The Voice is All by Joyce Johnson

Source of book: I own this.

My wife’s brother is the reason I have read Kerouac. For whatever reason, he wasn’t one of the authors we studied in high school (presumably too modern for the curriculum to take seriously…), and I never ended up reading him later.

My brother-in-law recommended I read The Dharma Bums, in significant part because he duplicated the epic hike to California’s Matterhorn (not to be confused with the one in Switzerland) described in that book. Then, to top it off, he gave me this book a couple of years ago. I have put off reading it at least until I finished The Dharma Bums, as it seemed odd to read a book about an author I hadn’t read. 

The Voice is All was written by Joyce Johnson, who was one of Kerouac’s many lovers - she came fairly late in his life. The book, while a biography, does not deal with that relationship at all. (Other than a couple of asides at appropriate places.) The main reason for this is that the story of Kerouac in this book ends in 1951, at the point when Jack figures out how he wants to re-write On The Road. We all know that he will eventually (1957) find a publisher for the book, and make his reputation as a writer.

Two things stand out in Johnson’s approach to Kerouac’s life. First, she emphasises his French-Canadian heritage, and the fact that he spoke Breton French before he learned English. She believes that this was one reason Kerouac never felt truly part of America. He was always an outsider as an immigrant, and as a French speaker.

It sounds weird to us now, but back in the 1920s, French Canadians were looked down on as uneducated, dirty immigrants. They were hated even by other immigrant groups, as their religious beliefs kept them from joining in strikes, and they were perceived as driving wages down by working for less than anyone else. Hey, like Latinos today, right?

The other emphasis in this book is on Kerouac’s struggle to write. While the other events in his life are mentioned, his writing process takes center stage. 

 The original draft of On The Road, which Kerouac typed on a scroll of paper, so he didn't have to interrupt his thoughts to change paper.

Johnson relies heavily on the voluminous correspondence between Kerouac and his friends and family. These documents are quoted throughout, and painstakingly listed in the endnotes. Johnson did her homework well.

Don’t get the impression that this book is dry, however. Johnson is an excellent writer, with compelling prose that makes the detail of what is hardly a short book flow by painlessly. I found the book to be a delightful read, even if the subject matter is often less than pleasant.

It is no mystery why. Kerouac struggled with substance abuse and (more likely than not) some form of mental illness. (Bipolar certainly comes to mind after reading this book.) He and the rest of the Beats, in addition to their legendary drunken benders, sure seemed to be in and out of each other’s beds a lot. It is amazing they ever got any writing done, in some ways. Not the lifestyle I would like to imitate, clearly. I’m good with a stable monogamous marriage and no hangovers, thank you very much.

On the other hand, it was rather fascinating to see the dynamics of the Beats from their early college days in New York. The kind of gruesome and sad episode where Lucien Carr ends up killing the man who was both a mentor and a sexual predator was one I hadn’t heard before. (And really, Lucien is mostly notable because of this incident - Kerouac help dispose of the knife, and ended up marrying his first wife so that he could get out on bail. Also, because Allen Ginsberg was madly in unrequited love with Lucien.)

Allen Ginsberg was intimately involved in the story throughout, both as Kerouac’s friend and as a character in many of his books. I have mixed feelings about Ginsberg both personally and as an artist. I have had a hard time getting into his poetry for the same reason Whitman leaves me cold most of the time: it feels more like lists and rambling than poetry to me. I know that is an aesthetic issue, and I guess I like what I like. (At least I enjoy poetry, which is pretty rare these days…) I also had a negative impression of Ginsberg because of his connection with NAMBLA, which I find morally loathsome (see Kevin Spacey) and believe has been a major hindrance to the gay rights cause. On the other, Ginsberg as a young man seems more pitiable and sensitive than the others of the Beats. He spends a lot of this book trying to come to terms with his homosexuality, his horrible childhood with a mentally ill mother, and his unrequited crushes. In addition to Lucien Carr, Ginsberg ends up obsessed with Neal Cassady, who was likely bisexual, but also a narcissist incapable of giving back.

