We were given this book to read by an eager young teacher at school, when we were about 16. I have no idea what I made of it. Re-reading it 30 years later, I couldn’t remember a thing from my earlier reading. Then again, it’s such a flippant, discursive little book, that’s hardly surprising. Mr Kerouac goes to France for a week and jots down his observations, which mostly consist of random meetings in bars, taxi journeys and the odd pick-up. Ostensibly he’s looking into his family history and the origins of his name, but even that seems of marginal importance, although it does give him plenty of opportunities to display his erudition as he reels off lists of the French writers he’s read. The narrative isn’t the thing about the book, nor are the characters, save perhaps for the narrator. It’s all about style. And there’s plenty of that. To what extent Kerouac defined a style of american prose, or to what extent he was part of a wave, is up for debate. What isn’t debatable is the continued potency of a hip irreverence which at the time must have seemed groundbreaking, and now feels commonplace. What also seemed striking was how enjoyable this breezy style is, like drinking a cold beer on a hot day. Although it might also be that the brevity of the book helps to ensure its success. Too much lightness can soon start to feel heavy; the writer shows impeccable timing by curtailing the trip and heading back to Florida before his journey has really got going; before he gets on our nerves.
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