Over the weekend, I reviewed a recent lesson: I do not have to finish reading books I don’t like. There will not be a test.
As a result, I can happily say that I have bailed out on Jack Kerouac’s On the Road after 134 pages. I should have stopped reading earlier. Two things kept me going, one valid and one vapid. Valid: occasionally, there would be a brilliant sentence shining in the midst of the boredom. Vapid: the book is “classic” and thus I should be able to say I’ve read it.
It did not speak to me. I find the characters tiresome in their ADD-type fluttering from place to place, topic to topic. The narrator, Sal, pretty much sits back and watches the others, commenting on how awesome they are. It reads like I slightly more sophisticated version of “Man, we were so stoned…”
I now get to read something else.