I read that Joan Haverty Kerouac brought her husband split pea soup to keep him going while he wrote this book. If that’s true, it is now my #1 reason to hate split pea soup. To be fair to On The Road, it’s great material for drinking games. You could take a shot whenever the narrator’s race fetish peeks through, whenever he checks out a group of girls and makes sure to note that they’re teenagers, whenever he and his bros fantasize about beating up a queer person, whenever Marylou is called a whore, whenever Galatea’s husband abandons her, whenever the writing makes you wonder if maybe it just skimmed over rape, or whenever the narrator calls the women he’s sleeping with stupid. (Kinda telling on himself there). The possibilities are endless! Unfortunately, it’s still a boring, exhausting book.

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