهنی تپنده در جستوجوی معنا سرگردان است.
در نگاه نخست، ولگردهای دارما روایت زندگی جوانی به نام ری اسمیت (با الهام از خودِ کرواک) است که همراه با جپی رایدر (الگویی از گریگوری کورسو) در جادهها سفر میکنند، به دل کوه و دشت و شهر میزنند، در قطارهای باری میخوابند، و از طریق گفتوگوهای بیپایانشان دربارهٔ دارما، بودیسم، زن، شعر و معنا، جهانی دیگر را جستوجو میکنند. اما کتاب چیزی فراتر از یک سفرنامهٔ بیتیست؛ ولگردهای دارما جستوجوییست اگزیستانسیال برای یافتن معنای بودن در جهانی که بهجای «زیستن»، ما را به «زیاد بودن» و «داشتن» وامیدارد.
هیچهایک دیگر برایم «رایگانسواری» نبود؛ سفری درون خودم بود، عبور از بیقراریها، از نیاز به تعلق، از قیدهای بیفایدهای که شهر تحمیل میکند. جک کرواک با نثر تبآلودش نشانم داد که آزادی فقط در مقصد نیست، در میل به رفتن است؛ در آن لحظهای که ساکت کنار یک رانندهٔ خسته مینشینی و از پنجره بیرون را نگاه میکنی، بینیاز از رسیدن.
ولگردهای دارما پر از تناقض است: ستایش تنهایی و در عین حال عطش رفاقت، ستایش سکوت کوهستان و عشق به صدای جاده، میل به رهایی از زن و در عین حال وابستگی به حضور لحظهای او. روایت پر است از مستی، خنده، عرفان، شهوت، طبیعت، گرسنگی، بیپولی، و گفتوگوهایی که گاه سطحیاند، گاه عمیق؛ گاه شاعرانه اند، گاه شلخته.
سالها کولهگردی کردم، از روستا به شهر، از جاده به کوه، از آدما به خودم. سفر فقط جغرافیا نبود، مواجههای بود با بیچیزی، با خامیِ زندگی، با دردهایی که هیچ مکانی برای پنهانکردنشان نیست. ولگردهای دارما را باید با تمام وجود خواند، نه با ذهن. با پوست، با گرسنگی، با خستگی، با تنهاییِ شبهای سرد ایستگاه قطار. این کتاب مالِ آدمهاییست که بوی خاک و دود تنشان را برداشته و هنوز هم در ذهنشان یک نقشهٔ دستنویس هست، حتی اگر سالهاست جایی ساکن شدهاند.
کرواک در این اثر، برخلاف در جاده که بیشتر دربارهٔ شور است، اینجا به تأمل نزدیکتر است. ذن و دارما، همچون ریسمانهایی لرزان، میان تمام صفحات کتاب کشیده شدهاند. اما آنچه ارزش این کتاب را دوچندان میکند، صداقت کرواک است؛ اینکه نه خودش را پیامبر نشان میدهد، نه جپی را قدیس. همه چیز انسانیست، واقعیست، پر از شک و تضاد.
کرواک در ولگردهای دارما، از رنج عادی بودن مینویسد. از میل به «خارج بودن» از جهانِ تثبیتشده، از آن وضعیتی که آدم را به مهرهای در ماشین سرمایهداری و مذهب تبدیل میکند. اما برخلاف بسیاری از مانیفستهای ضدهنجاری، اینجا خبری از شعار نیست؛ هر چه هست، تجربه است. تجربهای گاه مسموم، گاه روشن، اما همیشه زنده.
کرواک، با سبک طوفانی و جملات سیالش، خواننده را به دلِ نثرهایی پرانرژی میبرد؛ جملاتی که بیوقفه از دهان نویسنده بیرون میریزند، درست مثل قطاری بیمهار. زبان او فرم زندگیست: بینظم، بیساختار، اما پر از خلوص. درست مثل راهی که نمیدانی به کجا میرسد، اما میروی، چون راه است.
کرواک در این کتاب، از ما نمیخواهد راهب شویم یا به کوه برویم. بلکه میگوید اگر نمیتوانی کوه بروی، کوه را در خودت پیدا کن. کافیست بلد باشی سکوت را بشنوی. و مگر نه اینکه همین توانایی، جوهرهٔ ادبیات است؟
برای آنهایی که از شهر خستهاند و دنبال نوعی رهایی میگردند، خواندن این کتاب را پیشنهاد میکنم. دیدن فیلم های به درون طبیعت وحشی و وحشی(۲۰۱۴) هم میتواند الهامبخش باشد.
ولگردهای دارما کتابیست برای کسانی که دنیا را نه در قدرت، نه در موفقیت، بلکه در راه رفتن، در گم شدن، و در زنده بودن میجویند.
من به آرزویم رسیدم؛ قبل از سیسالگی بیش از پنج سال را در سفر بودم. حالا فقط یک خواسته دارم: ده سال سفر دور دنیا، بدون مقصد، بدون نقشه، پیش از آنکه جهان چروک بگذارد روی صورتم.
August 21, 2025
It would be redundant to return to the contribution of Jack Kérouac's work to the American counterculture of the 60s. On the Road is the matrix. The author's figure is more ambivalent, if not frankly controversial; he was an individualist, not a leader. Less openly autobiographical, The Dharma Bums, presented as a novel, remains a work à clef; it is still about Jack and his knowledge that it is about. There is still talk of travel, but this is no longer the ultimate affirmation of freedom from all contingent attachments; it is only a means for a quest that aims to be more spiritual. We have the right to ask questions, even to raise objections. Indeed, our acolytes understand how to live, share with people in need, and put their bodies to the test to achieve spiritual awakening. We attack oriental maxims advocating wisdom and the emptiness of all attachment; we respect decorum and aesthetics to match. But aside from that, we drink immoderately; we smoke willingly; we consume meat with relish; we copulate when we want, and we free-ride when necessary. So isn't all this transcendentalist and Buddhist phraseology reduced to nonsense, to claptrap, to chimeras more likely to justify specific subsidence in a marginal way of life than to be the actual manifestation of an ardent need for absolute?
If you manage to ignore all this untimely spiritualism, what paradoxically emerges from Jack Kérouac's style is a concern for authenticity, simplicity, and a certain liveliness. But he is the man of work. With On the Road, everything has been said and consumed. The rest is just pleasant variation. That doesn't prevent us from always being tempted to return for a spin by repurchasing one of his novels.
If you manage to ignore all this untimely spiritualism, what paradoxically emerges from Jack Kérouac's style is a concern for authenticity, simplicity, and a certain liveliness. But he is the man of work. With On the Road, everything has been said and consumed. The rest is just pleasant variation. That doesn't prevent us from always being tempted to return for a spin by repurchasing one of his novels.
September 28, 2025
The Dharma Bums is an exhilarating, soul stirring journey into the heart of American counterculture. With vivid prose and raw honesty, Kerouac captures the beauty of nature, the search for meaning, and the wild joy of spiritual exploration. It's a poetic, life affirming read that inspires freedom, friendship, and a deeper connection to the world. A true gem!
August 22, 2025
Happy. Just in my swim shorts, barefooted, wild-haired, in the red fire dark, singing, swigging wine, spitting, jumping, running -- that's the way to live. All alone and free in the soft sands of the beach ...
The Dharma Bums ~~~ Jack Kerouac
I am a devotee of Truman Capote. For years, whenever I thought of reading Jack Kerouac, Capote's famous words echoed through my mind when speaking of Kerouac: That’s not writing; that’s just typewriting. I remember laughing hysterically when seeing the clip on a documentary on Capote.
Fast forward to 2023. I'm spending the month of September reading authors that are new to me. I decided it was time to ignore Capote, & venture into Kerouac's universe. I'm glad I did.
I like to read good books. The Dharma Bums is a good book. I was surprised how much I enjoyed it. In fact, I had a hard time putting it down. I was invested in this journey.
The Dharma Bums is the story of two young men Ray Smith and Japhy Ryder practicing Buddhists, interpreting Buddhism to fit their lives and traveling around the country ~~ trying to find truth in life. The Dharma Bums is based on Jack Kerouac's own journey.
I don't have much to say here other that read The Dharma Bums. Then break out of your routines ~~ hit the road; climb a mountain, sleep under the stars. And meditate ~~ meditate for days on end. Expand your mind; micro-dose with some psilocybin. And stop taking it all so seriously.
And yes, I will be reading more Jack Kerouac. Sorry, Tru.
The Dharma Bums ~~~ Jack Kerouac
I am a devotee of Truman Capote. For years, whenever I thought of reading Jack Kerouac, Capote's famous words echoed through my mind when speaking of Kerouac: That’s not writing; that’s just typewriting. I remember laughing hysterically when seeing the clip on a documentary on Capote.
Fast forward to 2023. I'm spending the month of September reading authors that are new to me. I decided it was time to ignore Capote, & venture into Kerouac's universe. I'm glad I did.
I like to read good books. The Dharma Bums is a good book. I was surprised how much I enjoyed it. In fact, I had a hard time putting it down. I was invested in this journey.
The Dharma Bums is the story of two young men Ray Smith and Japhy Ryder practicing Buddhists, interpreting Buddhism to fit their lives and traveling around the country ~~ trying to find truth in life. The Dharma Bums is based on Jack Kerouac's own journey.
I don't have much to say here other that read The Dharma Bums. Then break out of your routines ~~ hit the road; climb a mountain, sleep under the stars. And meditate ~~ meditate for days on end. Expand your mind; micro-dose with some psilocybin. And stop taking it all so seriously.
And yes, I will be reading more Jack Kerouac. Sorry, Tru.
July 11, 2013
Enfant terrible, a unique individual, jazz lover and a poet; this book, was written when Jack Kerouac was thirty-six years old. He was at the forefront of the Beat Generation in California in the fifties, through to his death in 1969, at the age of forty-seven.
I kept on telling myself this is not my kind of book and I’m not enjoying myself but who was I trying to kid. Yes, it’s “raw in thought” but spirituality flows throughout, even though the catholic faith is viewed through the eyes of (Zen) Buddhism.
I have no doubt that Kerouac's own unique background, i.e. the “gene pool”, was responsible for bringing to life an individual who loved company, but who could also be more than content to spend time on his own, thinking about nature and the wonders of our planet. I can so readily equate to this fact.
It was interesting to read that Kerouac's parents, Leo and Gabrielle, were immigrants from Quebec, Canada; and that Kerouac learned to speak French at home before he learned English at school.
The first paragraph in the introduction to the book could not have been quoted better as to how I came to arrive at my own views about Jack Kerouac:
“When Gary Snyder, the Zen poet immortalized as ‘Japhy Ryder’ in The Dharma Bums, first met Jack Kerouac in San Francisco in the fall of 1955, he sensed about him ‘a palpable aura of fame and death’ ”.
This is indeed a “magical mystery tour” which accesses the innermost recesses of this author’s inquisitive, stimulating but also soul-searching mind and, dare I say it, an individual who was frequently inebriated. This “mystery” is shown in Ray Smith’s (I believe this is Jack Kerouac himself) life, who makes massive treks (3,000 miles) across the United States; his adventures passing through Mexico, back into the US, and then taken by a trucker (Beaudry was his name) back into Mexico; who offered to give him a ride if in exchange he could show the trucker hot spots such as the Mexican whore houses. Ray went along with this as it was all part and parcel of his journey to Rocky Mount, North Carolina where he was planning to spend Christmas with his mother.
“ Roll up, roll up for the magical mystery tour, step right this way.
Roll up, roll up for the mystery tour…
Roll up (and) that’s an invitation up for the mystery tour.
Roll up to make a reservation, roll up for the mystery tour.
The magical mystery tour is waiting to take you away.”
This work had the most profound effect on me both emotionally and spiritually, and with the spectacular suicide of Rosie, caused me to sink to quite a low level of despondency within myself.
Ray was happy in San Francisco and had gone over “to Rosie’s place to see Cody and Rosie.” Cody was worried about her: “She says she wrote out a list of all our names and all our sins, she says, and then tried to flush them down the toilet where she works, and the long list of paper stuck in the toilet and they had to send for some sanitation character to clean up the mess…she’s nuts.”
