From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- Ti Jean Kerouac’s First Novel- “The Town And The City”

Book Review

The Town and the City, Jack Kerouac, Harvest Books, New York, 1950

…….he awoke to the roar of the Merrimack, the furious waters of the Merrimack passing through town, his birth town, his indelible come of age town, passing through from hills and hollows unknown, unknowable, further north, providing work, mainly textile bobbing through those redbrick walls on that majestic river mile caper, life, family, sports and fiendish sports prowess, schools, an occasional church function well-attended and well-mannered reflecting old world deferential reverence, black and white movies with your best girl sitting up in the balcony all fidgety and experimenting, dances with flirty girls , not with your best girl, and down by the river shots of cheap whiskies with your corner boy crowd from in front of LeFleur’s Variety to gain dance floor courage, girl courage, concerts by whirlwind swing mad monk men passing through, an off-hand gypsy carnival also passing through taking dough from the wised-up rubes, the too late wised- up rubes. And stories, not earth-shaking stories, but stories of his family, his town, and later his universe (read beat New York City universe) written by him in desperate need of breaking out, jail breaking out of nine to five, the flattened earth, and of a world he did not create and had no hand in creating. In the end his story, here of his coming of age and a little bit more story, refracted through the whirlwind great depression (the 1930s one, okay) and the war years (World War II, okay) his make believe real story done with thought and some deep be-bop language reflecting his jail-break from those rushing water shores.

And what a story, a story of the American urban wilderness, of that first half of the 20^th century American town night (named Galloway but also North Adamsville, Olde Saco, Steubenville, Muncie, Racine, Yonkers, New London, and on and on in the not quite big city night) when all things were possible, or somewhat possible, before it all went haywire out in the bloody Asian fields, and in the bloody American streets. Of having enough room to dream, to deny dreams, to change them at will, to go one’s own way or to have a city crowd (beats, blessed beaten down, beat around, beatified beats, okay) to run with you every step of the way, for a while. But first the town (and that rushing river, not some Hemingway two-hearted river but life river), and the family (hell let’s call it a brood or some such term, yah a brood), the Martins, who stand in as an autobiographical cover and the source of his power telling the story, the real story, the legend of Dulouz first installment before On The Road fame and beat kingdoms. And then the break out to New York and the be-bop night. Hey, it wasn’t all pretty and it wasn’t all be-bop either (endless drunks, dopes, murder, treachery, girl madnesses, blasé emotions, boy madnesses, indifference, sadnesses, schoolboy capers, and exasperation) but enough to make a man’s first novel, a first attempt at his bid for writing the great American novel. And to create one eighteenth of the legend of Dulouz . Not bad Jack/Peter, not bad.