My return to reading novels after a 2-month hiatus has been extremely fantastic and I want to celebrate with a premature opinion on Kerouac. It is as follows: I am happy for him. I am happy for myself as well.
But then they danced down the street like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!"
-Jack Kerouac, On the Road
Kerouac's writing really reminds me of Sinclair's prose in The Jungle. It's mesmerizing. The sentence boils and rolls and sparks until it cannot be contained, and then it keeps going! Greatness! Sal's happy about happiness. He's writing about writing. He loves love. On the Road celebrates celebration!