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jennykeery's review against another edition
4.0
This is a novelisation of Kerouac's memories of his older brother, who died at 9 years old. There is a layered feel to the narration, as the story is told by a combination of Kerouac as both a child and an adult. The duality this creates made me feel like I was experiencing the events with the innocence of a 4-year old coupled with the understanding of an adult, making it very poignant. I loved the style of the novel, although sometimes the examples and descriptions of the brother's saintliness were laid on a bit thick.
ssunier's review against another edition
emotional
reflective
sad
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? No
4.0
decadent_and_depraved's review against another edition
5.0
The child's gentle spirit ought never to meet the vicious winds of death. Rest well, Gerard.
"Behold: – One day he found a mouse caught in Scoop’s mousetrap outside the fish market on West Sixth Street—Faces more bleak than envenomed spiders, those who invented mousetraps, and had paths of bullgrained dullishness beaten to their bloodstained doors, and crowed in the sill—For that matter, on this gray morning, I can remember the faces of the Canucks of Lowell, the small tradesmen, butchers, butter and egg men, fishmen, barrelmakers, bums in benches (no benches but the oldtime sidewalk chair spitters by the dump, by banana peels steaming in the midday broil)—The hungjawed dull faces of grown adults who had no words to praise or please little trying-angels like Gerard working to save the mouse from the trap—But just stared or gawped on jawpipes and were silly in their prime—The little mouse, thrashing in the concrete, was released by Gerard—It went wobbling to the gutter with the fishjuice and spit, to die—He picked it tenderly and in his pocket sowed the goodness—Took it home and nursed it, actually bandaged it, held it, stroked it, prepared a little basket for it, as Ma watched amazed and men walked around in the streets “doin good for themselves” rounding up paper beyond their beans—Bums! all!—A thought smaller than a mouse’s turd directed to the Sunday Service Mass necessity, and that usually tinged by inner countings how much they’ll plap in th’basket—I dont remember rationally but in my soul and mind Yes there’s a mouse, peeping, and Gerard, and the basket, and the kitchen the scene of this heart-tender little hospital—“That big thing hurt you when it fell on your little leg” (because Gerard could really feel empathetically that pain, pain he’d had enough to not be apprentice at the trade and pang)—He could feel the iron snap grinding his little imagined birdy bones and squeezing and cracking and pressing harder unto worse-than-death the bleak-in-life—For it’s not innocent blank nature made hills look sad and woe-y, it’s men, with their awful minds—Their ignorance, grossness, mean petty thwarthings, schemes, hypocrite tendencies, repenting over losses, gloating over gains—Pot-boys, bone-carriers, funeral directors, glove-wearers, fog-breathers, shit-betiders, pissers, befoulers, stenchers, fat calf converters, utter blots & scabs on the face of it the earth—“Mouse? Who cares about a gad dam mouse—God musta made em to fit our traps”—Typical thought–I’d as soon drop a barrel of you-know-what on the roof of my own house, as walk a mile in conversation about one of them–I dont count Gerard in that seedy lot, that crew of bulls—The particular bleak gray jowled pale eyed sneaky fearful French Canadian quality of man, with his black store, his bags of produce, his bottomless mean and secret cellar, his herrings in a barrel, his hidden gold rings, his wife and daughter jongling in another dumb room, his dirty broom in the corner, his piousness, his cold hands, his hot bowels, his well-used whip, his easy greeting and hard opinion—Lay me down in sweet India or old Tahiti, I dont want to be buried in their cemetery—In fact, cremate me and deliver me to les Indes, I’m through—Wait till I get going on some of these other bloodlouts, for that matter—Yet not likely Gerard ever, if he’d have lived, would have fattened as I to come and groan about peoples and in plain print loud and foolish, but was a soft tenderhearted angel the likes of which you’ll never find again in science fictions of the future with their bleeding plastic penis-rods and round hole-machines and worries about how to get from Pit to Pisspot which is one millionth of a billionth of an inch further in endlessness of our gracious Lord than the earth speck (which I’d spew) (if I were you) (Maha Meru)—Some afternoon, Gerard goes to school—It had been on a noontime errand when sent to the store to buy smoked fish, that he’d found the mouse–Now, smiling, I see him from my overstuffed glooms in the parlor corner walking up Beaulieu Street to school with his strapped books and long black stockings and that peculiar gloomy sweetness of his person that was all things to me, I saw nothing else—Happy because his mouse was fed and repaired and safe in her little basket—Innocent enough comes our cat in the mid drowses of day, and eats, and leaves but the tail, enough to make all Lowell Laugh, but when Gerard comes home at 4 to see his tail-let in the bottom of the poor little basket he’d so laboriously contrived, he cried—I cried too.
