Book Review
The Subterraneans, Jack Kerouac, Grove Press, 1958
What if a monstrously- gifted, an immensely-gifted one million bloated word man maybe working on his second million words and those words not all “and, the, and buts (although maybe butts)” but some fantastic jazzy (not Duke big band tone poems or Benny clarinet quartet swing-a-ling but Dizzy salt peanuts bop-bop-bop and Charlie solo austere heaven-reaching big note blows) sing-song reflecting childhood, red brick Lowell mill town moody street pawtucketville dying for lack of work and jobs moving to cheap labor south childhood, reflecting early brother death is eternal loss sadnesses, big sadnesses, reflecting Merrimack rocky tree-strewn river runs, hide-outs, stone-skippings, buddy-adventuring against the adult sorrows, big adult sorrows to come, reflecting father-son –and the holy ghost Gallic Roman Catholic French-Canadian (F-C to you, okay) old country (Canuck) Gaspe sad sack existences and forbear breton celtic moodinesses, big moodinesses, reflecting hard time father time day dreams and moving, endless moving from one street triple-decker to another to make the rent, from one bewildering printer job town (and odd jobs as circus promoter, oh, wrestling promoter, sad sack bowling pin ball man) to another, reflecting modern Greek god-like athletic prowesses running football-loped head-long like some Pamplona bull in holy arch-enemy Lawrence games , a slight speed burst juke here, a slight jet stream flash juke there, reflecting mad teenage boy-girl crushes (hardened Maggie), conquests (easy Paula , and half of the reflex football F-C girls all a-glitter with handsome Johnnie’s dark good looks, ooh-la-la) and woman madness, reflecting sailing out on the seven seas, or part of them, stoic, reflecting New Jack City romps, discoveries, heartaches, women taken, booze drunk, pills devoured, reflecting first-time cross country jaunts with golden- haired western cowboy heroes, more women, more wine, taken in search of the post-World War II blue-pink Great American West night, reflecting big book discoveries and plots for even bigger books and two million words passed to three million, writer blew into 1950s Frisco town.
What if that reflected writer searching for that post-World War II blue-pink Great American West night searched around North Beach looking for beat angels (although not called beat angels just then just angels, and angles- figuring angles at that), searched around Columbus taverns and bars looking for that one drink that would bring relief to his aching besotted head, that one joint that would clear the air of all the stinks of Lowell, of New Jack City, of Jersey shore sprays, of Chicago hog butcher to the world bloods, of Denver poolroom pass-throughs looking for golden-haired all-American cowboys to drive his vengeance, searched around Larkin Street wino stink-holes, smelling of urine and bad karma on top of non-fumigated beds, desperately in need of cleaning shower stalls, and small hot stoves for liberty coffee, searched around, well, you know, searched, no better waited around for some juicy woman, fresh from some Podunk town (not realizing, she not realizing, that he too came from podunk but just smitten with good looks and great writer bedroom eyes) to call at his door, to, frankly be bedded and be pushed out the door when his writing habits came on, searched for kindred (guy kindred although no fags need apply if that is what you think) to spend endless benny-nights and morning sun come-ups talking, talking of Proust (that old reprobate Frenchman, maybe kindred back, way back in old, old country days, maybe Adam time), talking rough trade fag wharf-heavy Jean Genet and flowers, talking about cold war break- outs with no word of cold war break-outs spoken , searched for that high white note that came from the negro streets blown by Lester Young, blown by Charlie, blown by some twelve year old Broadway boy when the title was vacated, searched for, alright, searched for the subterraneans, the denizens of the newer world, the be-bop world.
What if that searched writer decided, well, maybe not decided that is too strong a word but fell into something, fell into something that he needed, no, that he wanted right then, an affair, a tryst, an encounter, hell, a steady easy ride with a woman, a subterranean, an exotic, a woman of color, hell with a negro woman, no, a negress (proper usage then before black devoured negro, and negress, although not those po’boy, and girl, negro streets that beat angel, before beat, Allen Ginsberg kept jabbering about), decided that he would take her and her brown exotic (exotic from ten million American meltings with hobo gypsies, hobo injuns, hobo white trash, hell even with Mister back in plantations days when nobody ever heard of miscegenations) essence (and brown or exotic that fragrance, that perfume smell that has trapped man, men, since Adam’s day, maybe before) and ride out the storm (her storm, orphan annie , junkie, benny-high, tokay low, cheap anyway in an emergency, anybody’s girl if the mood struck her, her get it, and different, different from the F-C girls, different from the too easy New York City jewish girls looking for that first goy trick, different from white stocking lace curtain (or want to be) Maggie Cassidy, different in the head too, different in the kicks department, decided that he would chance, mother scorn chance that black-white mix (exotic and subterranean overcoming doubts on the white streets of North Beach even among beat angels), chance the mental balance nightmare of her life, decided too that he needed to move on to that second million words alone, alone like in the end we are all alone.
What if he wrote a book, a slender book, about it? Yah, what if…
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