What's up? Nothing much, writing a blog response instead of writing my Intro to Lit essay... Actually, it's sort of weird that I'd be doing this instead of that, because I played with the essay topic so that I'd be able to write about Oscar Wilde, and you know how I feel about Oscar Wilde. And if you're just joining us and you don't... Well. There are some strong feelings about Oscar Wilde coming from my person. Like, Angela, the guy is dead, seriously you're weirding me out strong.
Satori in Paris is usually referred to as Jack Kerouac's last book, but apparently Vanity of Duluoz was written after. (Maybe it was second to last to be published before his death?) Pic was also written after, in fact, according to this edition (it contains both Satori in Paris and Pic, though I'm doing them one by one) it is his final novel. Well, either way. Satori in Paris is about a trip Kerouac took to France in an attempt to find his heritage. The back of the book describes it as "rollicking", but I don't think that's at all what I'd call it. It's not nearly as depressing as Big Sur, but it has the same underlying feeling to it... I mean, he makes no attempt to hide his dangerous drinking, and his poor attitudes and actions--it's the same way he's always spoken, but without the romanticism, and that's like a slow death. It feels like when you're tired as hell but you know you need to keep on going and at least you'll be able to collapse into bed at the end of the day, and hopefully you'll be able to rest then.
"As in an earlier autobiographical book I'll use my real name here, full name in this case, Jean-Louis Lebris de Kerouac, because this story is about my search for this name in France, and I'm not afraid of giving the real name of Raymond Baillet to public scrutiny because all I have to say about him, in connection with the fact he may be the cause of my satori in Paris, is that he was polite, kind, efficient, hip, aloof and many other things and mainly just a cabdriver who happened to drive me to Orly airfield on my way back home from France: and sure he wont be in trouble because of that--And besides probably will never see his name in print because there are so many books being published these days in America and in France nobody has time to keep up with all of them, and if told by someone that his name appears in an American 'novel' he'll probably never find out where to buy it in Paris, if it's ever translated at all, and if he does find it, it wont hurt him to read that he, Raymond Baillet, is a great gentleman and cabdriver who happened to impress an American during a fare ride to the airport. Compris?" (8-9).
"In other words, and after this I'll shut up, made-up stories and romances about what would happen IF are for children and adult cretins who are afraid to read themselves in a book just as they might be afraid to look in the mirror when they're sick or injured or hungover or insane" (10). Though I don't necessarily agree with the quote (though it may explain my aversion to this and Big Sur), I like the "[those] who are afraid to read themselves in a book just as they might be afraid to look in the mirror" bit.
"This book'll say, in effect, have pity on us all, and dont get mad at me for writing at all" (11).
"For I was the loneliest man in Paris if that's possible" (12). Those first two chapters, from which those first two quotes come from, are sort of prologues to the book. So... Yeah, his first day in Paris. He talks about Sainte Chapelle and how much he wanted to visit it (though he also talks about how he never got around to it)... I think it was one of the churches I visited in Paris, though to be honest I couldn't tell you because I was so sick of seeing churches... Also, there was a fee to get inside and a gift shop was installed. That kind of turned me off altogether. Whether I personally believe in the religion or not, it seems wrong to do that. Remember the cleansing of the temple? Apparently not.
On a woman he hooked up with: "She took me over. She also wants to marry me, naturally, as I am a great natural bed mate and nice guy" (16). Woah, a little ego showing up there, huh, Jack?
"It isnt a question of money but of souls having a good time" (16). No, she wasn't a prostitute. He just means in general.
"It's hard to decide what to tell in a story, and I always seem to try to prove something, comma, about my sex. Let's just forget it" (19). First of all, no, I can't fathom why he wrote the comma in. Secondly, he goes on to talk about how lonely he can get for a woman... But I originally read this as, oh, perhaps proving that he actually is straight, despite, uh, encounters with Allen Ginsberg and a lot of other unknown men. (Would overcompensation be the right word?)
Also, after that he goes into talking to a girl at a bar and makes himself look like a huge jerk: "I gaze into her eyes--I give her the double whammy blue eyes compassion shot--She falls for it" (19). Actually, I'm just going to say it straight-up: this makes him look like a huge douchebag.
distingue gathering in Paris that night, and as I say it's misting outside, and her soft little hook nose has under it rose lips. I teach her Christianity" (24). He doesn't quite use that as a euphemism, but I'm going to pretend he does because that would be awesome phrasing.
"My manners, abominable at times, can be sweet. As I grew older I became a drunk. Why? Because I like ecstasy of the mind. I'm a Wretch. But I love love" (28).
On his attempts find various authors' people's monuments/tombs (and his failed attempt to get to Pere Lachaise): "And how could I find my way to Port Royal if I could hardly find my way back to my hotel? And besides they're not there at all, only their bodies" (36).
And apparently while in France he writes a second 'SEA' poem, the first one being that which is in the back of Big Sur. Just a random note, I know, but still...
"I was already homesick. Yet this book is to prove that no matter how you travel, how 'successful' your tour, or foreshortened, you always learn something and learn to change your thoughts" (43).
"What a miracle are different languages and what an amazing Tower of Babel this world is" (47).
"I know there a lot of beautiful churches and chapels out there that I should go look at, and then England, but since England's in my heart why go there? and 'sides, it doesn't matter how charming cultures and art are, they're useless without sympathy--All the prettiness of tapestries, lands, people:--worthless if there is no sympathy" (88).
I just want to mention that Jack meets a French man named Ulysse. That seems almost suspiciously perfect. Life imitating art? Actually... I guess that would be more life imitating life. Still. Crazy coincidence, no?
So here our cabdriver Raymond appears. They discuss their differing backgrounds, heritage, family life, et cetera. Raymond says that he's got three kids, and when Raymond asks Kerouac how many kids he's got, Kerouac answers with seven. What I'm curious about is if Kerouac was just pulling a number out of the air, or if he actually had seven kids (that he knew of). I know he has one 'official' daughter, but really, there have got to be some wild oats. In fact... Seven seems like it's too small a number. Hmm...
The book ends as follows: "'Adieu, Monsieur Raymond Baillet,' I say. The Satori taxidriver of page one. When God says, 'I Am Lived,' we'll have forgotten what all the parting was about" (118). That's beautiful.
The book was okay. It was sort of just there, not particularly bad or good. It wasn't unpleasant, but it wasn't awe-inducing either. You can definitely tell that it's one his later works, it... Well, it moves around quickly, but... at a more leisurely pace, if that makes sense. Like he's still doing what he likes, but it's more like he's going back to a modified version because, well, he was older. The book was there.
I've started Pic. It's... I don't even know. I'm having a lot of trouble getting into it because it's written in a Southern dialect. Please speak the king's English or I won't understand what's going on. (Just don't take a look at my Stephen King books, though, please. Especially not Dolores Claiborne!)
MLA citation information: Kerouac, Jack. Satori in Paris. Grove Press: New York, 1985.
Answer to last post's cryptic song lyrics: Lady Stardust by David Bowie
This post's cryptic song lyrics: And I don't see the world going by, and I don't even have to try, I'm just hangin' around
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