Book Review: Satori in Paris (Jack Kerouac)

Once, when I knew no better, Kerouac shone because I had discovered him and I was pleased with myself for doing so. After a time away, Kerouac leaves me somewhat disillusioned. Satori in Paris is, in short, a garbled concoction not becoming of its publisher’s billing of ‘modern classic’. This is a shame because Kerouac is still the writer of one of the most beautiful descriptions my reading memory holds (that of dusk and tangerine groves and ‘fields the colour of love and Spanish mysteries’ in On the Road). Sadly, there’s scant reproduction of this example of writing in Satori in Paris (written in, or soon after 1965, following a trip to France, and some fourteen years after the original writing of his most infamous work).

Satori in Paris (Flamingo, 2001; originally published by André Deutsch Ltd, Great Britain, 1967; Grafton Books, 1982; Paladin, 1991) is a short 109 pages in length but plenty of this is also white space, so the actual text covers something in the region of 75 pages. The instigation of the satori (enlightenment) in question is attributed to a taxi driver, named as Raymond Baillet, who takes Kerouac to Orly airport en route back to Florida following his genealogical search in Paris and Brittany. However, Kerouac also attempts to obfuscate the moment by at first claiming that he doesn’t know for sure when his epiphany comes. This is both a ruse to get us to read the entirety of the book, one feels, but also, in fairness, does serve to reward the reader for the bloody-minded journey in trudging through the whole in order to get to the final line.

To clarify: Kerouac paints himself as a graceless, crashing bore of a drunkard; he’s a know-it-all in French dialect (by dint, he says, of his French-Canadian upbringing), but he’s also fixated on his name, as writer, on his ego as part thereof, and on his sometimes obscure references, some more easily comprehensible than others: Shakespeare, Matthew Arnold, Nabokov, perhaps, but he asks of one character he meets late on in the book ‘did he read Nicholas Breton of England, John Skelton of Cambridge, or the ever-grand Henry Vaughan not to mention George Herbert — and you could add, or John Taylor the Water-Poet of the Thames?’

The final line of Satori in Paris alludes to this gracelessness; the entirety of Kerouac’s self-decanonisation as proffered in his tales of endless cognacs for the road, or at unbecoming early hours, or just waiting for his train to come in, and as shown in his grossly stereotypical American-abroad persona (perhaps a send-up, but perhaps not), and so on, all therefore goes some way to setting up the satori ‘a-ha’ moment he aims to show us. It isn’t such a kick in the backside, a shaking of the aura, as he might have wanted us to believe, in print; in fact, it’s a blessing to get to the end at all. The end justifies the means, Kerouac may well have been aiming at here, but it’s not a pretty means by any stretch.

Early on Kerouac is at pains to point out that he wishes to be known, in this book, by his real ‘full name in this case, Jean-Louis Lebris de Kérouac’. Names form a central motif to the book and Kerouac studies the etymological links of his name to the Breton French, Cornish, Celtic and any other romantic whim that passes him in the ‘moment’ that is his, admittedly, planned trip to France (which transpires to last ten days). In the stereotypical perception of the American abroad, there is the relentless belief woven into the whole that Kerouac is Breton, or at least Breton enough, underpinned by the equally relentless and frankly irritating insistence of including French language as the primary source of much dialogue, followed by English translations or vice versa (as if to say, grandiosely, ‘look I speak French/am French and how superior I must be’).

Identity is key to the piece and this is appreciated. Kerouac explores names and connections to places (Lebris, we’re told has links to the people of Brest in Brittany, Le bris, where Kerouac travels to in search of genealogical information); however, the gracelessness of the exploration is a growing agitation in the read. In retrospect, Kerouac does allude to self-awareness of the grating character of himself he offers up to us, and he repeats this refrain:

Why do people change their name? Have they done anything bad, are they criminals, are they ashamed of their real names? Are they afraid of something? Is there any law in America against using your own real name?

Jean-Louis Lebris de Kérouac and Jack Kerouac, writer, ‘King of the Beats’, ego post-On the Road (as tackled head-on in Big Sur, 1962) also meet here head-on.

