Reading: Jack Kerouac “The Sea is my Brother”

 

As working on my talk (yes, still working on it…) and some other serious stuff kept me from writing earlier, I will post a sort of follow-up to the previous post, as it again will be all about Jack Kerouac and his writing. Last time I read some of Jack’s stuff was years ago and it was one of his more spiritual (or rather, religious) writing, Wake-Up, A Life of the Buddha. Since I’ve never been much of a religious person, I never actually finished this book; even though I know some argue that Buddhism and the legend of Buddha may not resemble the traditional sort of religion, I indeed have my problems with believing in a single (or – for the sake of religious open-mindedness – multiple) spiritual entity which ‘magically’ influences my life in any way. To be more precise and honest, I’ve always had my problems with the concept of ‘belief’ and ‘believing’, not matter if religious, spiritual, or general. So the fact that I never finished Jack’s spiritual literary musings is not much surprising, nor is it the result of bad writing or anything alike.

When I started reading Kerouac again – again a “long-lost” novel (or similar claims) by this icon of the Beat literature – I wanted to get some information about the The Sea is my Brother as well as The Haunted Life beforehand. After all, poor ol’ Jack seems to belong to the Tupac Shakur/Kurt Cobain-phenomenon, which proves that no matter when and how you died, you are never too dead to release new music or publish a new book. Love the cash-cow, because cash is king (…or so. Says Jack Welch.) So I found a review in the Los Angeles Review of Books (read here) which was very informative and entertaining. It also reinforced my first impression of the book – as the reviewer stated Jack never wanted this book to be published, I definitely understood why. It is not that The Sea is my Brother is bad – I would never say that about any book, even not about those I truly, TRULY dislike (hate?) because more than anything, literature – like all forms of the arts – is a matter of taste, though of course there are technical and stylistic features that may indicate if an author is rather accomplished or dilettante. So, it is not a bad read.

Kerouac is drawing inspirations from his life and has therefore always been known as a highly autobiographical writer; as he liked to play with his real-life influences by connecting characters and events in different ways, this may lead his audience to recognize a sort of recycling which can be irritating and funny at the same time. Those who read The Town and the City will rediscover not only some names, but also characters in The Haunted Life and The Sea is my Brother, though the last one may also be the one furthest from the two aforementioned. In The Sea is my Brother, Wesley Martin, the oldest of the Martin family works as a sailor without much ties to family and friends apart from fellow seamen. He is portrayed as an easygoing, lighthearted guy, preferring emotional detachment regarding his relationships with women, while forming strong bonds to male companions, especially fellow seamen. He is, of course, just one of many protagonists pictured after Jack himself. The strong emphasis on male bonding is very dominant in this novel (fragmentary novel?), as it is in most of Jack’s writing, though not always as blatant. Apart from foreshadowing Kerouac’s main literary tropes, Wesley also seems to have a talent for running into highly intelligent, politically committed, academic babblers, in this case Bill Everhart, who later joins him on a vessel. Aside from Bill babbling a lot and Wesley constantly being on the run from himself (therefore seeming to be detached from everyone in the story apart from the sea) the recurring incoherencies in the writing itself make it at times a hard read. I do indeed understand Jack’s wish to not have this novel published; as he was very meticulous about his writing, his characters, and storytelling throughout his life, this novel does not live up to everyone’s expectations.

But, as the Merve Emre in her review LARB so poignantly states, Jack Kerouac is a brand, a household name, which promises high profits, no matter how low the actual effort is. She is, of course, right. After all, I too bought the book (and I’m pretty sure I’m not the only ‘Beat literature enthusiast’ out there…).

The Resurrection of Jack Duluoz…or so…?

I’ve always had a particular liking for British and American authors, even back when my English was really bad and I had to rely on translations. This love for stories and books from the island and other continents deepened once my English language skills advanced to the point where I could start reading my favorite books in their original version. This broadened my knowledge on authors from the English-speaking world as well as further improved my English.

