Kerouac’s Big Sur

Picked up a copy of Big Sur at Moe’s last week for an unknown reason–I hope the purchase was made for an unknown reason and not a known reason like nostalgia. Okay it was likely nostalgia. Shoot me.

Strange to remember that Kerouac–for all his On The Page flaws–is a natural writer, natural in the natural sense, that his prose flows easy and moves a story along as a story requires. Compared to contemporary bestsellers his writing style is envious; compared to Lee Child he is James Joyce Jr.

Laughed again at this bit from Chapter 6 featuring Alf the mule:

So I angle back down to the home canyon and down the path past the cabin and out to the sea where the mule is on the sea shore, nibbling under that one thousand foot bridge or sometimes just standing staring at me with big brown Garden of Eden eyes — The mule being a pet of one of the families who have a cabin in the canyon and it, as I say Alf by name, just wanders from one end of the canyon where the corral fence stops him, to the wild seashore where the sea stops him but a strange Gauguinesque mule when you first see him, leaving his black dung on the perfect white sand, an immortal and primordial mule owning a whole valley — I even finally later find out where Alf sleeps which is like a sacred grove of trees in that dreaming meadow of heather — So I feed Alf the last of my apples which he receives with big faroff teeth inside his soft hairy muzzle, never biting, just muffing up my apple from my outstretched palm, and chomping away sadly, turning to scratch his behind against a tree with a big erotic motion that gets worse and worse till finally he’s standing there with erectile dong that would scare the Whore of Babylon let alone me.

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