My mother tried to explain that it wasnt the cat’s fault and nobody’s fault and such was life.
He knew it wasnt the cat’s fault but he took Nanny and sat her on the rocking chair and held her jowls and delivered her an exhortation no less:
“Méchante! Bad girl! Dont you understand what you’ve done? When will you understand? We dont disturb little animals and little things! We leave them alone! We’ll never go to heaven if we go on eating each other and destroying each other like that all the time!—without thinking, without knowing!—wake up, foolish girl!—realize what you’ve done!—Be ashamed! shame! crazy face! stop wiggling your ears! Understand what I’m tellin you! It’s got to stop some fine day! There wont always be time!—Bad girl! Go on! Go in your corner! Think it over well!”
I had never seen Gerard angry.
I was amazed and scared in the corner, as one might have felt seeing Christ in the temple bashing the moneychanger tables every which away and scourging them with his seldom whip."
"Behold: – One day he found a mouse caught in Scoop’s mousetrap outside the fish market on West Sixth Street—Faces more bleak than envenomed spiders, those who invented mousetraps, and had paths of bullgrained dullishness beaten to their bloodstained doors, and crowed in the sill—For that matter, on this gray morning, I can remember the faces of the Canucks of Lowell, the small tradesmen, butchers, butter and egg men, fishmen, barrelmakers, bums in benches (no benches but the oldtime sidewalk chair spitters by the dump, by banana peels steaming in the midday broil)—The hungjawed dull faces of grown adults who had no words to praise or please little trying-angels like Gerard working to save the mouse from the trap—But just stared or gawped on jawpipes and were silly in their prime—The little mouse, thrashing in the concrete, was released by Gerard—It went wobbling to the gutter with the fishjuice and spit, to die—He picked it tenderly and in his pocket sowed the goodness—Took it home and nursed it, actually bandaged it, held it, stroked it, prepared a little basket for it, as Ma watched amazed and men walked around in the streets “doin good for themselves” rounding up paper beyond their beans—Bums! all!—A thought smaller than a mouse’s turd directed to the Sunday Service Mass necessity, and that usually tinged by inner countings how much they’ll plap in th’basket—I dont remember rationally but in my soul and mind Yes there’s a mouse, peeping, and Gerard, and the basket, and the kitchen the scene of this heart-tender little hospital—“That big thing hurt you when it fell on your little leg” (because Gerard could really feel empathetically that pain, pain he’d had enough to not be apprentice at the trade and pang)—He could feel the iron snap grinding his little imagined birdy bones and squeezing and cracking and pressing harder unto worse-than-death the bleak-in-life—For it’s not innocent blank nature made hills look sad and woe-y, it’s men, with their awful minds—Their ignorance, grossness, mean petty thwarthings, schemes, hypocrite tendencies, repenting over losses, gloating over gains—Pot-boys, bone-carriers, funeral directors, glove-wearers, fog-breathers, shit-betiders, pissers, befoulers, stenchers, fat calf converters, utter blots & scabs on the face of it the earth—“Mouse? Who cares about a gad dam mouse—God musta made em to fit our traps”—Typical thought–I’d as soon drop a barrel of you-know-what on the roof of my own house, as walk a mile in conversation about one of them–I dont count Gerard in that seedy lot, that crew of bulls—The particular bleak gray jowled pale eyed sneaky fearful French Canadian quality of man, with his black store, his bags of produce, his bottomless mean and secret cellar, his herrings in a barrel, his hidden gold rings, his wife and daughter jongling in another dumb room, his dirty broom in the corner, his piousness, his cold hands, his hot bowels, his well-used whip, his easy greeting and hard opinion—Lay me down in sweet India or old Tahiti, I dont want to be buried in their cemetery—In fact, cremate me and deliver me to les Indes, I’m through—Wait till I get going on some of these other bloodlouts, for that matter—Yet not likely Gerard ever, if he’d have lived, would have fattened as I to come and groan about peoples and in plain print loud and foolish, but was a soft tenderhearted angel the likes of which you’ll never find again in science fictions of the future with their bleeding plastic penis-rods and round hole-machines and worries about how to get from Pit to Pisspot which is one millionth of a billionth of an inch further in endlessness of our gracious Lord than the earth speck (which I’d spew) (if I were you) (Maha Meru)—Some afternoon, Gerard goes to school—It had been on a noontime errand when sent to the store to buy smoked fish, that he’d found the mouse–Now, smiling, I see him from my overstuffed glooms in the parlor corner walking up Beaulieu Street to school with his strapped books and long black stockings and that peculiar gloomy sweetness of his person that was all things to me, I saw nothing else—Happy because his mouse was fed and repaired and safe in her little basket—Innocent enough comes our cat in the mid drowses of day, and eats, and leaves but the tail, enough to make all Lowell Laugh, but when Gerard comes home at 4 to see his tail-let in the bottom of the poor little basket he’d so laboriously contrived, he cried—I cried too.
