Satori In Paris - Jack Kerouac

 SATORI IN PARIS - JACK KEROUAC

Satori In Paris, or 'what I did on my holidays', by Jack Kerouac. Written in 1966, that's nine years after the publication of On The Road and just three years before Kerouac's passing. It's a memoir, essentially, of Kerouac's trip to France in search of his ancestors, what with him being French Canadian and wanting to trace his roots. 'Satori' is the Japanese word for 'sudden illumination', 'sudden awakening', or simply 'kick in the eye'.

To be truthful, it's unclear what his 'sudden illumination' was or when precisely during his ten days in France did it take place because when he's not quaffing cognac he's mostly being given the runaround by all the locals he's meeting. For most of his time there he's also wet from the rain and he even manages to lose his suitcase by missing the aeroplane it's been loaded on to. His stay in France is more akin, in fact, to Withnail And I, particularly the part when they plea for help from the farmer after telling him they've "come on holiday by accident".

There are obvious signs in Satori In Paris that Kerouac is on a decline and that he feels the world is set against him. His only joy and his only solace, it seems, is found in drinking. And of course, that's how he died, wasn't it? From cirrhosis of the liver due to alcohol abuse.

At the time of writing Satori In Paris, Kerouac was world famous though it doesn't seem to have done him much good or to have been of any use. He obviously has enough money to fly to France and to travel around a bit by train and taxi but he's still counting his pennies because he's not a wealthy man in the slightest. His fame back then only really stretched to younger generations which meant that to older people in France he was just some American tourist who by some freak of nature happened to speak French. Again, this would probably have been belittling to Kerouac, accentuated by him being unable to even get to meet his French publishers for a business chat as they're all 'out to lunch'.

Satori In Paris is a quick and easy read. It's a postcard from the edge. It's Kerouac as a Reuters war correspondent reporting that all is not well. There's movement on the borders and trouble in the hills, and Kerouac is letting us know that he's running out of tape. This is Kerouac drowning, not waving.

John Serpico