Believing that she and her friends were all done for, Rosie slashes her wrists and was taken care of, however, she had obviously made up her mind what she had to do because she returns home and dramatically states to Ray:
“This is my last night on earth” and indeed her suicide was truly spectacular.
Ray was always a worry for his friends. This is shown with Japhy’s concerns about his friend’s drinking habits just before he goes off to Japan.
“ ‘You’re just drinking too much all the time, I don’t see how you’re even going to gain enlightenment and stay out of the mountains, you’ll always be coming down the hill spending your bean money on wine and finally you’ll end up lying in the street in the rain, dead drunk, and then they’ll take you away and you’ll have to be reborn a teetotalin bartender to atone for your karma.’
Ray immediately thought, “He was really sad about it, and worried about me, and I just went on drinking.”
Ray also considered himself a “religious wanderer”, who loved to meditate:
“One night I was meditating in such perfect stillness that two mosquitoes came and sat on each of my cheekbones and stayed there for a long time without biting and then went away without biting.”
There’s humor (yodeling whilst hiking up the Matterhorn with Japhy and Henry Morley, whom Ray found mad and also boring; still the poets were having a great time); wistfulness (Japhy and his meditation: his “Bodhisattvas), sexual expression with free love, depression, beauty, all pervade this book. Knowing though that Ray was partial to his alcohol, I wondered what “spiritual” state he was in when he was writing this.
Thinking about this work brings to mind a reporter I once knew in Fleet Street, London. He best reporting was always achieved after he’d had a “liquid lunch” and the words just poured like “pearls from heaven”. Unfortunately, this literary genius ended with an early demise.
So in conclusion, we have here a highly religious (Catholicism) man, who had a joy for life, poetry and (Zen) Buddhism. It was this religion that was the bedrock of all his ideas; be it in nature, thoughts, friends, families and all the wonders of our universe. So what compelled such a talented individual to cross the final boundary and relentlessly slide and fall towards his own self-afflicted decline to the inevitable, leading to such an early death in his forties? Was the devil within him, I wonder.
Due to this I must read his first book, “On the Road” but I’ve been told that it’s not as good as Kerouac’s second. Well I’ll judge that for myself. It was such a pleasure for me reading this book and such a cause for reflection of our own lives.
I kept on telling myself this is not my kind of book and I’m not enjoying myself but who was I trying to kid. Yes, it’s “raw in thought” but spirituality flows throughout, even though the catholic faith is viewed through the eyes of (Zen) Buddhism.
I have no doubt that Kerouac's own unique background, i.e. the “gene pool”, was responsible for bringing to life an individual who loved company, but who could also be more than content to spend time on his own, thinking about nature and the wonders of our planet. I can so readily equate to this fact.
It was interesting to read that Kerouac's parents, Leo and Gabrielle, were immigrants from Quebec, Canada; and that Kerouac learned to speak French at home before he learned English at school.
The first paragraph in the introduction to the book could not have been quoted better as to how I came to arrive at my own views about Jack Kerouac:
“When Gary Snyder, the Zen poet immortalized as ‘Japhy Ryder’ in The Dharma Bums, first met Jack Kerouac in San Francisco in the fall of 1955, he sensed about him ‘a palpable aura of fame and death’ ”.
This is indeed a “magical mystery tour” which accesses the innermost recesses of this author’s inquisitive, stimulating but also soul-searching mind and, dare I say it, an individual who was frequently inebriated. This “mystery” is shown in Ray Smith’s (I believe this is Jack Kerouac himself) life, who makes massive treks (3,000 miles) across the United States; his adventures passing through Mexico, back into the US, and then taken by a trucker (Beaudry was his name) back into Mexico; who offered to give him a ride if in exchange he could show the trucker hot spots such as the Mexican whore houses. Ray went along with this as it was all part and parcel of his journey to Rocky Mount, North Carolina where he was planning to spend Christmas with his mother.
“ Roll up, roll up for the magical mystery tour, step right this way.
Roll up, roll up for the mystery tour…
Roll up (and) that’s an invitation up for the mystery tour.
Roll up to make a reservation, roll up for the mystery tour.
The magical mystery tour is waiting to take you away.”
This work had the most profound effect on me both emotionally and spiritually, and with the spectacular suicide of Rosie, caused me to sink to quite a low level of despondency within myself.
Ray was happy in San Francisco and had gone over “to Rosie’s place to see Cody and Rosie.” Cody was worried about her: “She says she wrote out a list of all our names and all our sins, she says, and then tried to flush them down the toilet where she works, and the long list of paper stuck in the toilet and they had to send for some sanitation character to clean up the mess…she’s nuts.”
Believing that she and her friends were all done for, Rosie slashes her wrists and was taken care of, however, she had obviously made up her mind what she had to do because she returns home and dramatically states to Ray:
“This is my last night on earth” and indeed her suicide was truly spectacular.
Ray was always a worry for his friends. This is shown with Japhy’s concerns about his friend’s drinking habits just before he goes off to Japan.
“ ‘You’re just drinking too much all the time, I don’t see how you’re even going to gain enlightenment and stay out of the mountains, you’ll always be coming down the hill spending your bean money on wine and finally you’ll end up lying in the street in the rain, dead drunk, and then they’ll take you away and you’ll have to be reborn a teetotalin bartender to atone for your karma.’
Ray immediately thought, “He was really sad about it, and worried about me, and I just went on drinking.”
Ray also considered himself a “religious wanderer”, who loved to meditate:
“One night I was meditating in such perfect stillness that two mosquitoes came and sat on each of my cheekbones and stayed there for a long time without biting and then went away without biting.”
There’s humor (yodeling whilst hiking up the Matterhorn with Japhy and Henry Morley, whom Ray found mad and also boring; still the poets were having a great time); wistfulness (Japhy and his meditation: his “Bodhisattvas), sexual expression with free love, depression, beauty, all pervade this book. Knowing though that Ray was partial to his alcohol, I wondered what “spiritual” state he was in when he was writing this.
Thinking about this work brings to mind a reporter I once knew in Fleet Street, London. He best reporting was always achieved after he’d had a “liquid lunch” and the words just poured like “pearls from heaven”. Unfortunately, this literary genius ended with an early demise.
So in conclusion, we have here a highly religious (Catholicism) man, who had a joy for life, poetry and (Zen) Buddhism. It was this religion that was the bedrock of all his ideas; be it in nature, thoughts, friends, families and all the wonders of our universe. So what compelled such a talented individual to cross the final boundary and relentlessly slide and fall towards his own self-afflicted decline to the inevitable, leading to such an early death in his forties? Was the devil within him, I wonder.
Due to this I must read his first book, “On the Road” but I’ve been told that it’s not as good as Kerouac’s second. Well I’ll judge that for myself. It was such a pleasure for me reading this book and such a cause for reflection of our own lives.
July 25, 2018
For some reason I recently got it into my head that I should read The Dharma Bums in the near future, so when I spotted a pristine copy on my library's "New Arrivals" shelf it seemed like fate. Now that I've read it, I'm bewildered. What is this book? Are we meant to take it seriously? I was alternately amused, annoyed, disturbed, and edified by it, and there was no overlap in these feelings. I never felt amused AND annoyed; never felt disturbed AND edified. Only one thing at a time. And so I will take these feelings one by one.
I was amused!
Most of The Dharma Bums is written in a casual style and is simply about "Ray Smith" (Jack Kerouac) and his friends "Alvah Goldberg" (Allen Ginsberg), "Japhy Ryder" (Gary Snyder), and other lesser Beats hanging out together. This casual, conversational style had the effect of making me feel like I was there with them. Pretending I was in the room with these obnoxious party people who are somehow some of the most revered writers of the 20th century was fun! I imagined how I would laugh at the way they drunkenly ran their mouths off, so in love with their own brilliance. I pictured myself rolling my eyes when they suggested I participate in "yabyum." I thought about what it would be like to laze around Berkeley and Oakland, bumming rides off people, drinking jugs of port (did people do this a lot back then? There seemed to be jugs of port everywhere), and crashing on other people's floors. It was like a vacation to a world I never knew I wanted to visit.
I was annoyed!
Except for an amusing episode when Kerouac and his friends decide to climb Matterhorn Peak, The Dharma Bums had no narrative momentum whatsoever. Despite the book's appealing elements, it was easy to put down and easy not to pick up again. It was self-indulgent to an absurd degree. And it was pretty sexist and occasionally racist. I was expecting that so it wasn't a dealbreaker for me, but that doesn't mean it wasn't unpleasant. Kerouac and his friends are all about personal freedom, but only when it comes to young white dudes like themselves.
I was disturbed!
Jack Kerouac depicts himself as an obvious alcoholic, yet it somehow doesn't seem obvious to him. He's unable to do anything without the ubiquitous jugs of port, and when his friends and family call him on it, he's dismissive. The poet Gary Snyder is both his best friend and his biggest challenger in this regard, asking him how he expects to be mindful when he's in a near-constant state of intoxication, often wondering why he spends so much time lying around drinking instead of doing things. Kerouac just brushes it off. At one point while hiking with Snyder, Kerouac idly wonders which of them will die first. As of this writing, Gary Snyder is still alive. As of this writing, Kerouac has been dead for nearly 50 years, succumbing to alcohol-related ailments 12 years after the events of this book, at the age of 47. Knowing this cast a shadow over the book that was impossible to ignore.
I was enlightened!
I said "edified" above, because this book doesn't literally cause enlightenment. It is, however, a fascinating document of the way people try to live out their Buddhist ideals. Kerouac often depicts himself meditating and trying to be at one with the natural world, but he's also willing to admit that he's sometimes depressed on his solitary travels and has to take a few moments to cry. The arguments he has with Snyder and Ginsberg about the various tenets of Buddhism and how they should play out in their lives were fascinating, real, and unlike anything I've read before. And Kerouac's compassion for people in general comes through all the time. He laments the way people seem mesmerized by TV ("everybody's thinking the same thing") but also has faith in their ability to be better; while hitchhiking he talks about meditation with a random stranger who picks him up, and isn't surprised with the stranger admits that he's always wanted to try it himself. "Everybody knows everything," Kerouac says approvingly, and as a reader you can really believe it, that everyone is trying to be better, that everyone has the answers deep inside of them if only they can get in touch with them. But it's a process that's full of contradictions. Kerouac spends a couple of months on fire lookout high in the mountains of Washington State, where there's a daily battle between his awed appreciation of the natural world, and his complete isolation. He has moments of sadness and depression but then is shocked awake by beauty: "Okay world," he says, "I'll love ya." These contradictions and battles are at the heart of Kerouac's entire personality, his entire view of the world and his place in it. At one point, Kerouac marvels at a sunset high in the mountains, the light seeming to illuminate a hope that's "brilliant and bleak beyond words." He could just as easily have been describing himself.
I was amused!
Most of The Dharma Bums is written in a casual style and is simply about "Ray Smith" (Jack Kerouac) and his friends "Alvah Goldberg" (Allen Ginsberg), "Japhy Ryder" (Gary Snyder), and other lesser Beats hanging out together. This casual, conversational style had the effect of making me feel like I was there with them. Pretending I was in the room with these obnoxious party people who are somehow some of the most revered writers of the 20th century was fun! I imagined how I would laugh at the way they drunkenly ran their mouths off, so in love with their own brilliance. I pictured myself rolling my eyes when they suggested I participate in "yabyum." I thought about what it would be like to laze around Berkeley and Oakland, bumming rides off people, drinking jugs of port (did people do this a lot back then? There seemed to be jugs of port everywhere), and crashing on other people's floors. It was like a vacation to a world I never knew I wanted to visit.
I was annoyed!
Except for an amusing episode when Kerouac and his friends decide to climb Matterhorn Peak, The Dharma Bums had no narrative momentum whatsoever. Despite the book's appealing elements, it was easy to put down and easy not to pick up again. It was self-indulgent to an absurd degree. And it was pretty sexist and occasionally racist. I was expecting that so it wasn't a dealbreaker for me, but that doesn't mean it wasn't unpleasant. Kerouac and his friends are all about personal freedom, but only when it comes to young white dudes like themselves.