Also apparent in this book was the sexism of the Beats. They really expected the women they were involved with to do everything from the cooking and cleaning, to working to support them. Yet another reason I personally find the lifestyle unappealing. But as with most artists, you have to separate out the person and the art to some degree. It is difficult, for example, to find much of anyone without sexist beliefs a few hundred years ago - or even 60 years ago. It is what it is, but I am glad to live when I do.

One more thing that comes to mind in this context is the sense of sexual entitlement - and not just of the Beats. Kerouac’s parents were fairly devout Catholics. Particularly his mother. But that didn’t stop his father from sleeping with prostitutes throughout their marriage. It was amusing that they were horrified that Jack cohabited with his future first wife - his father had no problem if Jack had just gone for a hooker, but cohabiting with an (otherwise) respectable girl? Horrors! But that was the way of it then. And the Beats weren’t any better, treating women as disposable and expecting them to be sexually available whenever - and to whomever. This is also a reminder to me that our current moment when a bunch of creepy old men are being outed as predators isn’t really a tale of men being worse than before - but one of social mores changing to make predatory and assaultive behavior no longer acceptable.

Another interesting thing about Kerouac - and his portrayal in this book - is his essential restlessness (perhaps from his peripatetic childhood) and constant seeking of epiphanies which were out of reach and short lived when they finally came. As Johnson describes one of the early quests, “Jack seemed to be hoping that the voyage would be a cleansing and transformative experience from which he would emerge renewed like a character in a novel.” This is a common refrain, both in this book, and in The Dharma Bums. It seems like Kerouac had epiphany after epiphany, but nothing lasted, and he was off to find the next high. This is why I suspect he was bipolar. It also is likely a primary driver of his alcohol abuse.

One final thing that stood out to me is just how revolting I find Neal Cassady as a person. He never accomplished anything of note, abused women, toyed with the affections of everyone he knew, and acted like an entitled narcissist. The only reason anyone remembers him at all was that Kerouac and Ginsberg were obsessed with him. Ginsberg for sexual reasons, and Kerouac for, well, for being some sort of a non-sexual soulmate? It is hard to know what to call it - but it was definitely a crush. And I guess Cassady had the same charm to women too. Was he a heartthrob? I am the wrong person to ask, as I am strongly heterosexual. I guess he - and Kerouac - had that kind of James Dean look going. So maybe. If so, that makes him even more annoying. As a short man without good looks, I strongly dislike those people who get by on good looks and charm (whether male or female.) So, Neal Cassady, I dislike you already, and I haven’t read On The Road yet. Maybe I can yell at the book when I do read it.

The Voice is All is definitely an interesting book - there is so much more I haven’t even mentioned. Johnson tells the story well, and there is a lot about Kerouac’s life that is fascinating. This is a time in history that has tended to be venerated and sanitized. The narrative is that everything was great in the 1940s and 50s, before the 60s ruined everything. That is just the rose-colored glasses, though. History has always been messy, and the worst we can do is meet our heroes. This book is a reminder that there really never was a golden age without bad behavior. I recommend this book to anyone who enjoys Kerouac - and also for those who don’t, but would like insight into his life and times and what the fuss is all about.

***

Just a fun connection: Back in September, my brother (who plays fiddle in an Irish band) put together a night of oddball music in the greater folk tradition. As part of that, he and I performed a couple of French Canadian fiddle tunes - a “Breton” set, as he called it.  The two tunes we played were Le Reve du Queteux Tremblay (Beggar Tremblay’s Dream) and Le Bedeau de l’Enfer (The Deacon from Hell), a couple of “crooked reels” with shifting time signatures and jarring rhythms. In other words, dances only the Devil himself could dance. Fitting, since we fiddle players have always been suspected of being in league with the Devil.

The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac

Source of book: Borrowed from the library.

