Out of the blue, Danny asks me who Jack Kerouac is. He heard him mentioned in a song, I guess. I knew if I handed him a copy of On The Road he would give it a quick glance, decide it was stupid and that would be the end of it. So I gave him Desolation Angels instead.
Danny: (looking at picture of Kerouac) He doesn't look like I imagined him.
Me: How did you imagine him?
Danny: Better than that.
Danny: Aren't there supposed to be paragraphs?
Me: There are.
Danny: I don't see any.
Me: (Flipping several pages) See, you just have a really long paragraph here. Think of Kerouac as sort of the "anti-Cindy."
Danny: I don't like beatniks.
Me: Look, I understand the not liking Kerouac reaction. He was never my favourite beat. How about I read you some Rexroth? We can read him together.
Danny: How long are his paragraphs?
I'm pretty sure Danny will love Burroughs someday, but right now he's still pretty enchanted with Thomas Mann. He'll sit in the kitchen while I make dinner reading The Magic Mountain to me. Danny stumbles over some of the words ("vaulted" gave him some difficulty) and I know he doesn't have a clue what they are talking about, but he just adores the idea of getting consumption, and going off to a sanatorium to recuperate...wait for it...because "All they do in this book is, "Eat a lot of wonderful food, and sleep all day!"
Geez. I mean, when you put it that way he kind of has a point.
I wrote THIS ages ago, and long-time readers have probably seen it already, but for you newer readers, it might be a fun little quiz to take.
Now you stupid beatniks, GET OFF OF MY LAWN!