I was disturbed!
Jack Kerouac depicts himself as an obvious alcoholic, yet it somehow doesn't seem obvious to him. He's unable to do anything without the ubiquitous jugs of port, and when his friends and family call him on it, he's dismissive. The poet Gary Snyder is both his best friend and his biggest challenger in this regard, asking him how he expects to be mindful when he's in a near-constant state of intoxication, often wondering why he spends so much time lying around drinking instead of doing things. Kerouac just brushes it off. At one point while hiking with Snyder, Kerouac idly wonders which of them will die first. As of this writing, Gary Snyder is still alive. As of this writing, Kerouac has been dead for nearly 50 years, succumbing to alcohol-related ailments 12 years after the events of this book, at the age of 47. Knowing this cast a shadow over the book that was impossible to ignore.
I was enlightened!
I said "edified" above, because this book doesn't literally cause enlightenment. It is, however, a fascinating document of the way people try to live out their Buddhist ideals. Kerouac often depicts himself meditating and trying to be at one with the natural world, but he's also willing to admit that he's sometimes depressed on his solitary travels and has to take a few moments to cry. The arguments he has with Snyder and Ginsberg about the various tenets of Buddhism and how they should play out in their lives were fascinating, real, and unlike anything I've read before. And Kerouac's compassion for people in general comes through all the time. He laments the way people seem mesmerized by TV ("everybody's thinking the same thing") but also has faith in their ability to be better; while hitchhiking he talks about meditation with a random stranger who picks him up, and isn't surprised with the stranger admits that he's always wanted to try it himself. "Everybody knows everything," Kerouac says approvingly, and as a reader you can really believe it, that everyone is trying to be better, that everyone has the answers deep inside of them if only they can get in touch with them. But it's a process that's full of contradictions. Kerouac spends a couple of months on fire lookout high in the mountains of Washington State, where there's a daily battle between his awed appreciation of the natural world, and his complete isolation. He has moments of sadness and depression but then is shocked awake by beauty: "Okay world," he says, "I'll love ya." These contradictions and battles are at the heart of Kerouac's entire personality, his entire view of the world and his place in it. At one point, Kerouac marvels at a sunset high in the mountains, the light seeming to illuminate a hope that's "brilliant and bleak beyond words." He could just as easily have been describing himself.
June 2, 2024
I remember never really seeing eye to eye with Kerouac's 'On the Road', it was a book I only managed to drag myself through thanks to a dogged stubbornness. And I still think it's one of the most overhyped novels of the 20th century. This however was a slightly more positive kettle of fish. Actually, forget the fish, going by what's mostly eaten here it's more like salami, cheese, and crackers.
I have to say not all of The Dharma Bums went down well with me, but I still quite liked it anyhow, especially when the narrator Ray Smith (a fictional Kerouac) takes in the stunning scenery, and there's plenty of that. From Oregon, California and South Carolina, to Texas and briefly Mexico, he simply doesn't keep still. At times the narrative had me all fidgety, where I felt like getting up and going for a walk in the woods, not that I'm likely to find any in the parisian suburbs, apart from the odd tree here and there. But it's a book that really makes you want to escape the city and the hustle and bustle of life. I wondered whether Chris McCandless took inspiration from Kerouac before going off into the wild.
Smith and his new chum Japhy Ryder, ex- logger, mountain climber, college graduate, Oriental scholar, and seer of visions, are not your average Americans, they would rather go awandering, carefree, and refuse to be consumers of all the stuff that makes everyone else tick. Most of the time they are trying to learn to meditate in Buddhist style, their new goal nothing less than total self-enlightenment, the satori of the Zen masters of Japan and China. Smith concentrates hard on attaining self-enlightenment. He meditates daily in all weathers behind his mother's house during a winter visit and with persistence keeps at his self- imposed discipline in the wilds of the Sierra Madres, in hobo jungles, beside train tracks, and, finally, on the mountaintop fire lookout Desolation Peak.
In his often vivid descriptions of nature one is aware of an exhilarating power that seems to run through his body, and again when he creates the atmosphere of lively gatherings for drinking, talking, and horsing around in the simple but stylized dwellings of his Pacific Coast friends: there are rough wooden shacks in the forest, and sagging old houses on side streets. Here when the entire cast of characters do appear in the one place we are presented with that refreshing blend of naivety and sophistication that seems to be this author's forte. And for a book generally about withdrawal and solitude it was rather quite lively and full of zest.
August 30, 2024
For me this book draws the ideas of Jack Kerouac full circle (ensō). A beautiful meditation on the transitory nature of existence. How I wish I could have just hung out with Jack; think he is the kind of person that would have helped you see yourself more clearly from just having gotten to know him.
March 25, 2015
Kerouac can spin an enjoyable yarn, as long as you don't mind rambling along with him on directionless paths with no real goal in mind but to spin that yarn.
In The Dharma Bums he takes the reader from city-drop-outs to mountain solitude, the mind-fuck excitement and shit of civilization to the glorious simplicity and utter loneliness of a retreat back to nature.
Even though he cheats the reader with some quick-fix adverbs in place of the proper description owed his audience, Kerouac still deserves all the accolades bestowed upon him, and so every now and then when I'm in the mood I don't mind taking one of these long hikes with writers of his ilk.
Slap a few rhyming words together vaguely associated with your intended meaning and call it philosophical poetry. That's my problem with some of the beat poets, whom I blame for the crap classic rock songwriters of the 60s and 70s passed off as lyrics: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u0iuax...
But I digress.
The Dharma Bums is poetry, even if I do think some of it's silly nonsense.
In The Dharma Bums he takes the reader from city-drop-outs to mountain solitude, the mind-fuck excitement and shit of civilization to the glorious simplicity and utter loneliness of a retreat back to nature.
Even though he cheats the reader with some quick-fix adverbs in place of the proper description owed his audience, Kerouac still deserves all the accolades bestowed upon him, and so every now and then when I'm in the mood I don't mind taking one of these long hikes with writers of his ilk.
Slap a few rhyming words together vaguely associated with your intended meaning and call it philosophical poetry. That's my problem with some of the beat poets, whom I blame for the crap classic rock songwriters of the 60s and 70s passed off as lyrics: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u0iuax...
But I digress.
The Dharma Bums is poetry, even if I do think some of it's silly nonsense.
February 24, 2021
کتاب عزیزی بود که اگر حتی ۲۰۰۰ صفحهی دیگه ادامه داشت با ولع میخوندم. کتاب همون نوع از سفری هست که میتونم بگم رؤیاش رو دارم؛ نه از جنس سفری که بلیت رو تحویل میدی و بی اعتنا به چند ده نفر همسفری که بلیتشون رو تحویل دادهن، به مقصد میرسی و میری به هتلت و ادامهی ماجرا، و نه چندتا رفیق الکی خوش که سوار ماشین آفرودشون میشن و به امید یه هوای تازهتر میگن از رفتن و میخونن از سفر و میرن به هرمز و الخ.
سفر ولگردهای دارما در مدار الکتریکی متشکل از الکترونهای انسانیه که در این مدار و با مصاحبت دهها آدم و مفتسواری از جنوب به شمال و از شرق به غرب میرن.
«ری» و «جافی» شاید بهترین مسکّن این روزهای من بودهن که با سؤال قدیمی و بهنظر حلناشدنیم تنها بودم : «آیا در جای درستی قرار دارم؟» این «جای درست» هم مشابه کلماتی مثل «موفقیت»ـه. فلانی موفقه؟ کی موفقتره؟
«جای درست» برای من در سطح اول به رشتهی تحصیلی و دانشگاه، در سطح دوم به جغرافیا و در سطح سوم به زمان اشاره داره. با سطوح دوم و سوم که تقریباً کاری نمیشه کرد، بنابراین مورد واپسزدهی اول هر روز و هر شب با قدرتی بیشتر هجوم میآره.
« آیا پزشکی رشتهی مناسب من است وقتی به یک نفر حتی از کل این جماعت - از استادش تا دانشجو - احساس نزدیکی ندارم؟ »
این سؤالی بود که در لابهلای خوندن هر سطر از ولگردهای دارما در سرویس و حیاط بیمارستان و اتاق خوابگاه، با فونت بزرگ در مغزم نقش میبست؛ البته اصلاً منظورم آن جنس غُرهایی نیست که دانشجوها از سختبودن پزشکی میزنند. اتفاقاً حتی یک روز هم در این پنج سال بابت خود درس پزشکی بهم سخت نگذشته. مشکل احساس دائمی «عدم تعلق» است.
به امید روزی که همهمان از ولگردهای دارما باشیم و از ظلمات عدم تعلق خارج شویم.
پ.ن ۱: در روزهای سخت زندگی، «ولگردهای دارما» رو بخونید.
پ.ن ۲: کتاب من رو یاد فیلم عالی شان پن به نام Into the Wild انداخت.
سفر ولگردهای دارما در مدار الکتریکی متشکل از الکترونهای انسانیه که در این مدار و با مصاحبت دهها آدم و مفتسواری از جنوب به شمال و از شرق به غرب میرن.
«ری» و «جافی» شاید بهترین مسکّن این روزهای من بودهن که با سؤال قدیمی و بهنظر حلناشدنیم تنها بودم : «آیا در جای درستی قرار دارم؟» این «جای درست» هم مشابه کلماتی مثل «موفقیت»ـه. فلانی موفقه؟ کی موفقتره؟
«جای درست» برای من در سطح اول به رشتهی تحصیلی و دانشگاه، در سطح دوم به جغرافیا و در سطح سوم به زمان اشاره داره. با سطوح دوم و سوم که تقریباً کاری نمیشه کرد، بنابراین مورد واپسزدهی اول هر روز و هر شب با قدرتی بیشتر هجوم میآره.
« آیا پزشکی رشتهی مناسب من است وقتی به یک نفر حتی از کل این جماعت - از استادش تا دانشجو - احساس نزدیکی ندارم؟ »
این سؤالی بود که در لابهلای خوندن هر سطر از ولگردهای دارما در سرویس و حیاط بیمارستان و اتاق خوابگاه، با فونت بزرگ در مغزم نقش میبست؛ البته اصلاً منظورم آن جنس غُرهایی نیست که دانشجوها از سختبودن پزشکی میزنند. اتفاقاً حتی یک روز هم در این پنج سال بابت خود درس پزشکی بهم سخت نگذشته. مشکل احساس دائمی «عدم تعلق» است.
به امید روزی که همهمان از ولگردهای دارما باشیم و از ظلمات عدم تعلق خارج شویم.
پ.ن ۱: در روزهای سخت زندگی، «ولگردهای دارما» رو بخونید.
پ.ن ۲: کتاب من رو یاد فیلم عالی شان پن به نام Into the Wild انداخت.
September 16, 2024
همیشه دلم میخواست از این نویسنده کتاب بخونم چون که نویسنده از نسل بیت هست،کنجکاو شدم کتاباشو بخونم.
خوندن این کتاب تجربهی جدیدی بود و خوشم آومد قطعا دوباره ازش میخونم.
کتابی که مارو به طبیعت و جاده ها میبره.
خوندن این کتاب تجربهی جدیدی بود و خوشم آومد قطعا دوباره ازش میخونم.
کتابی که مارو به طبیعت و جاده ها میبره.
January 17, 2022
امتیاز ۲/۵
خب!
علت شهرت این کتاب اینه که نویسنده اش یکی از بنیانگذاران نسل بیت هستش (دیدید ننوشتم نسل بیت عه). جنبشی که ضد فرهنگه و بعد از جنگ جهانی دوم توی آمریکا راه افتاد و بعدش هیپی ها ازش متولد شدن و کوله گردی به اوج رسید و بلا بلا بلا
برای من تنها جذابیت کتاب لحن روایتش بود. اون بداهه نویسی و زبان پریشون نویسنده که مثل خود زندگیه، از هرگوشه زندگیش هرچی یادش اومده نوشته و چسبونده بهم و کتابش کرده. من این کارش رو دوست داشتم، از خلاقیت خوشم میاد، از جسارت بیشتر!
