I actually really enjoyed this. Maybe it was because I’d just recently rewatched kill you darlings, but I was endeared to Jack Kerouac after sort of growing out of him thanks to the movie, and this non-fiction novel helped cement that renewed good will.

This book is as rambly as ever, but it has a special charm as it documents his journey as a lost soul and a writer, living for his craft. His adventures are wild to think about today, as well as unnecessary really, but they make for a good book. Better than Dharma Bums for sure honestly, felt more real. Don’t know why he ever chose to hide behind fiction. Or maybe I just like the name dropping.