I have been meaning to read some Kerouac for some time, but hadn’t quite gotten to it. I suppose the most popular would be On the Road, or perhaps Big Sur. I ended up reading The Dharma Bums in large part because my brother-in-law recommended it, and went so far as to duplicate the hike that forms the center of the book. (See more on that below.)

Kerouac was one of the “Beat Generation” of the 1950s, along with Allen Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs. One can think of the “hippie” movement of the 60s beginning with them, and much of the music of that era from the Beatles on down drew inspiration from the Beats. In some ways, though, one has to think of most hippies then and now as bandwagoners compared to the originals.

As a lawyer, I tend to think of Ginsberg and Burroughs in connection with the obscenity trials that their works triggered. A significant development in Constitutional law here in the United States occurred when Howl and Naked Lunch were determined to be protected under the 1st Amendment right to free speech. The Supreme Court ruled that works which had “redeeming social importance” could not be banned. Thus, descriptions of drug use or sexual acts could not be automatically banned on that basis alone. The rest, as they say, is history.

The Dharma Bums is a semi-fictional book, based on Kerouac’s own younger life when he was part of the San Francisco Renaissance, enamoured with poet Gary Snyder. (Snyder is one of the very few of the Beats still living, probably because he was one of the few who didn’t drink to excess.) The story is a series of connected yet separate episodes, including a fictionalized telling of the Six Gallery Reading where Ginsberg debuted Howl, a hitchhiking trip east to Kerouac’s mother’s house and back, and a stay in a cabin with Snyder, before Snyder left to study Buddhism in Japan. The parts that I found the most fascinating, however, involved, not the city, but the wilderness. Snyder was - and still is - an avid hiker, and dragged Kerouac up and down Mt. Tamalpais (north of San Francisco), convinced Kerouac to work as a fire lookout in what is now North Cascades National Park, and convinced him to take an epic backpack trip up California’s Matterhorn Mountain, in the high Sierra Nevadas.

This last hike was of particular interest to me because my brother-in-law, who is, like Snyder, a natural born hiker, duplicated Kerouac’s trip up Matterhorn. Alas, my schedule prevented me from joining him on that hike. Fortunately, he took pictures, and posted them with the relevant passages from The Dharma Bums. You can see them here, and they are well worth the click.

He and I have, before and since, done some crazy hikes together. For instance, you can read about our day hike to Half Dome in Yosemite National Park here. The year after he climbed Matterhorn, we hiked to the base of the Palisade Glacier (the largest glacier in California) at 12,500 feet.

I dwell on the hiking because that part of this book was thrilling. Kerouac writes brilliantly about the mountains. In the style of his time and movement, the writing is a spontaneous approach, with the tale unfolding as if it was being told orally, made up or recalled on the spot. Or, one might think of it as being completely in the moment, as if you were there, with even the narrator not knowing what would come next. It isn’t a “stream of consciousness,” ala James Joyce, though. It is a narration that pours forth, not the momentary thoughts of the narrator. A key element of this style is the lack of editing. But don’t confuse this with writing that desperately needs an editor. Spontaneity requires practice, and Kerouac worked hard to be able to produce works like this. A great analogy would be jazz - which the Beats worked to imitate in words. A “spontaneous” jazz solo represents hours of practice and a wealth of melodic, harmonic, and rhythmic tools close to the hand. “Spontaneous” writing, likewise, comes from the pen of a skilled craftsman, working quickly and with skill.

The Dharma Bums, and Kerouac in general, isn’t perfect. There are times the dialogue seems clumsy, and transitions are often abrupt. I also have to admit that Kerouac would drive me utterly mad in person. As much fun as hitchhiking and jumping trains sounds - at least in the era when you could still do that - the lack of pre-planning, questionable choices, and self absorption was crazy-making even in print. Actually, anyone who knows me would think it laughable that I could ever be a bohemian, let alone a hippy. And they would be right.

And if I could be a hippy, I would probably be like Japhy (Gary Snyder), who at least had a plan, some self control, and a proper supply of food and equipment.