امااااا... پیامی که داره میده بنظر من خیلی آمریکاییه، به مادیات توجه نکن، فقط وقتی واقعا لازمه کار کن، تنها زندگی کن، سبک بار و بندیل جمع کن و بزن به دل طبیعت... اینا همه قشنگن، اون ایده ذن و سکس دست جمعی که دیگه خیلی بهم میان و برای هر جوانی جذابن، ولی حقیقتا برای همون جامعه آمریکایی قابل اجراس. اینجا چجوری جوان ایرانی بدون کار کردن میتونه تجهیزات کوهنوردی بخره و بزنه دل طبیعت؟ همون غذا ساده ها رو بدون پول چجوری بخره؟ تازه این رفقای بودیستی مون به همبرگر و سیب زمینی به چشم عذا ارزون دم دستی نگاه میکنند!
ای بابا چقدر غر میزنم. واقعا نمیدونم از بین شما خوانندگان فارسی زبان این کتاب، چند نفرتون بعدش گفتید وای پسر چه ایده باحالی، پاشم برم دور کشور رو مفت سواری کنم. با جیب خالی شدنیه؟ بخوای جیبت پر باشه ام که باید کار کنی، بعد کی وقت میکنی بری مفت سواری؟ یادمه قبلنا این مفت سواری حرف بدی بود :))
و اما درباره تهی شدگی و پی بردن به پوچی دنیا، واقعا این چیزی نیست که بخاطرش لازم باشه بری بالای کوه یخ بزنی. ما خودمون هر شب و هر صبح بهش میرسیم. اه چقد من از این شرقی بازیای لوس بدم میاد.
خلاصه که این کتاب رو اگر برای اینکه یک چیزی مربوط به یک جنبش فرهنگی و ادبی خونده باشی میخونی، دمت گرم و نوش جونت. منم واسه همین خوندمش. ولی اگه میخوای تکونت بده.. منو که نداد ، تو رو نمیدونم!
خب!
علت شهرت این کتاب اینه که نویسنده اش یکی از بنیانگذاران نسل بیت هستش (دیدید ننوشتم نسل بیت عه). جنبشی که ضد فرهنگه و بعد از جنگ جهانی دوم توی آمریکا راه افتاد و بعدش هیپی ها ازش متولد شدن و کوله گردی به اوج رسید و بلا بلا بلا
برای من تنها جذابیت کتاب لحن روایتش بود. اون بداهه نویسی و زبان پریشون نویسنده که مثل خود زندگیه، از هرگوشه زندگیش هرچی یادش اومده نوشته و چسبونده بهم و کتابش کرده. من این کارش رو دوست داشتم، از خلاقیت خوشم میاد، از جسارت بیشتر!
امااااا... پیامی که داره میده بنظر من خیلی آمریکاییه، به مادیات توجه نکن، فقط وقتی واقعا لازمه کار کن، تنها زندگی کن، سبک بار و بندیل جمع کن و بزن به دل طبیعت... اینا همه قشنگن، اون ایده ذن و سکس دست جمعی که دیگه خیلی بهم میان و برای هر جوانی جذابن، ولی حقیقتا برای همون جامعه آمریکایی قابل اجراس. اینجا چجوری جوان ایرانی بدون کار کردن میتونه تجهیزات کوهنوردی بخره و بزنه دل طبیعت؟ همون غذا ساده ها رو بدون پول چجوری بخره؟ تازه این رفقای بودیستی مون به همبرگر و سیب زمینی به چشم عذا ارزون دم دستی نگاه میکنند!
ای بابا چقدر غر میزنم. واقعا نمیدونم از بین شما خوانندگان فارسی زبان این کتاب، چند نفرتون بعدش گفتید وای پسر چه ایده باحالی، پاشم برم دور کشور رو مفت سواری کنم. با جیب خالی شدنیه؟ بخوای جیبت پر باشه ام که باید کار کنی، بعد کی وقت میکنی بری مفت سواری؟ یادمه قبلنا این مفت سواری حرف بدی بود :))
و اما درباره تهی شدگی و پی بردن به پوچی دنیا، واقعا این چیزی نیست که بخاطرش لازم باشه بری بالای کوه یخ بزنی. ما خودمون هر شب و هر صبح بهش میرسیم. اه چقد من از این شرقی بازیای لوس بدم میاد.
خلاصه که این کتاب رو اگر برای اینکه یک چیزی مربوط به یک جنبش فرهنگی و ادبی خونده باشی میخونی، دمت گرم و نوش جونت. منم واسه همین خوندمش. ولی اگه میخوای تکونت بده.. منو که نداد ، تو رو نمیدونم!
July 26, 2021
This novel still retains Kerouac's characteristic style and does not feel heavy with his lamentations about his life as a known author, as what happens in most of his other novels.
It's well written, humorous with good scenes and memorable characters.
I think it's fair to say I really enjoyed this one.
It's well written, humorous with good scenes and memorable characters.
I think it's fair to say I really enjoyed this one.
December 2, 2020
Do No Harm
I read this book 30 years ago. I believed then that his practice of Buddhism was hedonistic. I still believe the same, having read it again.
Kerouac and his new friend Jaffy enjoyed some of the Buddha’s teachings, all but the precepts, which I have been told, by my own Buddhist teacher, to be necessary to follow if you want to reach enlightenment. I no longer believe in enlightenment or even karma or heavens and hells. I only believe in the precepts which come down to this: Do no harm. Perhaps, this is because of all the religions that I had been in, even the New Age teachings, i.e. that of claiming that they do not believe in religion but in spirituality, cause harm. It is just the nature of man to harm, even in the name of religion.
Kerouac loved the flowery part of Buddhism, and its abstract philosophy. I now only like the flowery Zen poetry. That is all I am left with after years in Buddhism, having never given up my believe in a Creator or a soul, but hanging onto no beliefs about either.
When I left Buddhism, I found Han Shan and other Zen poems, and I found some Native American teachings that I love. They are very simple.
And, at least for me, it was nice to realize, that is, after reading “Big Sur,” that Kerouac had once enjoyed his life, and I hope that after his breakdown he had enjoyed it again.
I read this book 30 years ago. I believed then that his practice of Buddhism was hedonistic. I still believe the same, having read it again.
Kerouac and his new friend Jaffy enjoyed some of the Buddha’s teachings, all but the precepts, which I have been told, by my own Buddhist teacher, to be necessary to follow if you want to reach enlightenment. I no longer believe in enlightenment or even karma or heavens and hells. I only believe in the precepts which come down to this: Do no harm. Perhaps, this is because of all the religions that I had been in, even the New Age teachings, i.e. that of claiming that they do not believe in religion but in spirituality, cause harm. It is just the nature of man to harm, even in the name of religion.
Kerouac loved the flowery part of Buddhism, and its abstract philosophy. I now only like the flowery Zen poetry. That is all I am left with after years in Buddhism, having never given up my believe in a Creator or a soul, but hanging onto no beliefs about either.
When I left Buddhism, I found Han Shan and other Zen poems, and I found some Native American teachings that I love. They are very simple.
And, at least for me, it was nice to realize, that is, after reading “Big Sur,” that Kerouac had once enjoyed his life, and I hope that after his breakdown he had enjoyed it again.
July 3, 2025
“One man practicing kindness in the wilderness is worth all the temples in this world.”
So this will be one of those journaling/reflection kinda reviews, where I look back at my life a little as I look back at a book I first read passionately in my youth and now perhaps read a little more dispassionately, somewhat more critically. I was a high school and college student in the turbulent late sixties and early seventies when I first read this book, and loved it, was maybe my favorite of all of Kerouac at one time.
Even though I went with my friends to a church-related high school and college, there were plenty of drugs and partying, and barbers went bankrupt as everyone grew their hair long. Some of my male friends had hair to their waists; I was not really much of a drug-user, and only had a modest whie man's “Afro” of sorts. We were most of us questioning Christianity and considering Buddhism through Herman Hesse and others. It was for me and many of my friends a time of celebration of the arts--writing poetry, fiction, playing music--mostly guitars--theater, a combination of celebration--Woodstock was 1968, flowers in your hair, celebration of nature, but alas, I was too young to go--and protest--racism, Viet Nam, irrelevant schooling, the destruction of the environment (the first Earth Day was 1970).
Bruce Cockburn, “Going to the Country”:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MLZFF...
I write this after several weeks of traveling for the first time since the beginning of the pandemic, in Alaska, Colorado, northern Wisconsin, reveling in the beauties of nature, climbing, hiking, even as the natural world burns, the hottest summer on record, no real climate action by my country.
There were many road trip novels and movies that were popular then, such as Easy Rider, or Herman Hesse’s journey to the East novels, but none were more influential on American youth culture than Jack Kerouac’s several road books, chief among them On the Road and Dharma Bums. They led to a lot of restless hitch-hiking, which I have discouraged in my own family, of course. Kerouac kept detailed journals of his travels and transposed them into what we are now calling auto-fiction, using different names for his friends. On the Road was more of a party novel, a kind of (male-centric, but maybe most of them were) celebration of life, nature, sex and wine.
The reason I was somewhat nostalgic in reading Dharma Bums is that I know his hopeful and celebratory depiction of the mid fifties and his turn to spirituality was a little more than a decade before he would die of (in part) the complications of alcoholism that plagued him his whole life. At an early age, 47!! I guess I had somewhat ignored his fairly honest depictions of drunkenness in this book (just part of the celebration, have another!)--though it was harder to ignore in the horrific, delirium tremens-soaked Big Sur. Kerouac always struggled with demons--nature and simplicity and focus and ecstasy in his writing fought within him with booze-soaked self-destruction. In short, Kerouac was one of many self-destructive artists who managed to romanticize the wild life in their writing, but in that time he was an icon, a legend, a hero; now I look back on him somewhat wistfully as an old distant friend who I regret experienced no friend/family “interventions.” I also have had my share of friends and family in trouble or ruin to help me de-romanticize addiction.
1958 saw the publication of The Dharma Bums, a year after On the Road, though the events it depicts are some years later, when Kerouac was in his thirties. These books are part of the multi-book saga Kerouac was to later call The Duluoz Legend, something he intended to eventually edit as one long saga, with names consistent throughout. The center of the book is the relationship Jack (named Ray Smith) had with Gary Snyder (Japhy Ryder), a Buddhist poet who was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1975 for Turtle Island, environmental activist, logger, teacher, still alive at 95 in the summer of 2025! .
Snyder is much honored in this book as a true scholar and practitioner of Buddhism and lifelong lover of nature, teaching Kerouac all of these things, discouraging him at times from drinking too much. Kerouac comes off much of the time as a drunken “holy fool” who means well, but is naive, sweet, lonely. He’s trying at this point to keep from having sex with women--which he had much done--to renounce much of the world and live in harmony with nature. Ryder takes him climbing the Matterhorn, which prepares him for his work as a fire lookout on Desolation Mountain in Washington.
Smith, of Ryder: “What hope, what human energy, what truly American optimism was packed in that neat little frame of his.”
Ryder to Smith: “You just drink too much.”
The book has a lot of endless hitchhiking (yes, everyone I knew hitchhiked long distances in that period) and drunken reveling in it I might not have noticed as quite so dull when I was myself on the road west, doing a bit of that same kind of drinking myself. I might not have seen then the ways women are merely “appreciated” (okay, lusted after) but never much talked with about all these great ideas. Women are dancing presences (and notably, participants in tantric sex, or yabyum, in this book) but are as with On the Road, largely peripheral to the boys’ club, alas. I probably never really fully realized that until I read feminist critiques of The Beat movement (akin to critiques of the Black Panthers, the SDS, and so on), as revolutionary in its intentions but not with respect to women.
Snyder wrote Kerouac to say, "Dharma Bums is a beautiful book, & I am amazed & touched that you should say so many nice things about me because that period was for me really a great process of learning from you. . . " but he actually thought the book--and it is--uneven, often sloppy, with erratic dialogue and poor transitions and patches of dullness even among its most lyrical prose. Ryder comes off as a Buddhist icon in the book but also a sex god, having sex with many women, and Snyder later regretted what he saw as a misogynistic interpretation of Buddhism in it.