A reader’s retrospective realisation, however, is not enough to fill the void left by Kerouac-as-caricature. The man-myth is a frustration in the short reading. Kerouac writes, for example:

This cowardly Breton (me) watered down by two centuries in Canada and America . . .

I knew that . . . I had an additive name ‘Le Bris’ and here I was in ‘Brest’ and did this make me a Cimbric spy from the stone monuments of Riestedt in Germany? Rietstap also the name of the German who painstakingly compiled names of families and their scocheons and had my family included in ‘Rivista Araldica’?

In the first and second instances, no Kerouac, you are an American, born in Massachusetts, admittedly of French-Canadian parentage and speaking English after French, but an American by early cultural inheritance, perhaps; at the very least, not watered down at all because what does it matter what several generations of our families were when it doesn’t change who we are now? In the second instance, also, Kerouac’s meandering, sometimes unfathomable writing style jars repeatedly.

Indeed, this style is not the lauded fresh new Beat-extravagance once tolerated in his earlier works. Satori in Paris is a fair percentage full of seemingly drunkard-penned ramblings in need of a good editorial savaging. Swift and succinct editing could have cut this already short offering down by maybe half as much again without losing the impact with which the author may well have wished it be imbued.

A red pen can easily extract such obfuscations, for example, as Kerouac’s intellectual amusements on the mutual conversations of himself and a newly met other Lebris, one of many we’re told, in Brest:

But I’m home, there’s no doubt about it, except if I were to want a strawberry, or loosen Alice’s shoetongue, old Herrick in his grave and Ulysse Lebris would both yell at me to leave things alone, and that’s when I raw my wide pony and roll.

It is this rambling, unintelligible, non-contextual aspect of Kerouac’s writing that is the most bafflingly frustrating. Undoubtedly there are some literary scholars who will attest to the artistic twisted in-joke unseen by the great unwashed (as seen in works, perhaps, of Dada-ism, or Tracey Emin, or the like). It is a case of the Emperor’s new clothes: Kerouac, drunk on cognac and his own writer-ego, not far short of his death in 1969, seeks to continue the man-myth whilst simultaneously trying to debunk the same. He fails unfortunately. The first lines of Satori in Paris read:

Somewhere during my ten days in Paris (and Brittany) I received an illumination of some kind that seems to’ve [sic] changed me again, towards what I suppose’ll be my pattern for another seven years or more . . .

Kerouac had four years to live. The illumination that can be read into the book as a whole is that a state of grace should prevail, gracelessness should be rejected, but Kerouac failed, and the illumination is, it transpires, only a satori moment for the reader, this reader, on a man who was mythical but got drunk on alcohol and himself.

Book Review: Hideous Kinky (Esther Freud)

Hideous Kinky is another of those books that seems to have pressed a lasting mark on this reader’s mind: though truth be told, the many years between the first and most recent readings has left a ghost imprint rather than an abundance of specific detail. Perhaps there is some comfort for the writer in knowing that their book has left just such an imprint: we are, as readers, not blessed with unlimited memory after all. Esther Freud’s achievement here, however, is to place this book in its own time, imbuing it with its own sense of memory (it is an account from a child’s perspective): it is not perfect, but its second reading does confirm the impressions of the first.

Freud’s title comes from words apparently uttered by Maretta, a somewhat fey and moping character who joins the unnamed young child narrator and her slightly older sister, Bea, with their mother and Maretta’s partner John on a road trip, en route for Morocco, in what we can assume to be the late 1960s or early 1970s. Maretta’s whole raison d’être at the start of the book (before Freud ships her back to England again and out of the way) is to set up the children’s burgeoning grappling at the meaning of words and ways of life. Freud writes, early on, following the travellers’ meeting with what the children’s mother calls an ‘undesirable’ at the port in Tangier:

‘Is it very hideous to be an undesirable?’ Bea asked.
Hideous was Bea’s and my favourite word. ‘Hideous’ and ‘kinky’. They were the only words we could remember Maretta ever having said.
‘Hideous kinky. Hideous kinky,’ I chanted to myself.

