on Wednesday, with tributes going off like fireworks and an exhibition about to open at the New York Public Library, one has to wonder: what does all this expensive ephemera tell us?The question was on my mind as I passed by 454 West 20th Street this week, the red brick townhouse where Kerouac composed the scroll while high on coffee.
from John Freeman: The Guardian's theblogblooks: Off the road: Kerouac's forgotten abode
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"There are sunflowers and prairie-snowballs and long green fields, and snow mountains: as I said to somebody, 'I am Rubens and this is my Netherlands.'"
Something happened between 1951 and 1957 that made Kerouac a writer rather than a painter of words and "On the Road" the book it is today.
from John Freeman: Milwaukee Journal Sentinel: 'Road' work
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