Jack Kerouac, "Visions of Cody"
What an absolute piece of garbage.
From the introduction by Allen Ginsberg to the final word, this was a piece of shit. Completely fucking terrible. This was so bad that I seriously considered going to a coffee shop, putting it on a table and walking away for five minutes. After all, it has Kerouac�s name on it, so some hipster would be bound to steal it. If they actually got around to reading it, it would be a supreme act of karma — it�s so bad they would be punished for their act of thievery.
This was so bad that after reading 100 pages of it this morning I was in such a foul mood that when my roommate made an innocent little joke, calling me a name that I hate, I gave her a look that Alex described as �something so horrible, I can only hope that I�ll never see again. I think you killed all the flies in the house when your face did that.� When she asked what was wrong, I turned on her so harshly that I made her cry. No, not just cry � this girl sobbed in hysterics.
But it was the book, I tell you! IT WAS THE BOOK!
This was published three years after Kerouac�s death in 1969, and it�s a good thing for him that it wasn�t published while he was still alive � people would have gone out into the streets in droves and lynched him after reading this. As it stands, I have the urge to visit his grave, excavate the body, and punch him in his fucking mouth.
You may think this hyperbole, but I am not fucking kidding. I seriously think this is the worst piece of crap that I have ever read. EVER. Even the binding on this book is bad. The crease split on page 124 for some reason, making this extremely uncomfortable to hold while I was reading, which made the experience that much more horrible.
Why is it so bad? I don�t know, perhaps it�s because this is nothing but nonsensical ramblings with two million tangents that don�t go anywhere, and he doesn�t bother to get back to any sort of story line either. And then, in what I suppose he thinks is cute, he starts to misspell words on purpose. Then he makes up some words. Deciding that�s not enough, he starts to make up words for entire sentences. Then paragraphs. Then pages.
I am not kidding.
From page 273, and yes, all punctuation, capitalization, and spelling � or lack of it � is exactly how it appears in the book:
�YOU THINK I WAS AFRAID OF THEM THERE MAWRDEGROOS in the muckeroo? (Whisper in the audience: Now he�s being gay. Answer: Oh, I see, I was wondering what it was all about but from the other side of your thought, my dear) (she gently squeezes his hand in the warm fiffultarm of the pruf) wuw, I mean wuf, wuf wuf, or should I say, whoo whoo, or rather, say, woo-woo, go ahead, say woo-woo, woo woo!�
AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!! MY EYES!!! MY BEAUTIFUL BEAUTIFUL EYES!!!!!
So why didn�t I just stop reading? Why? For the love of all that is good and literary, why didn�t I stop reading? I don�t know, maybe I have Catholic guilt and I needed to repent for my sins. Maybe I was following Nietzsche�s style of thinking that if it didn�t kill me it would only making me stronger. Perhaps it�s because nobody has any standards anymore and I�m trying to finish what I start.
But it�s now finished, and I still can�t get the stench of this book off my brain. I feel dirty. To other people who know the name that I hate to be called, be warned: I only made my roommate cry after reading 200 pages of this piece of crap.
I�ve read 400 pages now, and I�m ready to kill somebody.
My rating category won�t fit all I have to say, so let me state it here: I would rather have live ants eat my eyeballs while somebody chiseled my lips off with a rusty fork while at the same time having rabid porcupines shoved down my shorts every day while I went to work being the sound guy for Britney Spears for a five-year tour than read this book again.