Word: kerouac
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Dates: during 2000-2009
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...spring of 1951 in New York City, Jack Kerouac sat down to type his magnum opus, On the Road, onto 10 rolls of architectural tracing paper taped together to create the most famous scroll in secular literary history. Now the scroll travels back to New York for the 50th anniversary of On the Road's first printing...
From Nov. 9, 2007, through March 16, 2008, 60 ft. (18.3 m) of it will be on show, along with other Beatific ephemera, at the New York Public Library's main branch on 42nd Street and 5th Avenue. The exhibition includes some of Kerouac's earliest journals, plus family photographs, letters and manuscripts scrawled out and doodled upon...
Just don't look here for evidence of the finger-snapping hipsters that the loaded term Beat conjures. Kerouac never identified with the counter-culture that adopted his masterpiece as a generational guidebook to social dissent. For him, the Beatific was a solitary state of mind, and he satisfied his own spirituality not with hipness, but with a scholarly ardor. Kerouac was complicated: shy but frenetically communicative, he admired Buddha and St. Francis of Assisi yet supported the Vietnam War. "So often Kerouac is seen as a wild man and genius who didn't know what he was doing," says...
...didn't care. He wanted to entertain himself. If people wanted to yell "Judas," that was part of the entertainment. Besides, there were plenty of people who dug whatever he did. Dylan wanted to be a successful [Jack] Kerouac: a total romantic populist at a time when, basically everything - movies, musicals, writing - was encased in intellectual confinements. You had to be one type of writer or another. Dylan didn't bother with labels...
...less than my toaster. But my toaster doesn't offer the tantalizing music of Pynchon's voice, with its shifts from comic shtick to heartbroken threnody, its mordant Faulkneresque interludes, its gusts of lyric melancholy blown in by way of F. Scott Fitzgerald, its ecstatic perorations from Jack Kerouac. And my toaster will never lay before me a vision of a world in which technology is stripping away all the ancient, vital magic while shepherding mankind to the brink of destruction. On the other hand, my toaster makes toast, and nothing quite so graspable ever pops out of this predictably...