On the other hand, Kerouac may have been a challenge to be around, but he at least had a self deprecating manner in his writing, aware of his faults, and willing to poke gentle fun at himself. The adventures of Japhy (Snyder), Ray (Kerouac), and Henry (John Montgomery - a hilarious professor, who is impossibly unprepared and lacking in common sense) on Matterhorn are amusing in part because of the foibles of each character. It is truly a miracle that the trip didn’t end in disaster.

There is a conversation between Kerouac, Ginsberg, and Snyder that cracks me up. In the Penguin edition that I read, it is duplicated in comic-strip form in the inside covers. The characters as dogs is an interesting idea anyway, but it renders an already amusing anecdote doubly mirthful. The panel on the right is first, followed by the left, in this picture. The characters are (left to right) “Japhy Ryder” (Gary Snyder), “Alvah Goldbook” (Allen Ginsberg), and “Ray Smith” (Kerouac).

 

The other lines that really stood out to me were all about hiking.

I felt like lying down by the side of the trail and remembering it all. The woods do that to you, they always look familiar, long lost, like the face of a long-dead relative, like an old dream, like a piece of forgotten song drifting across the water, most of all like golden eternities of past childhood or past manhood and all the living and dying and the heartbreak that went on a million years ago and the clouds as they pass overhead seem to testify (by their own lonesome familiarity) to this feeling. Ecstasy, even, I felt, with flashes of sudden remembrance, and feeling sweaty and drowsy I felt like sleeping and dreaming in the grass.

That’s the good part of the feeling of hiking in the mountains, and I have experienced it many times. My heart really is in the mountains, as much as I love the beach, the desert, and the valleys. And then, there is the other fact of hiking high and long.

“Although of course we know which way we are going, that big cliff face up there is where our plateau is.”

“Plateau? My God, you mean that ain’t the tip of the mountain?

“Of course not, after that we got a plateau and then scree and then more rocks and we get to a final alpine lake no biggern this pond and then comes the final climb over one thousand feet almost straight up boy to the top of the world where you’ll see all California and parts of Nevada and the wind’ll blow right through your pants.”

If you haven’t already, check out my brother-in-law’s outstanding photos of this spot.

One final quote. On the Mount Tamalpais hike, “Japhy” brings along the food.

On this trip Japhy had brought along a delicious combination for hiking energy: Ry-Krisp crackers, good sharp Cheddar cheese a wedge of that, and a roll of salami.

On our own, the kids and I have discovered that the combination of crackers, cheese, and salami is indeed the ideal hiking lunch, both portable and high energy. We take it along on the vast majority of our hikes these days, rather than sandwiches, which tend to get smushed in the backpack. Fun to find that others had discovered this 60 years prior.

The Dharma Bums was an interesting experience, thrilling for its wilderness and adventure, maddening for the hippiness of some of the incidents, and quite unlike anything I have read before. I agree with a few criticisms of the book. First, do not expect that Kerouac’s version of Buddhism will be anything like the real thing. While the book may be about his journey through that world (Dharma means “truth,” more or less) and he may claim to have various epiphanies throughout, one can expect to learn far more about Kerouac than about Buddhism. Second, the Beats were not exactly feminist, and Kerouac’s view of women in this book is more than a little misogynist. Although, it is hard to say it is more so than the 1950s were in general, I guess. It was the era of the Donna Reed ideal, and women struggled to break into the ranks of writers and intellectuals regardless of whether they were Beats or not. Just don’t expect any signs of early Second Wave feminism in this book. Society may have been a drag to Kerouac, but his reform didn’t extend to getting women out of the kitchen. After all, someone had to take care of all that stuff.

All in all, I am glad I read this book, and can say it was a pleasure. Not sure if I will find On The Road to be as good, since I think the wilderness portions were the best. On the other hand, I am interested in reading Desolation Angels. Another thing for my endless list of books I want to read.