Kerouac (1)
I read on because I am not sure if it is complete and utter brilliance, or the ramblings of an intoxicated, depressed, and spoiled neo-intellectual. Perforce. I want to believe it is the former. We are not so different. A haunting suspicion makes me suspect the latter. How arrogant can someone be to think their stories of young over-sexed, irresponsible, junkie Americans hold the keys to salvation of humankind? Let alone make a living at this? That I understand...Capitalism makes little sense. Still the plight and onus of the artist does not escape me. It is I. Allowances, no, open-mindedness, brings acceptance and soon appreciation. How come there is no mention of our attempts to purchase and hoard natural beauty? Natural, Physical, Temporal I turn the page.
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