I just finished this book today and I must say many of his sentences were a bit much, particularly since some things in life should not run on over several pages in my opinion except maybe once or twice, but really, where’s the damn period, it’s just a city street scene for goodness sakes and so all in all I did not enjoy as much of this one as much as On The Road, but in both I like Jack the most when he’s alone, in Washington State watching for fire, top of a remote mountain praying to God, or his trip to Africa and Europe seeing God everywhere he can spin together thoughts and words and sounds and sights and prayers and songs bravely sweet and kind, like a poet and you know how poets are, wanting so much all the damn time.
Of course I want to travel alone, and be free.
From the last chapter, page 173.
There's nothing nobler than to put up with a few inconveniences like snakes and dust for the sake of absolute freedom.
I myself was a hobo only of sorts, as you see, because I knew someday my literary efforts would be rewarded by social protection - I was not a real hobo with no hope ever except that secret eternal hope you get sleeping in empty boxcars flying up the Salinas Valley in hot January sunshine full of Golden Eternity toward San Jose where mean-looking old bo's 'll look at you from surly lips and offer you something to eat and a drink too - down by the tracks or in the Guadaloupe Creekbottom.
The original hobo dream was best expressed in a lovely little poem mentioned by Dwight Goddard on his Buddhist Bible:
Oh for this one rare occurrence
Gladly would I give ten thousand pieces of gold!
A hat is on my head, a bundle on my back,
And my staff, the refreshing breeze and the full moon.
[Picture of Jack found here.]
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