One of my first memorable encounters with American literature was Jack Kerouac and On the Road. I was about 14, or maybe 15, and because I had already been to the US twice, I could remember the wide and open landscapes he wrote about and I longed for these exact landscapes. I too wanted to ride into an adventurous unknown future amidst friends. I too wanted to be free. And I too wanted to be Dean Moriarty –like so many others – the alter ego that wasn’t Jack’s, but haunted him to the grave. [Also, I did not care the slightest that Dean was a male character – I’ve never cared much about gender roles and images and I still don’t. I was 15, I  just wanted to enjoy a road trip with someone who seemed like a true companion]

I read The Dharma Bums, The Subterraneans, The Town and the City, and Maggie Cassidy, though I never finished the last one as my demons came for some lengthy stay just when I started the book and Maggie Cassidy is not the kind of book I can focus on while at the same time trying to stay mentally sane. Moreover I can remember that The Dharma Bums left a deep impression; once again I felt a longing for solitude, nature and being free, even though I was a few years older than when reading On the Road.

Just recently I started to re-read Jack Kerouac’s works, and in some cases reading it for the first time in the original English version. Two early works of Kerouac – The Sea is my Brother and The Haunted Life – were published ‘just recently’ (a.k.a within the last few years – sometimes I miss important literary milestones thanks to too much literary work) and this prompted me to get back to Jack after so much time passed between our last encounter years earlier.

When I started reading Jack Kerouac in my teens and continued to do so throughout my early twenties, I was myself an avid writer. In some ways I was heavily influenced by Jack, not so much his style – I’m not musical enough, though I love jazz – but rather by his passion, his philosophies and his life in general, always on the move, always travelling and moving throughout the country, always writing (at least I thought so; much later I found out that most of his books published after On the Road were written well before, and that Jack had serious problems to produce any sort of writing since his drinking got out of hand). I wanted to live like Jack and to write like Jack. Which was of course not possible. Thankfully. Also, I never had the stamina to aim for a novel, I’m rather the short-story-type of writer – this may be my way of truly appreciating Jack’s life and personal (hi)story, his unsteadiness and constant rambling cross-country: not being able to stick to one long story but rather jumping from one to another as I liked.

I have not written anything ‘creative’ (‘arty’) in ages, for various reasons: working to get a degree, working as a freelance writer (believe me, one absolutely great way to ruin any sort of creative writing is working as a freelance writer for web contents, online advertisement and alike), demons. But, as I recently rediscovered good old Jack and plan to find out if my love for his writing is still there somewhere, how it has changed after all those years and finally (finally!) reading just English versions, I’m also curious if the pure act of reading Kerouac once again may serve as a catalyst for my own writing. It’s not so much that I think I’m THAT great, but I always loved writing and it’s pretty much the only talent I have (I can also just stand upright and breathe regularly on my own, but that’s rather training than talent).

As a way to spur my academic works (and writing) as well, I just recently started to write daily, in various forms, may it be a blog post, a lengthy diary entry or part of my dissertation (or my talk!!!). It works just fine, at least for now, and maybe, maybe, one day I may finally find how Jack is resurrecting my inner writer in one way or the other. Maybe. Would be fun. And I would again return to being a bit of a cliché…

“You? Never! Stop kiddin’ me!” – Dark hours, days & moments…

A lot of people who don’t know me well think that I’m confident, outgoing, and funny. I can be all of this with the right people. I can pretend to be this assumed person with a) the wrong people, b) at the wrong time, c) at the wrong place, d) b) a sufficient amount of alcohol and/or e) any combination of the aforementioned factors. This happens to many of us, for various reasons. And everyone faces the challenge of handling their individual issues the best they can. I failed often, still do.

Years ago (like, about 10 years ago) I experienced a period (lasting around 5 years) of anxiety, panic attacks and depression. I got out of it thanks to therapy, pills, and the constant hope that it ‘will be over‘ some day, but of course once your demons found you, they will stay with you. They will love you, take care of you, scare the shit out of you, guide you and force you to grow. Again and again, often for the rest of your life.