My mother tried to explain that it wasnt the cat’s fault and nobody’s fault and such was life.
He knew it wasnt the cat’s fault but he took Nanny and sat her on the rocking chair and held her jowls and delivered her an exhortation no less:
“Méchante! Bad girl! Dont you understand what you’ve done? When will you understand? We dont disturb little animals and little things! We leave them alone! We’ll never go to heaven if we go on eating each other and destroying each other like that all the time!—without thinking, without knowing!—wake up, foolish girl!—realize what you’ve done!—Be ashamed! shame! crazy face! stop wiggling your ears! Understand what I’m tellin you! It’s got to stop some fine day! There wont always be time!—Bad girl! Go on! Go in your corner! Think it over well!”
I had never seen Gerard angry.
I was amazed and scared in the corner, as one might have felt seeing Christ in the temple bashing the moneychanger tables every which away and scourging them with his seldom whip."
buddhafish's review against another edition
4.0
[27th book of 2021. Artist for this review is American photographer Dorothea Lange—photographs (unless stated otherwise) are not of any of the people in this book, but rather photographs that capture the feeling.]
We have a scan of one of Kerouac's notebooks in which he outlined the chronological order of the Duluoz Legend as he had written it so far. It is incomplete as he went on to write novels later on that fit earlier in the story's order. For example, this novel was published in 1963, and is his 11th or 12th novel, but the first chronological installment in the Legend. It is so early in Kerouac's life that he barely features in it himself, being only 4-years-old; with that in mind, this is perhaps one of the more overtly "fictional" novels of the Legend. The narrative goes into Gerard's head, and follows Kerouac's father on trips to the pub. It is essentially drawing a portrait of Kerouac's family during his older brother's illness [rheumatic fever]. Gerard is 9-years-old and the plot of this novel is his inevitable spiralling towards death.
Kerouac's aforementioned notebook page.
Of course, this is a biased portrait of a family. Kerouac, presumably, does not entirely remember his feelings at the age of 4 and so the emotion we have coming from the prose is the 41-year-old Jacky writing his own past, and his own family's portrayal, too. Gerard is presented from the get-go as some Zen-like boy, heavenly, spiritual. On page 2 of the novel it says, The world a hatch of Duluoz Saintliness, and him the big chicken, Gerard, who warned me to be kind to little animals and took me by the hand on forgotten little walks.
At certain points in the narrative, Kerouac admits he does not know something, or his memory his hazy, which strikes oddly when entire sections of the novel are completely without his 4-year-old-self present. As ever, he is blending the concept of fact and fiction, which is one of my favourite things to read. It's also a hazy love-letter to Lowell, Massachusetts where Kerouac grew up. He called this novel of his own a "pain-tale", and there's no supposing why.
Gerard is 9-years-old and dying. His death also brings about many interesting ideas that Kerouac was probably battling with, and had been battling with. He wrote this in '63 and was dead by '69 due to the amount he drank. I don't know if it's true but I remember reading once that he had told his friends he couldn't kill himself, on account of being Catholic, so was going to drink himself to death instead. There's some poignant lines regarding religion throughout the novel, particularly, from Gerard, who is facing the fact that he may soon be going to Heaven—would make an angel melt—If angels were angels in the first place.
Francois Gerard Kerouac's Grave—Nashua, Hillsborough County, New Hampshire.
