Satori In Paris.

I’m currently reading what I understand to be Kerouac’s last book. I’m struggling with it for the same reason I struggled with the documentary What Happened To Kerouac? which I reviewed for Screen Geek way back when.
While the book offers an insight into how Kerouac sees himself and Paris, it just highlights what a shambling drunkard he became. That’s not to say it isn’t a good book or I don’t appreciate the kind folks who bought it for me, it’s just different from the beat poet stuff I love.
He reminds me of a drunk Shatner, hitting on girls young enough to be his daughters, frightening locals and being kicked out of hotels.
There was a time when I would have thought this kind of thing brilliant and rock n roll and whatever else but seeing how he died shortly after from an internal haemorrhage doesn’t make it all that rosy. He didn’t light up the sky like the Roman candles of On The Road, he just began a caricature drunk he could write about.

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