Big sur

I just finished this 1962 novel by Jack Kerouac. Written in the afterglow of his masterpiece 'On The Road,' 'Big Sur' is another semi-autobiographical account, this time of the events surrounding three drunken treks to a cabin in Bixby Canyon, Big Sur, California.

I bought it for a whim on Kindle. While not necessarily a bad read, I was somewhat glad to get it over with - for personal reasons.

Written in quintessential Kerouac style - a poeticly frantic blur of words - it felt to me like that point when wading into the big beautiful ocean and then your first eye-opening gasp of undertow reminding you of its danger. Apparently Jack was having an alcoholic nervous breakdown, and this is what puked out. Unfortunately it's a trainwreck a little too close to home for me.

And, as with most books, I tended to read, write, and see everything over the past couple weeks in the same rapid-fire manner. So for as raw as some of my recent posts may appear, it's not necessarily just me in them there words.

Anyway, I apparently only highlighted one bit from the book:

"And I marvel that I cant be so useful and humanly simple and good enough to make small talk to make others feel better, like Dave, there he is long and hollow of cheeks from long drinking himself the past few weeks, but he's not complaining or moaning in the corner like me, at least he does something about it, he puts himself to the test - He gives me that feeling again that I'm the only person in the world who is devoid of human-beingness, damn it, that's true, that's the way I feel anyway..."

Yeah, I suppose that was my draw to the book in the first place. Also why reading it left me a tad uneasy. But... it's done now. Maybe a nice place to visit, but I'm ready to move on.

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“Dear children, let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth.” -1 John 3:18