As for the prose itself: Kerouac gets a lot of negative reviews, and frankly, I've never met a true Kerouac fan in person. My old professor once said he "understood" my love for him, but whether that meant because it was a love he shared or not, I don't know. It's not often you see anything to do with Kerouac without his drinking being mentioned, his spontaneous prose, and the fact that Capote called his work "typing, not writing"; I disagree with Capote, but I like his work too. Kerouac's novels have a certain rhythm to them and I think it's the sort of writing you have to get used to. Here's an example of some beautiful prose, in my eyes, but not the sort of prose you would read anywhere else: All of a sudden tossed wars of tree-tops will be warmer wars and less dry and crackety ones, and there'll be rumours and singing down the hillsides as snow melts, running for cover under the bloody light, to join the river's big body— It's rambly, poetic; Kerouac often doesn't bother with punctuation or the "rules" of it, and he even said in a late interview with "The Paris Review" that publishers were told not to change his prose, but to leave it, as it was, "mistakes" and all.
Finally though, this slim novella all falls back to Gerard and his death, which the novel slowly floats towards in a dreamlike stupor. And because it is such a personal novel, Kerouac is rather confessional (as he is in his best novels—in a sick sort of way, Kerouac's best writing comes from his weakness being shown, rather than the idealism of his younger writing): And there's no doubt in my heart that my mother loves Gerard more than she loves me. And, a large confession again that reflects on the Duluoz Legend itself:
I won't spoil the real heartbreaking bits as Gerard dies and some of the dialogue, real or not, that Kerouac's mother wails. There's a very poignant bit around the middle of the novella where Gerard is in school and falls asleep at his desk and is woken by his teacher and tells her that he, in his dream, has been to Heaven; he frightens everyone around him. I wonder how I would have reacted to this had I read it in its proper position as the first book in the Legend. I think Kerouac takes time to like; a few years ago I read On the Road and didn't know what I thought of it. This is now my 11th Kerouac novel, and I consider him one of my favourite writers and biggest influences, his flaws and all. The 4-year-old Kerouac in these pages has not yet met the road.
We have a scan of one of Kerouac's notebooks in which he outlined the chronological order of the Duluoz Legend as he had written it so far. It is incomplete as he went on to write novels later on that fit earlier in the story's order. For example, this novel was published in 1963, and is his 11th or 12th novel, but the first chronological installment in the Legend. It is so early in Kerouac's life that he barely features in it himself, being only 4-years-old; with that in mind, this is perhaps one of the more overtly "fictional" novels of the Legend. The narrative goes into Gerard's head, and follows Kerouac's father on trips to the pub. It is essentially drawing a portrait of Kerouac's family during his older brother's illness [rheumatic fever]. Gerard is 9-years-old and the plot of this novel is his inevitable spiralling towards death.
Kerouac's aforementioned notebook page.
Of course, this is a biased portrait of a family. Kerouac, presumably, does not entirely remember his feelings at the age of 4 and so the emotion we have coming from the prose is the 41-year-old Jacky writing his own past, and his own family's portrayal, too. Gerard is presented from the get-go as some Zen-like boy, heavenly, spiritual. On page 2 of the novel it says, The world a hatch of Duluoz Saintliness, and him the big chicken, Gerard, who warned me to be kind to little animals and took me by the hand on forgotten little walks.
At certain points in the narrative, Kerouac admits he does not know something, or his memory his hazy, which strikes oddly when entire sections of the novel are completely without his 4-year-old-self present. As ever, he is blending the concept of fact and fiction, which is one of my favourite things to read. It's also a hazy love-letter to Lowell, Massachusetts where Kerouac grew up. He called this novel of his own a "pain-tale", and there's no supposing why.
Gerard is 9-years-old and dying. His death also brings about many interesting ideas that Kerouac was probably battling with, and had been battling with. He wrote this in '63 and was dead by '69 due to the amount he drank. I don't know if it's true but I remember reading once that he had told his friends he couldn't kill himself, on account of being Catholic, so was going to drink himself to death instead. There's some poignant lines regarding religion throughout the novel, particularly, from Gerard, who is facing the fact that he may soon be going to Heaven—would make an angel melt—If angels were angels in the first place.
Francois Gerard Kerouac's Grave—Nashua, Hillsborough County, New Hampshire.
