Now I can't, to continue with Dharma Bums, blame people for dismissing the book as something we might have been, as the NY Times reviewer says, 'spared.' I can understand where that sentiment is coming from.

The prose of it seems a little plain, not so much 'spontaneous bop prosody,' but more diary entry, a kind of, without exploring it too deeply here, a bit mundane, plain spoken. You read it like Huck himself reading Twain. Straight. Matter of fact. Not too emotional. Just the normal things to observe out of a fairly normal day, albeit one of a journey. Yes, it might all quickly become very dull for someone not intent on enjoying the outdoors and a certain mindset and lifestyle. To a modern eye, that is, one not too far removed, it simply sounds like amateur writing, high school.

But remember, this is the writer of On The Road having met and seriously studied the serious scriptures of Buddhist texts, which he did a quiet lonely winter in Greensboro, North Carolina. Just as the young prince came upon the vision of constant change, decay as well as birth and beauty, and ventured out into the world beyond the palace, the writer of such prose has come to some understanding. one beyond our normal wishes to go have fun, enjoy the desirable, avoid the undesirable.

Parts of the book ring with the subtle of sense of being a sort of awkward figure in the eyes of other people for the deep knowledge he keeps but actually does not broadcast too much, more prone to share it with companions of the type ready to listen, and even they sometimes, not quite getting it all the way. So is there the quoting of Ashvhagosha mid-way through Chapter 30, nearing the end of the book, as Japhy is about to go away to Japan. It is not so much the trip of Japhy the narrator refers to, but one from his own experience and understanding, his own trip first through what is sadness and then onward.

The plainness of the writing here, in Dharma Bums, fits, fits the message so well, and all of it easily overlooked, questioned, dismissed. To be able to write so clearly about moving events with steadiness, it might not seem like much, but despite its humble way, it's something, an achievement.

Kerouac, of course, was familiar with things like loss, sickness, death, the prospect of homelessness. He wanted to share with a comfortable America what it might be like if it weren't so comfortable, if we had to be more compassionate about just about everything, and a way to live, to accept such an existence. This might be the reason he is not so popular in various quarters and to various tastes.