Blue Highways, left carefully on the counter. I tipped off Scheid to it and now it's here waiting for me. Sui generis bible it is, this might be my third time through in a year, if I can get past the stun of page one:
"That night, as I lay wondering whether I would get sleep or explosion, I got the idea instead. A man that couldn't make things go right could at least just go. He could quit trying to get out of the way of his life. Chuck routine. Live the real jeopardy of circumstance. It was a question of dignity."
There will be people to singing the hosannas for On The Road 'til the end of days, but I can't get down with a book about the freedom of the road where the womenfolk aren't given a speaking role. You ever notice that? Blue Highways is about a man, flinging himself on the breast of dying America amidst a divorce, and finding that mercy. It is also about race, gender, poetry, solitude, aloneness--done up with a Malthusian hard light and tender heart for America and it's people (with a boner for quoting Emerson / qua trancendentalist streak thrown in). Plus, the prose will just fucking menace you.
By the end of the page, we're on to existentialism and geese migration, with the untoppable boo-ya:
"A new season. Answer: begin by following spring as they did--darkly, with neck stuck out."
Like Omar says "Indeed. Indeed."Posted by Jessica at June 15, 2008 09:47 PM | TrackBack