Tuesday, May 13, 2008

There Are Nights When I Think That Sal Paradise Was Right

I was never really able to understand why I wasn't completely floored by Jack Kerouac's On The Road when I read it two years ago. So I'm reading through it again and I've really been in awe at his ability to convey the love he has for the world. His friends, strangers, America: Kerouac puts forth an admirable sense of how deeply he cares for the world which he lives in. I'm nostalgic for the America of Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty. Hitching, riding the box cars, having a place to stay wherever you find yourself--but the emotion behind Kerouac's prose is something that I have been able to latch onto.

Bringing me to today.

At this point in time I am set to finish school with a degree in English. One day I want to write a biography. But that's years from now. And I can't help but fret over what comes in between. I want to write. Music, movies, television, literature. I want to write about the things that I love. But it seems that the only option in today's world for something like that is to be a critic of some type. I hate that term. Critic. Critical. Criticize. To me it does not leave room for enjoyment. My vision of the critic is mix between the snooty character of Jay Sherman and the pretension of the Pitchfork staff. And I can't help but wonder why I would want to write about what I hate when I could be writing about what I love. I couldn't see any fun in talking about why Vampire Weekend doesn't do it for me when I could be talking about the warm feeling I get every time Springsteen screams, "I wanna know if love is wild, babe, I wanna know if love is real."

So I suppose this is my canvas for the time being. I just want to write about the things I love for now and if I don't put it out there for someone to read than it would be a bit weird. So enjoy.

1 comment:

dave@etd said...

I think America in 1964 would be badass.

Dylan was blowing up and you could rent a place in the village for about a dollar a year.