Buddhist scholars such as Allen Watts were quick to be critical of this book, which dismayed Kerouac, and which might have been instrumental in his rejecting Buddhism. Later in life he would refer to himself as more of a “Catholic mystic,” but even then, that is a generous depiction Catholic mystics such as Thomas Merton, would be baffled about. Though the last chapters of Dharma Bums are exultant about Buddhism and nature, Desolation Angels, based on Kerouac’s journals of that same period, would mark his more honest disillusionment with Buddhism.
To his credit, Kerouac depicts Smith in humorously self-deprecating ways at points. When Ryder, out working all day, comes home to find him sitting around, drinking, doing nothing, chides him, Smith says, “I am the Buddha known as The Quitter,” and Ryder laughs at his friend. Smith here is the emblem of “Tune in, Turn On and Drop out” that would gain some steam in the sixties, rejecting the Western Capitalist Military-industrial Complex way of life that many young people would also reject (for awhile?). Led to communes, ashrams, communal living, but not for Kerouac.
Service to the world? Well, Smith/K was a good and compassionate man, not particularly politically motivated or socially conscious. Smith/K’s family thinks his unwillingness to get a job is laughable. When he talks of his Buddhist beliefs they and some women he meet just say things like, “Ah, baloney.” Smith’s brother-in-law listens to him pontificate about “growing from suffering” and he says, “if that’s true I should be big as a house by now!”
Naivete? When Rosie commits suicide, I think Smith is insensitive, regretting he had not said more to convince her how to live her life, when it is clear to me she was paranoid schizophrenic, needing hospitalization at that point.
Of all the partying, that tired me on this reading, I did like a depiction of a San Francisco reading where Alvah Goldbrook (Allen Ginsberg) read “Howl” (or “Wail” in the book) which i also heard him read in Boulder at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics, a school of Naropa University.
Mostly Dharma Bums is a happy and hopeful and celebratory book, a book of striving for spiritual purity, falling short of those ideals regularly.
“Happy. Just in my swim shorts, barefooted, wild-haired, in the red fire dark, singing, swigging wine, spitting, jumping, running—that's the way to live. All alone and free in the soft sands of the beach by the sigh of the sea out there.” Youth! (But as my Dad might have said, "Then you get a job," and then as I'd say, maybe contribute to bettering the world, if you can; Japhy and I were teachers for many decades).
It’s a book of celebration of youth and nature and kindness and love. It’s not a great book, or not as great as I thought it was in my youth, but I acknowledge the spirit in it with my generous rating. It has some good writing in it:
“I felt like lying down by the side of the trail and remembering it all. The woods do that to you, they always look familiar, long lost, like the face of a long-dead relative, like an old dream, like a piece of forgotten song drifting across the water, most of all like golden eternities of past childhood or past manhood and all the living and the dying and the heartbreak that went on a million years ago and the clouds as they pass overhead seem to testify (by their own lonesome familiarity) to this feeling.”
Having just come back from hiking and climbing, and in celebration of my own lifetime of commitment to the environment, I nod to this book, one of the books that helped me celebrate it, in all its goofy, Holy Fool joie de vivre.
Some good and hopeful lines:
“I called Han Shan in the morning fog: Silence, it said.”
“And I promised myself I would begin a new life. . .”
“I realized this would do me good and get me away from drinking and maybe make me appreciate a whole new life. . .”
“Something will come of it all in the great Milky Ways of eternity stretching in front of all of our phantom unjaundiced eyes. . . Who knows? Maybe the world might wake and burst out into a beautiful flower of Dharma everywhere.” Alas, wouldn’t it have been pretty to think so.
Yes, Gary Snyder (whom I met for the first time in 1975!) is, in July 2025, still alive, at 95, alive more than fifty years longer--and still counting--than Kerouac:
https://www.beachamjournal.com/journa...
So this will be one of those journaling/reflection kinda reviews, where I look back at my life a little as I look back at a book I first read passionately in my youth and now perhaps read a little more dispassionately, somewhat more critically. I was a high school and college student in the turbulent late sixties and early seventies when I first read this book, and loved it, was maybe my favorite of all of Kerouac at one time.
Even though I went with my friends to a church-related high school and college, there were plenty of drugs and partying, and barbers went bankrupt as everyone grew their hair long. Some of my male friends had hair to their waists; I was not really much of a drug-user, and only had a modest whie man's “Afro” of sorts. We were most of us questioning Christianity and considering Buddhism through Herman Hesse and others. It was for me and many of my friends a time of celebration of the arts--writing poetry, fiction, playing music--mostly guitars--theater, a combination of celebration--Woodstock was 1968, flowers in your hair, celebration of nature, but alas, I was too young to go--and protest--racism, Viet Nam, irrelevant schooling, the destruction of the environment (the first Earth Day was 1970).
Bruce Cockburn, “Going to the Country”:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MLZFF...
I write this after several weeks of traveling for the first time since the beginning of the pandemic, in Alaska, Colorado, northern Wisconsin, reveling in the beauties of nature, climbing, hiking, even as the natural world burns, the hottest summer on record, no real climate action by my country.
There were many road trip novels and movies that were popular then, such as Easy Rider, or Herman Hesse’s journey to the East novels, but none were more influential on American youth culture than Jack Kerouac’s several road books, chief among them On the Road and Dharma Bums. They led to a lot of restless hitch-hiking, which I have discouraged in my own family, of course. Kerouac kept detailed journals of his travels and transposed them into what we are now calling auto-fiction, using different names for his friends. On the Road was more of a party novel, a kind of (male-centric, but maybe most of them were) celebration of life, nature, sex and wine.
The reason I was somewhat nostalgic in reading Dharma Bums is that I know his hopeful and celebratory depiction of the mid fifties and his turn to spirituality was a little more than a decade before he would die of (in part) the complications of alcoholism that plagued him his whole life. At an early age, 47!! I guess I had somewhat ignored his fairly honest depictions of drunkenness in this book (just part of the celebration, have another!)--though it was harder to ignore in the horrific, delirium tremens-soaked Big Sur. Kerouac always struggled with demons--nature and simplicity and focus and ecstasy in his writing fought within him with booze-soaked self-destruction. In short, Kerouac was one of many self-destructive artists who managed to romanticize the wild life in their writing, but in that time he was an icon, a legend, a hero; now I look back on him somewhat wistfully as an old distant friend who I regret experienced no friend/family “interventions.” I also have had my share of friends and family in trouble or ruin to help me de-romanticize addiction.
1958 saw the publication of The Dharma Bums, a year after On the Road, though the events it depicts are some years later, when Kerouac was in his thirties. These books are part of the multi-book saga Kerouac was to later call The Duluoz Legend, something he intended to eventually edit as one long saga, with names consistent throughout. The center of the book is the relationship Jack (named Ray Smith) had with Gary Snyder (Japhy Ryder), a Buddhist poet who was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1975 for Turtle Island, environmental activist, logger, teacher, still alive at 95 in the summer of 2025! .
Snyder is much honored in this book as a true scholar and practitioner of Buddhism and lifelong lover of nature, teaching Kerouac all of these things, discouraging him at times from drinking too much. Kerouac comes off much of the time as a drunken “holy fool” who means well, but is naive, sweet, lonely. He’s trying at this point to keep from having sex with women--which he had much done--to renounce much of the world and live in harmony with nature. Ryder takes him climbing the Matterhorn, which prepares him for his work as a fire lookout on Desolation Mountain in Washington.
Smith, of Ryder: “What hope, what human energy, what truly American optimism was packed in that neat little frame of his.”
Ryder to Smith: “You just drink too much.”
The book has a lot of endless hitchhiking (yes, everyone I knew hitchhiked long distances in that period) and drunken reveling in it I might not have noticed as quite so dull when I was myself on the road west, doing a bit of that same kind of drinking myself. I might not have seen then the ways women are merely “appreciated” (okay, lusted after) but never much talked with about all these great ideas. Women are dancing presences (and notably, participants in tantric sex, or yabyum, in this book) but are as with On the Road, largely peripheral to the boys’ club, alas. I probably never really fully realized that until I read feminist critiques of The Beat movement (akin to critiques of the Black Panthers, the SDS, and so on), as revolutionary in its intentions but not with respect to women.
Snyder wrote Kerouac to say, "Dharma Bums is a beautiful book, & I am amazed & touched that you should say so many nice things about me because that period was for me really a great process of learning from you. . . " but he actually thought the book--and it is--uneven, often sloppy, with erratic dialogue and poor transitions and patches of dullness even among its most lyrical prose. Ryder comes off as a Buddhist icon in the book but also a sex god, having sex with many women, and Snyder later regretted what he saw as a misogynistic interpretation of Buddhism in it.
Buddhist scholars such as Allen Watts were quick to be critical of this book, which dismayed Kerouac, and which might have been instrumental in his rejecting Buddhism. Later in life he would refer to himself as more of a “Catholic mystic,” but even then, that is a generous depiction Catholic mystics such as Thomas Merton, would be baffled about. Though the last chapters of Dharma Bums are exultant about Buddhism and nature, Desolation Angels, based on Kerouac’s journals of that same period, would mark his more honest disillusionment with Buddhism.
To his credit, Kerouac depicts Smith in humorously self-deprecating ways at points. When Ryder, out working all day, comes home to find him sitting around, drinking, doing nothing, chides him, Smith says, “I am the Buddha known as The Quitter,” and Ryder laughs at his friend. Smith here is the emblem of “Tune in, Turn On and Drop out” that would gain some steam in the sixties, rejecting the Western Capitalist Military-industrial Complex way of life that many young people would also reject (for awhile?). Led to communes, ashrams, communal living, but not for Kerouac.
Service to the world? Well, Smith/K was a good and compassionate man, not particularly politically motivated or socially conscious. Smith/K’s family thinks his unwillingness to get a job is laughable. When he talks of his Buddhist beliefs they and some women he meet just say things like, “Ah, baloney.” Smith’s brother-in-law listens to him pontificate about “growing from suffering” and he says, “if that’s true I should be big as a house by now!”
Naivete? When Rosie commits suicide, I think Smith is insensitive, regretting he had not said more to convince her how to live her life, when it is clear to me she was paranoid schizophrenic, needing hospitalization at that point.
Of all the partying, that tired me on this reading, I did like a depiction of a San Francisco reading where Alvah Goldbrook (Allen Ginsberg) read “Howl” (or “Wail” in the book) which i also heard him read in Boulder at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics, a school of Naropa University.
Mostly Dharma Bums is a happy and hopeful and celebratory book, a book of striving for spiritual purity, falling short of those ideals regularly.
“Happy. Just in my swim shorts, barefooted, wild-haired, in the red fire dark, singing, swigging wine, spitting, jumping, running—that's the way to live. All alone and free in the soft sands of the beach by the sigh of the sea out there.” Youth! (But as my Dad might have said, "Then you get a job," and then as I'd say, maybe contribute to bettering the world, if you can; Japhy and I were teachers for many decades).
It’s a book of celebration of youth and nature and kindness and love. It’s not a great book, or not as great as I thought it was in my youth, but I acknowledge the spirit in it with my generous rating. It has some good writing in it:
“I felt like lying down by the side of the trail and remembering it all. The woods do that to you, they always look familiar, long lost, like the face of a long-dead relative, like an old dream, like a piece of forgotten song drifting across the water, most of all like golden eternities of past childhood or past manhood and all the living and the dying and the heartbreak that went on a million years ago and the clouds as they pass overhead seem to testify (by their own lonesome familiarity) to this feeling.”
Having just come back from hiking and climbing, and in celebration of my own lifetime of commitment to the environment, I nod to this book, one of the books that helped me celebrate it, in all its goofy, Holy Fool joie de vivre.
Some good and hopeful lines:
“I called Han Shan in the morning fog: Silence, it said.”
“And I promised myself I would begin a new life. . .”
“I realized this would do me good and get me away from drinking and maybe make me appreciate a whole new life. . .”
