Introduction (2008)
In my head there are several complex pictures of America.
Last of all is the political one that’s come to dominate the media since Bush stole the presidency in 2001. This, to many young people especially, will doubtless be the prevailing image – together with what the film and TV industry ceaselessly churn out.
More notably, for me, come images from 20thC America, especially the thirties-to-fifties. This period begins with impressions of a psychotic Hollywood as depicted in
Nathanael West’s superb ‘Day of the Locust’ as well as Chandler’s ‘Little Sister’ and Scott Fitzgerald’s ‘Last Tycoon’ - then comes the America of the latter's magnificent ‘Gatsby’, followed by Steinbeck’s ‘Grapes of Wrath’… Henry Miller's Tropics, Capote's ‘Other Voices...’, Vidal’s ‘City & Pillar’.... and on and on... until, standing above all (for me), comes the America of Jack Kerouac with his sensational 'On The Road' (made possible by the crazy, indispensible Neal Cassady), followed by 'The Dharma Bums', 'Desolation Angles', 'Big Sur'...etc... which slowly introduce downbeat introspections that acknowledge the same perspectives that Camus recognised for a fulfilled life, and one yearns to return to a life on the road (Kerouac style).
Before I first went to America, it was the literary, film-noire, unruly angle that most attracted me – the James Dean, Marlon Brando image. But Kerouac’s mad quest transcends mere image, and soon becomes more indelible than those forerunners: to pursue freedom, adventure and above all meaning ... For Kerouac, the road was reality and dream - the very antithesis of the still commonly believed counterfeit 'promised' from great wealth as exposed so eloquently in Fitzgerald’s Gatsby. By throwing off the chains of material possessions, of roots and attachments, Kerouac found a freedom that was about as authentic as it gets - even Sartre would have been impressed! Charging back and forth across that great continent, as well as to Mexico & Tangier - sometimes hitchhiking, sometimes driving and sometimes going by bus - on the ever-ultimate adventure which grips every youthful imagination, and promises everything that truly counts in life, everything that most appealed to me too - Kerouac's quest became immortal.
And it was precisely this, I reckon, that really drew me out there. Curiously, I only realised it afterwards, on reflection - so I guess the key motivating force was subconscious (as it frequently turns out to be) .
To emulate Kerouac would, of course, have been impossible, but I suppose I was attempting the next best thing. So with $4K in the bank, I set off... though unlike Kerouac, I was to make just the single protracted round trip of 16,000-miles.
It was three-months after resigning my job and less than a week after my 40th birthday when I boarded the £89 one-way to Miami. Without doubt that was the most intelligent decision I ever made (again, Sartre would have been impressed!). And as soon as Bush is gone, I’ll maybe think about doing it again. For the moment, though, join me as I relate some of the more stimulating moments of that first great journey - which, of those various images I retain of America, shines brightest of all by far.
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