Nowadays (no pills and no therapy since 2011) they only visit for a few hours, worst case scenario they are with me for two or three days. But the last time was different – they seemed to enjoy their stay and decided to hang around a little longer than their usual 3 days. Luckily, I didn’t have to work/write a lot, so I had time to celebrate mood swings, crying, feeling desperate and hopeless without neglecting my duties. My demons may have celebrated some sort of anniversary or wtf soever; it was too long, too intense and exhausting.

To distract myself from my demons’ visit, I started to sew, or, to be more precise, I started hardcore-pro-24/7-sewing. Even though I don’t actually know how to sew. But I live true to the saying “learning by doing”, which included sewing…(what a rhyme!). At times like this, I prefer manual labor since my thoughts are all over the place and I can hardly focus on even short readings, let alone ’sophisticated’ intellectual work. Over the last few years I developed some techniques for handling myself better — a little melancholy can do magic about the tidiness of my living quarters. Besides, sewing serves my need for distractions as well as my creative aspirations…

 My demons left some weeks ago. They always leave sooner or later… And every time they return, I’m afraid they won’t leave again on their own, without me getting any help, again. And that is the only thing that truly frightens me about my mind, my life, my soul and my future…my stupid, lovely, fucking, somehow educational demons. Because sometimes it’s not the right time for education….

Reading: John Williams “Stoner”

There are certain books that simply touch my heart. Also, they make me physically sick, not because they are that awful, but  because I feel much too close to the main protagonist(s). So, if something bad happens, I can hardly stand the tension surrounding the character I’m most obsessed about (so to say). And because of empathizing that strongly with certain characters, it gets to the point where I won’t sleep, eat, answer a call or text someone back before finding out what will happen, just because I’m THAT upset about the plot right now….

John Williams’ Stoner is such a book. I got it because I love books like that, with a certain clear and unobtrusive language and a simple and clear narrative tone.  Jack Kerouac’s The Town and the City, Jack London’s Martin Eden, John Steinbeck’s East of Eden, and Joyce Carol Oates’ A Garden of Earthly Delights are just a few of the books I’m talking about when calling it “books like that.” Of course calling it a sort of coming-of-age- or college novel would be more appropriate, but I’ve always had my very own way with categorizing stuff. Besides, I’m more familiar with literary theories than categories. So pardon my ignorance and tolerate the “books like that”-business.

Stoner tells the story of William Stoner, the son of poor farmers who initially attends the University of Missouri to study agriculture. Yet soon he follows his heart and switches to literature.  His professor and mentor, Archer Sloane, encourages him to take up teaching himself. With the support of his lifelong friend Gordon Finch and against all odds, he teaches classic literature until his death. Throughout, he lives a quiet life with only a few decisive points. Of those, the death of his friend David Masters and his affair with Ph.D candidate Katherine Driscoll seem to be the only ones that truly touch his heart.  His failed marriage, his daughter’s difficult fate, and his stalled career do not.

The novel has a very unique tone, which may not be the most appropriate way to describe it, but it’s the only way I can think of. Even though it’s a third-person-narration, sometimes it seems like Stoner himself, with a calm voice, opens up to the reader. This left me with the impression of being part of this man’s life, with all its downs and just a few ups. Marrying a woman who despises him the moment they started their new life together; clashing with his superior over a mediocre student, having his daughter pretty much taken away from him so his wife can play her sick mind games using their child: all this narrated in a melancholic tone, a tone which reminds me of Bartleby. But a Bartleby who forgot how to say “I prefer not to” and rather goes through life thinking “Well, well, this too shall pass.” I can’t remember the last time I stumbled upon such an actively passive character, but with such a beautiful voice, even though it is not his own. His wife is one of the ugliest characters imaginable and thus, of course, perfect the way she is. So too is Lomax, Stoner’s antagonist at the university, blind of hatred for Stoner over his rejection of one of his protegés, a mediocre student whose most remarkable feature seemed to be his slight disability, which he shares with his Mentor Lomax. But even though he gets irritated at times, Stoner seems much too passive to lash out at them. Only once does he challenge and conquer Lomax (this was when I could not sleep until I found out how this passage would end). The only way he reacts on Edith’s delusions is by having an affair with Katherine, with whom he experiences love, passion and – most importantly – physical and intellectual companionship. The affair ends when Lomax threatens to destroy Katherine’s career. The only memory of their twosomeness will be Katherine dedicating her book to William years later. 