“Something will come of it all in the great Milky Ways of eternity stretching in front of all of our phantom unjaundiced eyes. . . Who knows? Maybe the world might wake and burst out into a beautiful flower of Dharma everywhere.” Alas, wouldn’t it have been pretty to think so.
Yes, Gary Snyder (whom I met for the first time in 1975!) is, in July 2025, still alive, at 95, alive more than fifty years longer--and still counting--than Kerouac:
https://www.beachamjournal.com/journa...
November 15, 2025
Jack Kerouac And Gary Snyder
Following the success of "On the Road", Kerouac's publishers initially rejected his manuscripts such as "The Subterraneans" and "Tristessa." But his publisher asked him to write an accessible, popular novel continuing with the themes of "On the Road." Kerouac responded with "The Dharma Bums" which was published late in 1958. "The Dharma Bums" is more conventionally written that most of Kerouac's other books, with short, generally clear sentences and a story line that is optimistic on the whole. The book was critiqued by Allen Ginsberg and others close to Kerouac as a "travelogue" and as over-sentimentalized. But with the exception of "On the Road", "The Dharma Bums" remains Kerouac's most widely read work. I had the opportunity to reread "The Dharma Bums" and came away from the book deeply moved.
As are all of Kerouac's novels, "The Dharma Bums" is autobiographical. It is based upon Kerouac's life between 1956--1957 -- before "On the Road" appeared and made Kerouac famous. The book focuses upon the relationship between Kerouac, who in the book is called Ray Smith and his friend, the poet Gary Snyder, called Japhy Ryder, ten years Kerouac's junior. Kerouac died in 1969, while Snyder is still alive and a highly regarded poet. Allen Ginsberg (Alvah Goldbrook) and Neal Cassady (Cody Pomeray), among others, also are characters in the book. Most of the book is set in San Francisco and its environs, but there are scenes of Kerouac's restless and extensive travelling by hitchiking, walking, jumping freight trains, and taking buses, as he visits Mexico, and his mother's home in Rocky Mount, North Carolina during the course of the book.
The strenght of "The Dharma Bums" lies in its scenes of spiritual seriousness and meditation. During the period described in the book, Kerouac had become greatly interested in Buddhism. He describes himself as a "bhikku" -- a Buddhist monk -- and had been celibate for a year when the book begins. I have been studying Buddhism myself for many years, and it is easy to underestimate Kerouac's understanding of Buddhism. As with many authors, he was wiser in his writing that he was in his life. There is a sense of the sadness and changeable character of existence and of the value of compassion for all beings that comes through eloquently in "The Dharma Bums." Smith and Ryder have many discussions about Buddhism -- at various levels of seriousness -- during the course of the novel. Ryder tends to use Buddhism to be critical of and alienated from American society and its excessive materialism and devotion to frivolity such as television. Smith has the broader vision and sees compassion and understanding as a necessary part of the lives of everyone. Smith tends to be more meditative and quiet in his Buddhist practice -- he spends a great deal of time in the book sitting and "doing nothing" while Ryder is generally active and on the go, hiking, chopping wood, studying, or womanizing. At the end of the book, he leaves for an extended trip to Japan. (He and Kerouac would never see each other again.)
"The Dharma Bums" offers a picture of a portion of American Buddhism during the 1950s. It also offers a portrayal of what has been called the "rucksack revolution" as Smith and Ryder take to the outdoors, and, in a lengthy and famous section of the book, climb the "Matterhorn" in California's Sierra Mountains. In the final chapters of the book, Kerouac spends eight isolated weeks on Desolation Peak in the Cascades as a fire watchman. He comes back yearning for human company.
Sexuality plays an important role in the book, against the backdrop of what is described as the repressed 1950's, as young girls are drawn to Ryder and he willingly shares them with an initially reluctant Smith. The book includes scenes of wild parties tinged, for Smith, with sadness, in which people of both sexes dance naked, get physically involved, and drink heavily. Near the end of the book, Ryder offers Smith a prophetic warning the alcoholism which would shortly thereafter ruin Kerouac's life.
"The Dharma Bums" is a fundamentally American book and it is full of love for the places of America, for the opportunity it offers for spiritual exploration, and for its people. Kerouac's compassion was hard earned. In his introduction to a later book, "The Lonesome Traveler" he
aptly described his books as involving the "preachment of universal kindness, which hysterical critics have failed to notice beneath frenetic activity of my true-story novels about the 'beat' generation. -- Am actually not 'beat' but strange solitary crazy Catholic mystic." I found a feeling of spirituality, of love of life in the face of vicissitudes, and of America in "The Dharma Bums." The work was indeed a popularization. But Kerouac's vision may ultimately have been broad.
Robin Friedman
Following the success of "On the Road", Kerouac's publishers initially rejected his manuscripts such as "The Subterraneans" and "Tristessa." But his publisher asked him to write an accessible, popular novel continuing with the themes of "On the Road." Kerouac responded with "The Dharma Bums" which was published late in 1958. "The Dharma Bums" is more conventionally written that most of Kerouac's other books, with short, generally clear sentences and a story line that is optimistic on the whole. The book was critiqued by Allen Ginsberg and others close to Kerouac as a "travelogue" and as over-sentimentalized. But with the exception of "On the Road", "The Dharma Bums" remains Kerouac's most widely read work. I had the opportunity to reread "The Dharma Bums" and came away from the book deeply moved.
As are all of Kerouac's novels, "The Dharma Bums" is autobiographical. It is based upon Kerouac's life between 1956--1957 -- before "On the Road" appeared and made Kerouac famous. The book focuses upon the relationship between Kerouac, who in the book is called Ray Smith and his friend, the poet Gary Snyder, called Japhy Ryder, ten years Kerouac's junior. Kerouac died in 1969, while Snyder is still alive and a highly regarded poet. Allen Ginsberg (Alvah Goldbrook) and Neal Cassady (Cody Pomeray), among others, also are characters in the book. Most of the book is set in San Francisco and its environs, but there are scenes of Kerouac's restless and extensive travelling by hitchiking, walking, jumping freight trains, and taking buses, as he visits Mexico, and his mother's home in Rocky Mount, North Carolina during the course of the book.
The strenght of "The Dharma Bums" lies in its scenes of spiritual seriousness and meditation. During the period described in the book, Kerouac had become greatly interested in Buddhism. He describes himself as a "bhikku" -- a Buddhist monk -- and had been celibate for a year when the book begins. I have been studying Buddhism myself for many years, and it is easy to underestimate Kerouac's understanding of Buddhism. As with many authors, he was wiser in his writing that he was in his life. There is a sense of the sadness and changeable character of existence and of the value of compassion for all beings that comes through eloquently in "The Dharma Bums." Smith and Ryder have many discussions about Buddhism -- at various levels of seriousness -- during the course of the novel. Ryder tends to use Buddhism to be critical of and alienated from American society and its excessive materialism and devotion to frivolity such as television. Smith has the broader vision and sees compassion and understanding as a necessary part of the lives of everyone. Smith tends to be more meditative and quiet in his Buddhist practice -- he spends a great deal of time in the book sitting and "doing nothing" while Ryder is generally active and on the go, hiking, chopping wood, studying, or womanizing. At the end of the book, he leaves for an extended trip to Japan. (He and Kerouac would never see each other again.)
"The Dharma Bums" offers a picture of a portion of American Buddhism during the 1950s. It also offers a portrayal of what has been called the "rucksack revolution" as Smith and Ryder take to the outdoors, and, in a lengthy and famous section of the book, climb the "Matterhorn" in California's Sierra Mountains. In the final chapters of the book, Kerouac spends eight isolated weeks on Desolation Peak in the Cascades as a fire watchman. He comes back yearning for human company.
Sexuality plays an important role in the book, against the backdrop of what is described as the repressed 1950's, as young girls are drawn to Ryder and he willingly shares them with an initially reluctant Smith. The book includes scenes of wild parties tinged, for Smith, with sadness, in which people of both sexes dance naked, get physically involved, and drink heavily. Near the end of the book, Ryder offers Smith a prophetic warning the alcoholism which would shortly thereafter ruin Kerouac's life.
"The Dharma Bums" is a fundamentally American book and it is full of love for the places of America, for the opportunity it offers for spiritual exploration, and for its people. Kerouac's compassion was hard earned. In his introduction to a later book, "The Lonesome Traveler" he
aptly described his books as involving the "preachment of universal kindness, which hysterical critics have failed to notice beneath frenetic activity of my true-story novels about the 'beat' generation. -- Am actually not 'beat' but strange solitary crazy Catholic mystic." I found a feeling of spirituality, of love of life in the face of vicissitudes, and of America in "The Dharma Bums." The work was indeed a popularization. But Kerouac's vision may ultimately have been broad.
Robin Friedman
April 24, 2009
So I only just started this, but just look:
"And who am I?"
"I dunno, maybe you're Goat."
"Goat?"
"Maybe you're Mudface."
"Who's Mudface?"
"Mudface is the mud in your goatface. What would you say if someone was asked the question 'Does a dog have a Buddha nature?' and said 'Woof!'"
Fortunately Kerouac's Proxytagonist du jour acknowledges this as "silly Zen Buddhism", but even so, the koan-lobber is a character being presented as enlightened. Of course, I'm going to see where this is going, but if I have to wade through many more scenes of a bunch of poets calling eachother Bodhisattvas, I'm going be forced to set the book down on the table and look very irritated with it before resuming.
...
And upon finishing: I know that Kerouac is widely considered one of the great poetic seekers of the last century, but I wasn't especially impressed. The prose often felt hurried (I get the feeling that it was hurriedly composed), and some of his autobiographical detail seemed somewhat self-congratulatory with very little more pointed introspection to balance it, but this is probably mostly due to the fact that I'm just not that receptive to his brand of garbled pan-religious philosophizing, and the means through which he tried to explore it.
Even so, I see the appeal. These guys, flawed as their approach may often have been, really were trying to cut right to the core of life, trying to figure it all out. It's noble, even heroic in some ways. And my favorite passages, those conveying the breathless whirl of trains and trucks and towns out on the road, were exhilarating. Huh, I guess that in light of that I really should give On the Road a try at some point.
"And who am I?"
"I dunno, maybe you're Goat."
"Goat?"
"Maybe you're Mudface."
"Who's Mudface?"
"Mudface is the mud in your goatface. What would you say if someone was asked the question 'Does a dog have a Buddha nature?' and said 'Woof!'"
Fortunately Kerouac's Proxytagonist du jour acknowledges this as "silly Zen Buddhism", but even so, the koan-lobber is a character being presented as enlightened. Of course, I'm going to see where this is going, but if I have to wade through many more scenes of a bunch of poets calling eachother Bodhisattvas, I'm going be forced to set the book down on the table and look very irritated with it before resuming.
...
And upon finishing: I know that Kerouac is widely considered one of the great poetic seekers of the last century, but I wasn't especially impressed. The prose often felt hurried (I get the feeling that it was hurriedly composed), and some of his autobiographical detail seemed somewhat self-congratulatory with very little more pointed introspection to balance it, but this is probably mostly due to the fact that I'm just not that receptive to his brand of garbled pan-religious philosophizing, and the means through which he tried to explore it.
Even so, I see the appeal. These guys, flawed as their approach may often have been, really were trying to cut right to the core of life, trying to figure it all out. It's noble, even heroic in some ways. And my favorite passages, those conveying the breathless whirl of trains and trucks and towns out on the road, were exhilarating. Huh, I guess that in light of that I really should give On the Road a try at some point.
June 28, 2021
Serendipity, or Transient Transcendence
Hozomeen Mountain, seen by Kerouac from Desolation Peak (WA) where he spent two months as a fire lookout in 1956
At the end of the day, this novel proves a tough guy to review.
In a fairly specific sense, the rating doesn't do one jot of justice to the rollercoaster of brilliancies intermingled with more sedate passages with a certain number of wild, memorable dialogues thrown in for good measure, and soulful depictions of the mundane, the ordinary, the ordinarily left out, evincing this keen attention to what is present, this recognizable trademark of Jack Kerouac inasmuch as I can judge after this fourth novel.
