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(3.66) | 919 | On the Road chronicles Jack Kerouac's years traveling the North American continent with his friend Neal Cassady, "a sideburned hero of the snowy West." As "Sal Paradise" and "Dean Moriarty," the two roam the country in a quest for self-knowledge and experience. Kerouac's love of America, his compassion for humanity, and his sense of language as jazz combine to make On the Road an inspirational work of lasting importance.… (més) |
Afegit fa poc per | paatk, D.Prisson, princesspois, silkwall, artnotfriends, biblioteca privada, maxwellga | Biblioteques llegades | David Robert Jones, Jack Kerouac, William Gaddis, Newton 'Bud' Flounders, Leslie Scalapino, Juice Leskinen, Carl Sandburg, Eeva-Liisa Manner, Marilyn Monroe, Walker Percy — 1 més, Ernest Hemingway |
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 Apunta't a LibraryThing per saber si aquest llibre et pot agradar. ▾Converses (Enllaços) No hi ha cap discussió a Converses sobre aquesta obra. » Mira també 919 mencions ▾Relacions entre sèries i obres Pertany a aquestes col·leccions editorialsContingut aÉs una versió estesa deHa inspiratTé un estudi
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Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. I first met Dean not long after my wife and I split up.  | |
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Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. ". . . and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!'"  In the window I smelled all the food of San Francisco. There were seafood places out there where the buns were hot, and the baskets were good enough to eat too; where the menus themselves were soft with foody esculence as though dipped in hot broths roasted dry and good enough to eat too. Just show me the bluefish spangle on a seafood menu, and I'd eat it; let me smell the butter and lobster claws. There were places where hamburgers sizzled on grills and the coffee was only a nickel. And oh, that pan fried chow mein flavored air that blew into my room from Chinatown, vying with the spaghetti sauces of North Beach, the soft-shell crab of Fisherman's Wharf- nay, the ribs of Fillmore turning on spits! Throw in the Market street chili beans, red-hot, and french-fried potatoes of the Embarcadero wino night, and steamed clams from Sausalito across the bay, and that's ah-dream of San Francisco. Add fog, hunger making, raw fog, and the throb of neons in the soft night, the clack of high heeled beauties, white doves in a Chinese grocery window.  Great beautiful clouds floated overhead, valley clouds that made you feel the vastness of old tumbledown holy America from mouth to mouth and tip to tip.  'You have absolutely no regard for anybody but yourself and your damned kicks. All you think about is what's hanging between your legs and how much money or fun you can get out of people and then you just throw them aside. Not only that but you're silly about it. It never occurs to you that life is serious and there are people trying to make something decent out of it instead of just goofing all the time.'  Every one of these things I said was a knife at myself. Everything I had ever secretly held against my brother was coming out: how ugly I was and what filth I was discovering in the depths of my own impure psychologies.  | |
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Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès. Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua. So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars'll be out, and don't you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what's going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty. (Clica-hi per mostrar-ho. Compte: pot anticipar-te quin és el desenllaç de l'obra.) | |
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▾Referències Referències a aquesta obra en fonts externes. Wikipedia en anglès (2)
▾Descripcions del llibre On the Road chronicles Jack Kerouac's years traveling the North American continent with his friend Neal Cassady, "a sideburned hero of the snowy West." As "Sal Paradise" and "Dean Moriarty," the two roam the country in a quest for self-knowledge and experience. Kerouac's love of America, his compassion for humanity, and his sense of language as jazz combine to make On the Road an inspirational work of lasting importance. ▾Descripcions provinents de biblioteques No s'han trobat descripcions de biblioteca. ▾Descripció dels membres de LibraryThing
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 Biblioteca llegada: Jack Kerouac
Jack Kerouac té una Biblioteca llegada. Les Biblioteques llegades són biblioteques personals de lectors famosos, introduïdes per membres de LibraryThing del grup Legacy Libraries. Mira el perfil llegat de Jack Kerouac. Pàgina d'autor de Jack Kerouac. Google Books — S'està carregant…
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