On the Road by Jack Kerouac

My mum bought me this book as part of a batch of modern classics when I was about thirteen. I powered through Animal Farm and Bonjour Tristesse, hoovered up Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and just failed to feel in anyway excited about this book. Back then, I made it nearly a third of the way through before giving up. 

This time I’m about one page short of that record. I’ve come to the conclusion, following my spate of shitty reads recently, that I have better things to do than waste my time reading things I don’t enjoy. My thirteen year old self may be an embarrassment to me in most ways, but she had awesome taste in books. 

As I read the book, I imagined Sal Paradise, the narrator, to have that stupid hipster accent which I hate so much, the one which exists in all languages, the twatty one. The laid back one that goes like ‘ooooh, maaaate…. I was, like, all blah blah’ in English. In French it’s almost impossible to understand and involves mumbling. I bet Remi Boncoeur had that accent in both French and English.

This book has lead to the collapse of my book club. It filled me with ennui. Apparently the film has Kristen Stewart in it. Blech!

I understand exactly why people like this book – the sense of escapism, being a bit of a hippy, freedom. I just didn’t feel any of those things when I was reading it. I just felt numb. 

Pretentious and twatty.