However, and in this my heartfelt impression is as well-grounded as they come (to me at the bare minimum :D), this story left me high and dry, waiting for so much more... And I get this is more often than not the fatal flaw of the reader, who stops paying attention to what there is and prefers what he'd rather have instead. But as far as I can tell, I try my darndest and not blame the novel for what it's not: a fair deal of promise was there, there is no denying this. And to me it underdelivered. Can I put words on this feeling of lopsidedness, of inherent-but-not-beneficial coarseness, of incompleteness? Certainly. Śūnyatā. Just joking. And it's not wabi-sabi either...
Too many grandiose vague notions, not enough progression in the story insofar as the story is key to the book as a whole...
In short, too much of everything, not enough of anything, if that makes sense.
Buddy-'read-trip' with Tara :)
Sawtooth Ridge (CA), of which Matterhorn Peak is part
'When you get to the top a a mountain, keep climbing', they say!
----
Finally, as it customary, I would like to recommend a few books sharing common features with The Dharma Bums :)
These two are mentioned in the novel:
The Book of Tea (this one directly mentionned, twice)
The Daodejing of Laozi, (this one, alluded to, especially when it comes to Wuwei (effortless action/non-action))
This one tells volumes about the doctrine of Mahayana Buddhism, while being a melancholy, sorrowful well of ephemeral beauty:
The Temple of Dawn
This one polishes your mind's eye allowing you to pay full attention to what is here and now. At least it offers a full-fledged philosophy along those lines :)
Freedom from the Known
Different Shades of Outcasts:
I Am Providence: The Life and Times of H. P. Lovecraft, Volume 1
I Am Providence: The Life and Times of H. P. Lovecraft, Volume 2
Down and Out in Paris and London
Factotum
Women
Love Is a Dog from Hell
A Working Stiff's Manifesto: A Memoir of Thirty Jobs I Quit, Nine That Fired Me, and Three I Can't Remember
A refill of escapism? Or should I say re-wiring?
Walden
The Doors of Perception
Steppenwolf
Turn On, Tune In, Drop Out
Divine Invasions: A Life of Philip K. Dick
Into the Wild
Actual road-trips, sometimes motivated by scientific endeavour:
Par les champs et par les grèves
Memoires Du Large
Le tour de la France par deux enfants d'aujourd'hui
Immortelle randonnée : Compostelle malgré moi
Sur les chemins noirs
The Invention of Nature: Alexander von Humboldt's New World
Tristes Tropiques
OST:
Tout est Magnifique - Jacques
Hozomeen Mountain, seen by Kerouac from Desolation Peak (WA) where he spent two months as a fire lookout in 1956
At the end of the day, this novel proves a tough guy to review.
In a fairly specific sense, the rating doesn't do one jot of justice to the rollercoaster of brilliancies intermingled with more sedate passages with a certain number of wild, memorable dialogues thrown in for good measure, and soulful depictions of the mundane, the ordinary, the ordinarily left out, evincing this keen attention to what is present, this recognizable trademark of Jack Kerouac inasmuch as I can judge after this fourth novel.
However, and in this my heartfelt impression is as well-grounded as they come (to me at the bare minimum :D), this story left me high and dry, waiting for so much more... And I get this is more often than not the fatal flaw of the reader, who stops paying attention to what there is and prefers what he'd rather have instead. But as far as I can tell, I try my darndest and not blame the novel for what it's not: a fair deal of promise was there, there is no denying this. And to me it underdelivered. Can I put words on this feeling of lopsidedness, of inherent-but-not-beneficial coarseness, of incompleteness? Certainly. Śūnyatā. Just joking. And it's not wabi-sabi either...
Too many grandiose vague notions, not enough progression in the story insofar as the story is key to the book as a whole...
In short, too much of everything, not enough of anything, if that makes sense.
Buddy-'read-trip' with Tara :)
Sawtooth Ridge (CA), of which Matterhorn Peak is part
'When you get to the top a a mountain, keep climbing', they say!
----
Finally, as it customary, I would like to recommend a few books sharing common features with The Dharma Bums :)
These two are mentioned in the novel:
The Book of Tea (this one directly mentionned, twice)
The Daodejing of Laozi, (this one, alluded to, especially when it comes to Wuwei (effortless action/non-action))
This one tells volumes about the doctrine of Mahayana Buddhism, while being a melancholy, sorrowful well of ephemeral beauty:
The Temple of Dawn
This one polishes your mind's eye allowing you to pay full attention to what is here and now. At least it offers a full-fledged philosophy along those lines :)
Freedom from the Known
Different Shades of Outcasts:
I Am Providence: The Life and Times of H. P. Lovecraft, Volume 1
I Am Providence: The Life and Times of H. P. Lovecraft, Volume 2
Down and Out in Paris and London
Factotum
Women
Love Is a Dog from Hell
A Working Stiff's Manifesto: A Memoir of Thirty Jobs I Quit, Nine That Fired Me, and Three I Can't Remember
A refill of escapism? Or should I say re-wiring?
Walden
The Doors of Perception
Steppenwolf
Turn On, Tune In, Drop Out
Divine Invasions: A Life of Philip K. Dick
Into the Wild
Actual road-trips, sometimes motivated by scientific endeavour:
Par les champs et par les grèves
Memoires Du Large
Le tour de la France par deux enfants d'aujourd'hui
Immortelle randonnée : Compostelle malgré moi
Sur les chemins noirs
The Invention of Nature: Alexander von Humboldt's New World
Tristes Tropiques
OST:
Tout est Magnifique - Jacques
November 20, 2008
So this is what started the "backpack revolution". Great. Except it was less backpacking, more Buddhism preaching. The main character (Ray?) comes across as a patronizing nutcase with his combination of drunken bumhood, Christianity, and Buddhism.
So he is a buddhist - correction: he thinks he is Buddha - and he also thinks he is a "crazy saint". He believes he can perform miracles, namely cure his mother of allergies, but then decides he won't perform miracles anymore because that will make him vain. WTF? Because him avoiding his own vanity is more important than curing people? Just a tad self-obsessed, no? One of the many, many things that make him look like an arrogant ass.
He's like that super annoying kid you travel with who thinks he is wise and you can't wait to get rid of in the next town because you KNOW his facial expression is saying that he feels sorry for you, poor you, if only you knew that everything is empty and awake! He's like Holden Caulfield with a backpack turned born-again-Buddhist (there is no such thing but that's the best way to describe it!)
Also, I hate to judge religion, BUT (actually I lie, I love judging religion) I am well familiar with zen Buddhism and I think his version of Buddhism is less Buddhist and more junky postmodernist (i.e. full of shit).
The only reason I gave this book 2 stars instead of one was because of the amazing descriptions of climbing and camping on mountains, especially chapter 33. If I had read that chapter alone I would have thought that Kerouac is the most amazing writer in the world. The rest of the book is tripe.
So he is a buddhist - correction: he thinks he is Buddha - and he also thinks he is a "crazy saint". He believes he can perform miracles, namely cure his mother of allergies, but then decides he won't perform miracles anymore because that will make him vain. WTF? Because him avoiding his own vanity is more important than curing people? Just a tad self-obsessed, no? One of the many, many things that make him look like an arrogant ass.
He's like that super annoying kid you travel with who thinks he is wise and you can't wait to get rid of in the next town because you KNOW his facial expression is saying that he feels sorry for you, poor you, if only you knew that everything is empty and awake! He's like Holden Caulfield with a backpack turned born-again-Buddhist (there is no such thing but that's the best way to describe it!)
Also, I hate to judge religion, BUT (actually I lie, I love judging religion) I am well familiar with zen Buddhism and I think his version of Buddhism is less Buddhist and more junky postmodernist (i.e. full of shit).
The only reason I gave this book 2 stars instead of one was because of the amazing descriptions of climbing and camping on mountains, especially chapter 33. If I had read that chapter alone I would have thought that Kerouac is the most amazing writer in the world. The rest of the book is tripe.
October 23, 2010
Dharma Bums is for the hiker/outdoorsman, the aspiring buddhist sage, and the lover of beautifully woven syntax. Ray thumbs his way across the continental U.S. two, almost three times. In his travels, he meets hobos, family, friends, yabyum partners, Zen Lunatics but mostly he discovers a love for the essence of nature and the power of it's awesomeness. Ray overcomes some personal demons with the help and guidance of Japhy Ryder. Eventually, he decides to take a post as a fire watcher on top of Desolation Peak for a 3 month stretch. Ray encounters everything with the peace and pensiveness of a modern monk.
I read this in college for a class on Beat Literature and had to breeze through it in order to keep up with the massive reading load. It was great the first time but I was unable to really capture the essence of the book and enjoy it to it's fullest. I decided to read it again as a fun summer read and I finally got a chance to go at it with a highlighter. I have found some gems, some new life mantras and love the book ten times over after the second time.
This book is not for everyone, though it could be life changing for some. I gave this book a 4 because I think it has the potential to inspire many people but if you've ever read any Kerouac, you know that he deals in very long sentences that give the book an feeling of being "out of breath". It could discourage others from enjoying it's mysticism.
I read this in college for a class on Beat Literature and had to breeze through it in order to keep up with the massive reading load. It was great the first time but I was unable to really capture the essence of the book and enjoy it to it's fullest. I decided to read it again as a fun summer read and I finally got a chance to go at it with a highlighter. I have found some gems, some new life mantras and love the book ten times over after the second time.
This book is not for everyone, though it could be life changing for some. I gave this book a 4 because I think it has the potential to inspire many people but if you've ever read any Kerouac, you know that he deals in very long sentences that give the book an feeling of being "out of breath". It could discourage others from enjoying it's mysticism.
October 15, 2024
Let me start by saying that I honestly think The Dharma Bums is much better than Kerouac's more famous book, On the Road. I first read The Dharma Bums when I was around 20, and it blew my mind — it became one of those books that helped shape my worldview. Now, rereading it, I’ve noticed different things. Like how the main character is pretty much always a little tipsy, and his friends keep pointing it out. Or how he twists Buddhist principles to justify his own actions. But this only adds depth to the text, and now it feels even more profound to me than before.
Kerouac brilliantly describes the search for spiritual enlightenment and freedom, blending Zen Buddhism and Eastern philosophy with the life of American beatniks in the '50s. Gary Snyder, who inspired one of the characters, called it Buddhist anarchism. The characters are all about finding harmony with nature and seeking truth through wandering and meditation. The book captures this vibe of freedom and rebellion against the conventional norms of society.
Kerouac’s writing style is something else — free-flowing, spontaneous, but full of life. After reading just a few pages, you feel this urge to drop everything and head for the mountains, to escape the chaos and find some peace and harmony in the simplicity of nature.
Kerouac brilliantly describes the search for spiritual enlightenment and freedom, blending Zen Buddhism and Eastern philosophy with the life of American beatniks in the '50s. Gary Snyder, who inspired one of the characters, called it Buddhist anarchism. The characters are all about finding harmony with nature and seeking truth through wandering and meditation. The book captures this vibe of freedom and rebellion against the conventional norms of society.
Kerouac’s writing style is something else — free-flowing, spontaneous, but full of life. After reading just a few pages, you feel this urge to drop everything and head for the mountains, to escape the chaos and find some peace and harmony in the simplicity of nature.
