“Minor Characters”

Thoughts on “Minor Characters” by Joyce Johnson

A memoir of her early life, including her relationship with Jack Kerouac

I like to review books that were written over 20 years ago

Really, I’m fascinated with Jack and the Beats

I’m also interested in the ladies who were in that scene too

Of course when you’re young you’re part of a scene

When you get old you don’t have the stamina to tear it up every night

The writers and artists hanging around Greenwich Village in the 50s

Found like-minded people and well-worn bars filled with booze and smoke

Very comforting to artists and writers

But then there was a lot of depression and general craziness in that crowd

That added to their audience’s attraction 

There can’t be a “scene” without madness and addiction

Wild parties and drugs and booze do offer the extreme highs

But they always come with equally low lows

I know this

This mood stretching, up and down, is the fodder of Jack’s books

If his subject matter were music one would call this “range”

Most music doesn’t have enough range for me

Same with books

I can’t read vampire books or Obama biographies 

But I did like Joyce Johnson’s writing

It was the best book about Jack I’ve read and I’ve read many

She captures the scene at that time and Jack’s suffering, when not drunk

And her own pain being young and wanting a life she couldn’t have

Working temp jobs as a typist, hitting Greenwich Village at night

Because it was filled with excited, drunk, young creative-types

Talking about what they were going to do

Lots of people think abstract artists and kooky beatnik writers just sucked

Like every opinion, there are truths but I tend to look at the positive things here

Things like breaking away from old, tired ideas

Going out of the house at night to be with your crazy friends

Not needing the perfect style and all the material stuff

Living downtown

But here I sit, just finished work, about to start on a freelance job

Which I do before and after work everyday

No “scene” here yet

I’ll close with a picture of me when I was a young fella

I’m on the beach in Spain

I used to drink like a fish

But I’d still go running on the beach a lot

I’d stay up real late drinking and talking

Wake up with horrible hangovers and vow to change

Which I would, for a day or two

Until I’d see all the fun in the bars as I walked home all sweaty from a run

And I’d get all excited about going back

All dressed up with a pocket full of “ciens” for beers

Having read Joyce’s book, I wonder how I would have fared in that scene

I’m shy like Jack, and like to loosen up with a drink, maybe two…

I’m old now though, and wiser on the subject of wildness

I feel safe here with my freelance work tonight

Non-beatnik girlfriend coming down for the weekend tomorrow

I’ll start reading “And the Hippos were Boiled in their Tanks” next

After that I’ll read another Joyce Johnson memoir called “Missing Men”

Which I hear is sad but she writes in a beautiful way

Accepts the past and appreciates the time she had