Reading Kerouac:

Now, I’m fairly certain that I’m gay as fuck, but I think even I’m a little bit in love with Dean Moriarty. (Or want to be him. Or both.)

I am also in love with these words, oh my god. It’s incredibly immersive and poetic, and the rhythms make you want to speed your way through and speak it aloud—which is the best kind of prose.

And I have intensely amazing feelings about the setting and the time period, and the way the writing makes them materialise so completely when you read it—the way that America is painted in the prose, simultaneously so shiny and intricate and fantastical, and smoky and dusty and self-destructive and honest. It’s Heaven and Hell and the inconsequential and torturous tedium of middles, it’s the criminal and the intellectual and the secret and the screamed-from-rooftops-and street-corners all at once, and it’s really making me want to add 1950s underground America to the Very Exclusive List Of Historical Contexts In Which I Would Live If Given The Chance.