As for the prose itself: Kerouac gets a lot of negative reviews, and frankly, I've never met a true Kerouac fan in person. My old professor once said he "understood" my love for him, but whether that meant because it was a love he shared or not, I don't know. It's not often you see anything to do with Kerouac without his drinking being mentioned, his spontaneous prose, and the fact that Capote called his work "typing, not writing"; I disagree with Capote, but I like his work too. Kerouac's novels have a certain rhythm to them and I think it's the sort of writing you have to get used to. Here's an example of some beautiful prose, in my eyes, but not the sort of prose you would read anywhere else: All of a sudden tossed wars of tree-tops will be warmer wars and less dry and crackety ones, and there'll be rumours and singing down the hillsides as snow melts, running for cover under the bloody light, to join the river's big body— It's rambly, poetic; Kerouac often doesn't bother with punctuation or the "rules" of it, and he even said in a late interview with "The Paris Review" that publishers were told not to change his prose, but to leave it, as it was, "mistakes" and all.
Finally though, this slim novella all falls back to Gerard and his death, which the novel slowly floats towards in a dreamlike stupor. And because it is such a personal novel, Kerouac is rather confessional (as he is in his best novels—in a sick sort of way, Kerouac's best writing comes from his weakness being shown, rather than the idealism of his younger writing): And there's no doubt in my heart that my mother loves Gerard more than she loves me. And, a large confession again that reflects on the Duluoz Legend itself:
I'm grown sick in my papers (my writing papers, my bloody 'literary career' ladies and gentlemen) and the whole reason why I ever wrote at all and drew breath to bite in vain with pen and ink, great gad with indefensible Usable pencil, because of Gerard [...]
I won't spoil the real heartbreaking bits as Gerard dies and some of the dialogue, real or not, that Kerouac's mother wails. There's a very poignant bit around the middle of the novella where Gerard is in school and falls asleep at his desk and is woken by his teacher and tells her that he, in his dream, has been to Heaven; he frightens everyone around him. I wonder how I would have reacted to this had I read it in its proper position as the first book in the Legend. I think Kerouac takes time to like; a few years ago I read On the Road and didn't know what I thought of it. This is now my 11th Kerouac novel, and I consider him one of my favourite writers and biggest influences, his flaws and all. The 4-year-old Kerouac in these pages has not yet met the road.
lena_mei's review against another edition
5.0
Another proof that Kerouac is so much more than On the road
h2oetry's review against another edition
3.0
3.5 stars
The first installation of Jack Kerouac’s “Duluoz Legend” offers a brief glimpse into the short life of his older brother, Gerard, whose death at age nine was a deep loss to Jack.
Jack viewed Gerard as a saint, and writes from that perspective throughout while he tries to cope with death, life, existence, meaning, etc, maintaining that what Gerard taught him can also be accessed through the passed-down wisdom from the past.
It’s got the expected Kerouackian flourishes, although it mainly displays young childhood rather than the freewheeling characters from his later oeuvre. Much of the book is touching, which I think is an overlooked aspect of Kerouac’s writing.
I plan on reading through the “Duluoz Legend” books in order, even though I’ve read a number of them already.
The first installation of Jack Kerouac’s “Duluoz Legend” offers a brief glimpse into the short life of his older brother, Gerard, whose death at age nine was a deep loss to Jack.
Jack viewed Gerard as a saint, and writes from that perspective throughout while he tries to cope with death, life, existence, meaning, etc, maintaining that what Gerard taught him can also be accessed through the passed-down wisdom from the past.
It’s got the expected Kerouackian flourishes, although it mainly displays young childhood rather than the freewheeling characters from his later oeuvre. Much of the book is touching, which I think is an overlooked aspect of Kerouac’s writing.
I plan on reading through the “Duluoz Legend” books in order, even though I’ve read a number of them already.
laurenw22's review
dark
emotional
sad
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? No
3.5
The first book in the Duluoz legend is probably the most unexpected I’ve read. I’ve read the classics by Kerouac, I.e. On the Road, Dharma Bums, but this one was so different from anything else I’ve read of Kerouac’s. It’s a super short, mostly non-fiction, piece of writing about Kerouac’s brother who died when he was a child. It’s incredibly emotionally charged, though I sometimes found the ‘angelic’ nature of Gerard was laid on a bit think. I liked it, but didn’t love it.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Child death and Chronic illness