« Dean’s intelligence was every bit as formal and shining and complete, without the tedious
intellectualness. And his «criminality» was not something that sulked and sneered; it was a wild yeasaying overburst of American joy; it was Western, the west wind, an ode from the Plains, something new, long prophesied, long a-coming (he only stole cars for joy rides). Besides, all my New York friends were in the negative, nightmare position of putting down society and giving their tired bookish or political or psychoanalytical reasons, but Dean just raced in society, eager for bread and love; he didn’t care one way or the other, «so long’s I can get that lil ole gal with that lil sumpin down there tween her legs, boy,» and «so long’s we can eat, son, y’ear me? I’m hungry, I’m starving, let’s eat right now!» – and off we’d rush to eat, whereof, as saith Ecclesiastes, «It is your portion under the sun.»
A western kinsman of the sun, Dean. »
JACK KEROUAC, On the Road
PARIS POETRY 