Kristen Stewart on the Road Proust and Kerouac are an unlikely pair, maybe even an unholy won, and I don't think the Beats read Proust. Well, maybe they did; who am I to say?
For some (old) but dishy gossip, with only one small mention of Proust, here is a book you probably don't need to read after you read the review. Three American Girls in Paris
It must be the silly season with all these frivolous mentions of Proust. I am sorry to report that my reading of the masterpiece has been halted due to other reading, houseguests, travel, getting a book ready for publication, cooking and entertaining and well, you know . . . stuff. But I'm just stalled not bailing.
By the way, the town of Foxborough is beseiged by big, bad wolf Steve Wynn, who wants to build a behemoth casino here. We would rather read Proust than deal with drunks, hookers, and pawn shops. I mean, really.
Odette, somewhat on her high horse.
Showing posts with label On the Road. Show all posts
Showing posts with label On the Road. Show all posts
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Proust and Kerouac revisited
So, all summer I was on a Kerouac kick, along with readings of Proust. Seemed like an unlikely duo. Lately, working through some New Yorkers from the fall, I found "Drive, He Wrote," by Louis Menand.
On the whole, this is a very sympathetic review of Kerouac and "On The Road." But what stopped me in my tracks was the following sentence.
"'On the Road' is as self-consciously a work of literature as 'A la Recherche du Temps Perdu'--and Proust was a writer whom both Kerouac and Cassady emulated, someone who turned his life into literature." Louis Menarnd, New Yorker Magazine, Oct. 1, 2007.
Maybe my reading Jack and Marcel side by side wasn't so weird after all. How did I not notice this, now, when I certainly would have noticed it when I was 21? I don't read so analytically anymore, no longer being an English major. But what a stunning observation.
Truth be told, I did not find Dean Moriarty aka Neal Cassady so enchanting this time around. Manipulative was the word that came to mind. Something I didn't see at 21. This is a good argument for reading works of literature several times in the course of your life. Something new always pops up.
Back to Proust. He may be just the antidote to the holidays.
Odette
On the whole, this is a very sympathetic review of Kerouac and "On The Road." But what stopped me in my tracks was the following sentence.
"'On the Road' is as self-consciously a work of literature as 'A la Recherche du Temps Perdu'--and Proust was a writer whom both Kerouac and Cassady emulated, someone who turned his life into literature." Louis Menarnd, New Yorker Magazine, Oct. 1, 2007.
Maybe my reading Jack and Marcel side by side wasn't so weird after all. How did I not notice this, now, when I certainly would have noticed it when I was 21? I don't read so analytically anymore, no longer being an English major. But what a stunning observation.
Truth be told, I did not find Dean Moriarty aka Neal Cassady so enchanting this time around. Manipulative was the word that came to mind. Something I didn't see at 21. This is a good argument for reading works of literature several times in the course of your life. Something new always pops up.
Back to Proust. He may be just the antidote to the holidays.
Odette
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