The words, and later other words that seem to fit the mould of trying to come to terms with where they are, are used by the children in their private games of chase/tap. This process of trying to come to terms is a continuing thread throughout the book. Hideous Kinky (Penguin Books, 1993; first published by Hamish Hamilton, 1992) carefully and gradually draws a picture of a somewhat self-serving (albeit undoubtedly loving) mother who takes her two young children on the road to Marrakech in search of self-fulfilment, immersion in the culture, and later a hankering to convert to Sufi Islam. On the way, she seems to forget her responsibilities towards the children who, in their own ways, both try to immerse and hanker after the ‘normality’ of mashed potato, school, fizzy drinks and sweets.

Such is Freud’s skill at writing from the younger child’s perspective (not in saccharine sweet stereotyped ways) that she manages to convince us of the magic of place at the same time as slowly unfolding the frustrating mother, who is also madly loved, before our eyes. The younger narrator child, for example, is taken by the mother on a hastily concocted hitch-hike from Marrakech to Algiers to visit and live at a mosque, the Zaouia, where the Sufi holy man Sheikh Bentounes lives; Bea, the older sibling, doesn’t want to go and is left behind with someone we’re only just introduced to, and later, we find that she’s been shifted around various unknown or unsavoury types and found in a hospice for polio sufferers. Bea is understandably upset at her mother (though in the narrative it must be pointed out that the damage that should have been done by this escapade is not played out for as long as one might expect). All the while, the child narrator suffers nightmares and bed-wetting. She fears the ‘Black Hand’ will come to strangle her mother and leave her lost. The child puts her own hand to her mother’s neck to try to protect her as she sleeps.

Her mother is an unpredictable force, albeit one who meditates, and the children can only hold on as best they can. Freud weaves in some beautiful imagery and sensory assemblages of market places and the crowded players in the Djemaa El Fna (the main square in Marrakech). There is an assortment of peripheral characters such as the dancing Senegalese Gnaoua, the Henna Ladies/Nappy Thieves from across the way in the Hotel Moulay Idriss where the family sometimes stay, the Fool who follows the children and their mother home on dark nights and who the children take a shining to in the Djemaa El Fna, the beggar girls of the square, and especially Khadija (in whose service, later in the book, the narrator’s mother partly reclaims some karmic respect by taking her to the Hammam — public baths — along with the other beggar girls before buying new caftans for them: although, of course, we find that the girls don’t then wear them because, we assume, they have to work after all).

Along the way, the mostly self-concerned mother is portrayed as someone who meets confusing strangers and does confusing things (the enigmatic Pedro the guitarist and his fellow travellers, for example, who the children wake to, unexpectedly bundled up warm in the garden, finding them running around naked and semi-naked). The adults tell a story of an earthquake and its sudden surprise. The children’s mother meets the suave and wealthy Luigi Mancini, who they’re impressed with, and who they hope their mother will continue a relationship with. He disappears, however, along with his estate: a place of magic that moves of its own accord, the girls surmise, because they can’t find it again. Mancini, or the epitome of him, hovers from time to time in the children’s thoughts as the story goes on, though we and they don’t meet again.

The most dominant non-family member in the book appears as a deeper driving force though, similarly in his absence, for the child narrator. Bilal works for the travelling Hadaoui, some form of ‘magic man’, early on, and takes the child as his flower girl in performances. The younger girl seems to love him very dearly and, indeed, Bilal and her mother seem set to continue their relationship until, too confusingly and suddenly for the child to grasp, he must leave to find further work. Bilal’s long hoped-for return is a ghost that hangs in the pages throughout. It is as if he represents some form of stability that the children desperately need, though won’t quite express.

Freud’s story is a journey, though one without defined plot. This doesn’t matter because what we’re presented with is a tale of subtle love and frustration, abandonments, confusions, immersions and beauty. What these subtleties ought also to be provided with, however, is a closer editorial insistence on correctly finished sentences. There is a proliferation of partly constructed sentences throughout the book, which does have a tendency to distract the discerning eye. This minor gripe aside though, Hideous Kinky is a weave of colour, love and an attentive eye on what it is to be a child in an adult’s slipstream of dreams.

Freud has pressed Hideous Kinky in time, and as such it continues to impress itself upon the reader’s mind.