An interpretive review of Kerouac’s Big Sur

A laugh that dully sinks into the wood of the cabin while the flicker from the gas lamp almost dies amongst the garbage of wasted life.

I wander down to the roar of the ocean in the dark tripping and hopping over the descending landscape of reeds rocks cavities everything

and sit crevice like in the sand before the crashing waves waves that tell me that everything’s an eternal circle that you’ve lived before and again

that your laughter becomes a retort a life giving retort to the endlessness of everything and a life giving source to yourself.

The End.

The city and old friends and the shit they provide is the new Dharma a meditation on crazy a meditation on deepening loss of control

of contented deep knowledge of the other and some kind of internal touch spiritual yet sexual or an ideal based on an ideal.

But then theres calm not quite resignation a sense of closure that this love won’t happen that Jack will go back home settle and write again.

And his explanatory language blows like stardust over whole phenomena as always.