Satori in Paris (Penguin Modern Classics)

Fairly disjointed novella that captures a drunken and drink damaged Kerouac on a ten day bender in France in 1965 (originally intended as a longer trip around Europe that he cuts short, because), a trip he takes to track down his roots, following a strange obsession with the history of his name. You feel a certain pity for a confused Kerouac as he wanders from bar to bar in Paris and Brest, visits a couple of libraries for info, misses airplanes and trains, can’t find hotel rooms and is often fearful of getting mugged, wandering in the rain. Nonetheless, there’s a certain Kerouac magic in some passages (getting drunk on the train, riding a cab across Paris), but you have to wade through some babble, some boring drunken disquisitions on the history of the name Kerouac and the sort of exhausting confusion of a middle aged alcoholic. Seemingly unintentionally, the book does a great job of capturing the tragedy of alcoholism.

This is only mediocre Kerouac, but that's still better than most writers' best stuff. Kerouac's alter-ego wanders around France looking for his roots, but finding only bars and sadness. It's fairly depressing, but extremely short, and contains enough literary gems and insight into the declining state of Kerouac's powers to make it a worthwhile read. But if you are new to Kerouac, read On the Road, Dharma Bums, Desolation Angels, Maggie Cassidy, etc. first.

It's just one of those books. 90 pages or so, about buddhist enlightenment while seeking your identity. Kerouac, supposedly descendent of French Canadians found his in France on a journey to Paris. A kind of lucid moment where things begin to make sense. Yet inspiring those to follow this path - heavily laden on christian values, excesses of drugs in search of what is primarily an eastern way of thinking, probably implies he was following his dreams and imagination more than anything else. I hasten to add Kerouac was not alone - he was part of a beat generation of writers and poets doped up on all manner of baby boomer drugs. Yet the books greatest success is that you could read it in a bathroom in a noisy nightclub, or while working in a kitchen as a cleaner. It not an inspirational read, yet opens up to the bizarre relationship France, Canada and the US have with each other. Laissez faire might be the word, yet quickly followed by a 'merde'. Kerouac was no fool and suffered from few, yet I see little in this particular book to inspire many afterwards.

Jack Kerouac decides to go to Paris,Faance to search out his roots.He is recognized today as a definition of the Beat Generation.This is a very short story,first published in 1966 and contains only109 pages,includind lots of white space.He wanders around Paris and its surrounding countryside,and while visiting a few touristy spots,spends most of his time in bars and cheap hotels.He really doesn't find out much about his roots and returns home.This is the first thing I've read by Kerouac,and as such,it doesn't seem to be anything special to me.However,I fully plan to continue to read more of his writing,believing that there must be more to some of his other writings,else he wound never have been so well recognized.I plan now to read "On The Road" with the full expectation that I will be impressed with it.

Kerouac has become a sad writer and an even sadder person by the time this book was written. His jazz-based, bebop style of prose, once full of energy and bursting from him in a torrent, has become forced and awkward, distracting from the actual story. He seems bent on cramming as many cultural references into the narrative as he can, apparently only to impress the reader with his range of obscure knowledge. The story itself recounts a lonely visit to Paris and Brittany in search of familial roots, which are never found because Kerouac spends the majority of time drinking in bars while in conversations with locals. These are sometimes interesting, or would have been if he had focused more on that as the object of the trip rather than a genealogical search for which he has no patience. Even the "satori" of the title is unfulfilled, as Kerouac is unsure of when or even if it occurred.Do not make this your first Kerouac read. Start with the classics like On the Road or The Dharma Bums, autobiographical "novels" to which Kerouac brought a level of energy and vision rarely seen. Even his account of a psychological breakdown in Big Sur has a vitality not seen in Satori. Come to this book only if you've experienced the youthful vital Kerouac, and then only for a portrait of a great talent in decline.

Jack Kerouac ripping off his fans, that was my first thought in reading this rather shallow, meandering account of Kerouac’s short journey to France in 1965 to research his family roots. Not only is the narrative short (not even a hundred pages if you subtract all the white space between the many chapters) but not particularly either insightful or witty either. Lots of lame stream-of-consciousness punning, the kind you get from drunks who think they’re being literary. At best it’s a kind of cut-rate P.J. O’Rourke, except not nearly as funny, documenting Kerouac’s adventures, which mostly consist of finding a place to get drunk.Clearly, at this point it was alcohol that was driving the author of On the Road, which is a damn shame because I would have loved to hear more about his impressions of France as, unlike many American writers who visited there, he actually spoke and understood French, even if it is a bastardized version from his French-Canadian roots.If you are interested in Kerouac, go elsewhere.

Alles perfekt!

I'd forgotten about this little book for a long time so was delighted to be reminded and to be able to buy it so easily and effortlessly and for a very good price. The service from the seller was excellent.

It arrived soon in perfect condition. I am totally satisfied with the sender and planning to ourchase more novels. M. V.

This is Kerouac's incredibly drunken account of his time in Paris as middle-age consumed him. It's a witty, amusing, and thoroughly irrelevant story, but it showcases his alcoholism in full flow. Satori (kick in the eye) In Paris has very little to do with Zen Buddhism (the cover picture is thoroughly inappropriate) and is all about his inebriated trivails around Paris attempting to piece together some family history. He engages with locals rather unsuccessfully, marvels at the Parisian lifestyle, and provides a very entertaining piece of writing.This isn't for anyone new to the writer; purchase On The Road or Dharma Bums before coming to this. Big Sur is also a vital read to show his terrible suffering at the hands of his drinking problem. Once you're done there then Satori is a funny little aside in the life of a great, and ever endearing, writer.

Great read!