I know it sounds pathetic, but I cried after finishing this book. What Stoner experiences throughout his life may not be as tragic as what many others go through. It may indeed be – in a way – rather common for those times and people. Still, I was deeply touched by his dignity (and though this term is often overused in certain contexts, again I can’t think of a better way to describe my thoughts). Never once losing his temper, overreacting in any way even though it would have been perfectly understandable. Never. A quiet man, a quiet life. Destruction, loss, sadness, and desperation all around him, twice, for some time, even love – first from his daughter, pure and carefree, later from Katherine, pure and romantic. Still, all quiet, calm, unobtrusive.

Giving a talk, losing a mind…

A few weeks ago I sent a conference proposal to the organizers of an upcoming event; I finished it hastily, of course having waited until the last possible moment to get it out there, and wonderguy did his best revising it even though he does not work with the English language often. Since I just wanted to show my supervisor that I at least once sent out a proposal and never ever actually expected anything coming out of it, I was not only shocked, but also deeply disturbed that they indeed were “delighted” to ‘invite’ me to talk at their conference in London in May 2016.

I’ve never been to a conference, not actively, not as someone standing there, giving a talk, reading a paper, whatever. I always thought only professionals, established scholars with a certain name and tons of degrees and stuff like that are active participants at conferences; not someone like me, a provincial freestyle PhD-student, trying to untie the huge brain knot she has in her head regarding her work(s). I’m not a professional, I’m not even close to being one.

And even though there is still some time left (more than two months, to be a bit more precise), I’m already totally nervous and stressed out because I feel like I have to be prepared for every nasty and awful question possible (and there are tons of those), therefor I’ll have to re-read and re-research everything I ever got my hands on. This, of course, is just impossible, which means I can only hope that my blood pressure will lower some day before May and I will also rely on the fact that there won’t be enough time for the audience to ask all the nasty and awful questions possible because my talk will probably (hopefully!!!) only last at around 20 minutes, with 10 minutes or so for discussion, which is not enough time to kill me verbally. At least I hope so.

Also, I can’t actually afford attending the conference, because London is wonderful and expensive and so are the flights. Still, of course, I will go. I can do magic (I hope).

Not to forget this grown-up business, like finding a cheap flight and hotel to stay, and of course getting a new passport, since the Brits are getting ready to show the world their extraordinary uniqueness by leaving the EU (an idea I will no comment any further, out of respect for, uhm, people and stuff, and also because I love London and some other places too much to piss them off…) which means I should probably not rely on looking nice and friendly and very EU-ish, but rather get a new passport IN TIME; in short, adulting all over the place like a pro.

But still, there is always time to check Neko Atsume; never miss an opportunity to spend some time with virtual pets who pay for your efforts in fish. 

No one is an island….but me!

They say you should start a new blog by writing something about yourself and the main stuff you want to write about. Don’t ask me who “they” are, but there are plenty of smart people out there who know much more about blogging than I do. So let’s just roll with it for a while.

I read a lot. I don’t watch TV because I don’t like it (and thanks to ADHD I’m easily bored to death by most of the shows and movies out there), so instead I read or surf the web for hours.  Furthermore, I write about what I read (you may recognize that in time) because I’m [pretending to be] a PhD-student writing about literature. Yeah I know, nobody needs another one, but I need the thrill of being overworked and at times overqualified while also being under-employed (like, literally) and underpaid.

I tend to start DIY projects which take ages to finish due to a) starting too many different projects at the same time OR b) underestimating how much time it really takes so I lose my patience (that I never had to begin with) and as a conseuquence my focus. Also, there is this thesis, you know … also totally underestimated that.

I enjoy the privilege of sharing my life with one of the greatest and most loving human beings I’ve ever encountered, wonderguy. And I have a cat.

Apart from that I am a loner. And I guess that’s all there is to say for now.

Did I mention the cat?