April 19, 2007
consistently one of my favorite reads. i've bought this book three times now and i still haven't been able to hold on to it. the kerouac estate will forever be the recipient of my hard earned dough.
i have to say, it's one of my top ten. not for its far-reaching insights, kerouac's intimate style, or it's lively presentation of a man who was the embodiment, precursor, exemplification, and antecedent to all those to follow dubbed 'heads' or less acurately 'hippies,' but for it's depiction of a man struggling to find his path, at times the buddhist, the christian mystic, the skeptic, the empty vessel practicing za-zen, just sitting, yet ever changing, ever evaluating.
kerouac's exenstentialist struggle (and as you read the rest of the books that roughly make up the dulouz legend, which deptict his adventual failure to synthesis the sum of his experiences into one unified self) will always be the cause of my returning to this book. for me dhamra bums represents the beginning of his struggle. re really hasnt begun to struggle. not like in Big Sur. here he's still young and idealistic. hasn't been poisened by an excess of thinking. He's putting thought into action.
i'll always turn to this book anytime i'm traveling, exploring new spaces, trying something new, making a change, or just plain sleeping in a tent for a while. great book. its honest simplicity is always welcome.
i have to say, it's one of my top ten. not for its far-reaching insights, kerouac's intimate style, or it's lively presentation of a man who was the embodiment, precursor, exemplification, and antecedent to all those to follow dubbed 'heads' or less acurately 'hippies,' but for it's depiction of a man struggling to find his path, at times the buddhist, the christian mystic, the skeptic, the empty vessel practicing za-zen, just sitting, yet ever changing, ever evaluating.
kerouac's exenstentialist struggle (and as you read the rest of the books that roughly make up the dulouz legend, which deptict his adventual failure to synthesis the sum of his experiences into one unified self) will always be the cause of my returning to this book. for me dhamra bums represents the beginning of his struggle. re really hasnt begun to struggle. not like in Big Sur. here he's still young and idealistic. hasn't been poisened by an excess of thinking. He's putting thought into action.
i'll always turn to this book anytime i'm traveling, exploring new spaces, trying something new, making a change, or just plain sleeping in a tent for a while. great book. its honest simplicity is always welcome.
Read
October 31, 2015فکر می کردم این کتاب می تواند آن چیزی باشد که لازم داشتم. کتابی از جنسی دیگر و متفاوت. شاید هم باشد. اما قطعاً این کتابی که به فارسی توسط فرید قدمی ترجمه شده آن نبود که می خواستم.
مشکل اصلی من، همینطور که مشخص است، با ترجمه این کتاب است. مشکلی که وقتی بزرگتر می شود که هجده هزارتومن قیمتِ کتاب می اندیشم. و اینکه مخاطب، با این قیمت، چه ارزشی برای ناشر و مترجم دارد؟ خیلی نمی توانم به ناشر خورده بگیرم، چون سیستم نشر در ایران، کماکان قدیمی و ناکارآمد است. ولی اگر حداقل یک ویراستار درست حسابی برای این ترجمه در نظر می گرفتند، می توانستم تا آخر آن را تحمل کنم.
نقد اصلی من روی ترجمه فرید قدمی است. خیلی وقت ها لازم نیست نسخه اصلی یا دست کم ترجمه دیگری باشد که بتوان فعل مقایسه را انجام داد. این مورد هم اینگونه است. اشکالات ترجمه، به عقیده بنده، در چند دسته قرار میگیرد که کتاب را عملاً غیرقابل خواندن و نثر را تحمل ناپذیر کرده.
دسته اول، اشکال مترجم در انتخاب نادرست مترادف فارسی برخی واژه ها است که عملاً جمله را بی معنی می کند. برای مثال، مترجم محترم برای واژهemptiness از واژه تهیدگی استفاده کرده. بار اول که این مترادف فارسی را دیدم کلی تعجب کردم و فرهنگ های فارسی دهخدا و عمید و معین را زیر و رو کردم که بفهمم تهیدگی از کجا آمده و چه معنایی دارد. مشخص است که به در بسته خوردم. بعدها دیدم مترجم برای این لغت پانویس زده و واژه اصلی را هم آورده. کارکرد این لغت با توجه به اهمیت آن در ذن، در اثر هم زیاد است و متاسفانه مترجم از لغت درستی استفاده نکرده. این ایراد در جاهای دیگری هم دیده می شود.
دسته دوم، اشکال مترجم در ترجمه کردن برخی از اسامی مربوط به مکان ها یا چیزهای مشخص است. البته بعضی جاها هم مترجم اینها را ترجمه نکرده و فارسی آن را در متن آورده است. برای مثال جایی در متن آمده: "پرنسس را قبل از آن هم می شناختم و دیوانه اش بودم، در سیتی، تقریباً یکسال پیش." (ص 40)
علاوه براینکه ساختار این جمله، ترجمه لغت به لغت (که مترجم گوگل هم آن را انجام می دهد) جمله اصلی و کاملاً نامفهوم است، واژه سیتی به هیچ عنوان کارکرد درستی ندارد. مترجم پانویس زده که city: نیویورک سیتی. (احتمالاً در متن آمده the city که ظاهراً اشاره ای به شهر نیویورک دارد.) مشکل من این است که اگر مترجم به جای سیتی، خودِ نیویورک را می نوشت لازم نبود چشم مخاطب از متن به پانویس و حاشیه کشیده شود. این ایراد هم در کل متن تکرار شده.
دسته سوم، برخی لغت های عامیانه است که عملاً واژه مترادفی در زبان دیگر ندارند. مثلاً ما در فارسی عامیانه از واژه های مثلِ "زاخار" "چاقال" "عن آقا" و امثالهم استفاده می کنیم که برای آنها معادلی به زبان های دیگر وجود ندارند. چون این واژه ها فارغ از معنای لغوی، در گفتار عامیانه به کار برده می شوند و به مفهوم مشخصی دلالت ندارند. این قضیه در زبان های دیگر هم وجود دارد. در ترجمه این واژه ها، مترجمین معادلی را که در زبان عامیانه مقصد همان کارکرد عامیانه زبان مبدا را دارند انتخاب می کنند. در متن (ص 17) نویسنده از این قسم واژه ها در معرفی یک عده از شخصیت ها استفاده می کند (fud و booboo) که نویسنده کمترین تلاشی برای اینها نکرده و همین لغات را به صورت فارسی (یعنی فاد و بوبو) در متن آورده که بسیار بسیار کوبنده در ذوق مخاطب است.
مشکل دیگری که خیلی من را اذیت می کرد در این ترجمه، لحن ساختگی ترجمه است. مشخص است که لحن نویسنده، عامیانه و تاحدودی صمیمی است. مشکلاتی که یاد کردم عملاً باعث می شود ترجمه لغت به لغت مترجم از زبان مبدا و نادیده گرفتن زبان مقصد باعث شده لحن صمیمی نویسنده، تصنعی و ساختگی شود. به هر حال ترجمه آثار نسل بیت به فارسی کار سختی است چرا که نویسنده تجربه ای را می نویسد که آن را زیسته و کیست که ادعا کند در ایران، در آن فضای ملتهب، نیست انگار، "بودا"زده و هیپیطور، همان تجربیاتِ نویسنده های نسل بیت را زیسته باشد یا لااقل کمترین درکی به آن داشته باشد که بتواند آن را به مخاطب بومی خودش بشناساند. (مثلاً بزرگترین مشکل براتیگان خوانی در ایران ترجمه های عجیب و غریب آن است که البته ظاهراً مخاطبِ دنبالِ مُد خیلی هم اهمیتی به کیفیت متن نمی دهد.)
اینطور می شود که این کتاب برای من هزینه کردن بیخود و ضرر مالی می شود، نه تافته ای جدا بافته و اثری با طعمی متفاوت.
مشکل اصلی من، همینطور که مشخص است، با ترجمه این کتاب است. مشکلی که وقتی بزرگتر می شود که هجده هزارتومن قیمتِ کتاب می اندیشم. و اینکه مخاطب، با این قیمت، چه ارزشی برای ناشر و مترجم دارد؟ خیلی نمی توانم به ناشر خورده بگیرم، چون سیستم نشر در ایران، کماکان قدیمی و ناکارآمد است. ولی اگر حداقل یک ویراستار درست حسابی برای این ترجمه در نظر می گرفتند، می توانستم تا آخر آن را تحمل کنم.
نقد اصلی من روی ترجمه فرید قدمی است. خیلی وقت ها لازم نیست نسخه اصلی یا دست کم ترجمه دیگری باشد که بتوان فعل مقایسه را انجام داد. این مورد هم اینگونه است. اشکالات ترجمه، به عقیده بنده، در چند دسته قرار میگیرد که کتاب را عملاً غیرقابل خواندن و نثر را تحمل ناپذیر کرده.
دسته اول، اشکال مترجم در انتخاب نادرست مترادف فارسی برخی واژه ها است که عملاً جمله را بی معنی می کند. برای مثال، مترجم محترم برای واژهemptiness از واژه تهیدگی استفاده کرده. بار اول که این مترادف فارسی را دیدم کلی تعجب کردم و فرهنگ های فارسی دهخدا و عمید و معین را زیر و رو کردم که بفهمم تهیدگی از کجا آمده و چه معنایی دارد. مشخص است که به در بسته خوردم. بعدها دیدم مترجم برای این لغت پانویس زده و واژه اصلی را هم آورده. کارکرد این لغت با توجه به اهمیت آن در ذن، در اثر هم زیاد است و متاسفانه مترجم از لغت درستی استفاده نکرده. این ایراد در جاهای دیگری هم دیده می شود.
دسته دوم، اشکال مترجم در ترجمه کردن برخی از اسامی مربوط به مکان ها یا چیزهای مشخص است. البته بعضی جاها هم مترجم اینها را ترجمه نکرده و فارسی آن را در متن آورده است. برای مثال جایی در متن آمده: "پرنسس را قبل از آن هم می شناختم و دیوانه اش بودم، در سیتی، تقریباً یکسال پیش." (ص 40)
علاوه براینکه ساختار این جمله، ترجمه لغت به لغت (که مترجم گوگل هم آن را انجام می دهد) جمله اصلی و کاملاً نامفهوم است، واژه سیتی به هیچ عنوان کارکرد درستی ندارد. مترجم پانویس زده که city: نیویورک سیتی. (احتمالاً در متن آمده the city که ظاهراً اشاره ای به شهر نیویورک دارد.) مشکل من این است که اگر مترجم به جای سیتی، خودِ نیویورک را می نوشت لازم نبود چشم مخاطب از متن به پانویس و حاشیه کشیده شود. این ایراد هم در کل متن تکرار شده.
دسته سوم، برخی لغت های عامیانه است که عملاً واژه مترادفی در زبان دیگر ندارند. مثلاً ما در فارسی عامیانه از واژه های مثلِ "زاخار" "چاقال" "عن آقا" و امثالهم استفاده می کنیم که برای آنها معادلی به زبان های دیگر وجود ندارند. چون این واژه ها فارغ از معنای لغوی، در گفتار عامیانه به کار برده می شوند و به مفهوم مشخصی دلالت ندارند. این قضیه در زبان های دیگر هم وجود دارد. در ترجمه این واژه ها، مترجمین معادلی را که در زبان عامیانه مقصد همان کارکرد عامیانه زبان مبدا را دارند انتخاب می کنند. در متن (ص 17) نویسنده از این قسم واژه ها در معرفی یک عده از شخصیت ها استفاده می کند (fud و booboo) که نویسنده کمترین تلاشی برای اینها نکرده و همین لغات را به صورت فارسی (یعنی فاد و بوبو) در متن آورده که بسیار بسیار کوبنده در ذوق مخاطب است.
مشکل دیگری که خیلی من را اذیت می کرد در این ترجمه، لحن ساختگی ترجمه است. مشخص است که لحن نویسنده، عامیانه و تاحدودی صمیمی است. مشکلاتی که یاد کردم عملاً باعث می شود ترجمه لغت به لغت مترجم از زبان مبدا و نادیده گرفتن زبان مقصد باعث شده لحن صمیمی نویسنده، تصنعی و ساختگی شود. به هر حال ترجمه آثار نسل بیت به فارسی کار سختی است چرا که نویسنده تجربه ای را می نویسد که آن را زیسته و کیست که ادعا کند در ایران، در آن فضای ملتهب، نیست انگار، "بودا"زده و هیپیطور، همان تجربیاتِ نویسنده های نسل بیت را زیسته باشد یا لااقل کمترین درکی به آن داشته باشد که بتواند آن را به مخاطب بومی خودش بشناساند. (مثلاً بزرگترین مشکل براتیگان خوانی در ایران ترجمه های عجیب و غریب آن است که البته ظاهراً مخاطبِ دنبالِ مُد خیلی هم اهمیتی به کیفیت متن نمی دهد.)
اینطور می شود که این کتاب برای من هزینه کردن بیخود و ضرر مالی می شود، نه تافته ای جدا بافته و اثری با طعمی متفاوت.
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