In 1955, roughly the time he was working on The Dharma Bums, our first beatnik also wrote this biography of Prince Siddartha Gotama, the Shakyamuni Buddha. Like all biographers, Kerouac filtered the narrative through his own lens, and this is a thoroughly Westernized version, addressed to potential converts. It stresses the abandonment of materialism and the search for meaning, a veritable primer of Buddhist thought. This new edition is being issued by Penguin to coincide with the release of the 50th anniversary edition of The Dharma Bums. It includes an introduction by renowned Buddhist philosopher Robert Thurman, which provides some historical context for Kerouac’s study and embrace of Buddhism, as well as placing the sutras and texts Kerouac used for the book in the context of the rest of the Buddhist canon. It will be an intriguing read for Buddhists, and will no doubt fascinate Keroumaniacs.
Show lessIn 1955, roughly the time he was working on The Dharma Bums, our first beatnik also wrote this biography of Prince Siddartha Gotama, the Shakyamuni Buddha. Like all biographers, Kerouac filtered the narrative through his own lens, and this is a thoroughly Westernized version, addressed to potential converts. It stresses the abandonment of materialism and the search for meaning, a veritable primer of Buddhist thought. This new edition is being issued by Penguin to coincide with the release of the 50th anniversary edition of The Dharma Bums. It includes an introduction by renowned Buddhist philosopher Robert Thurman, which provides some historical context for Kerouac’s study and embrace of Buddhism, as well as placing the sutras and texts Kerouac used for the book in the context of the rest of the Buddhist canon. It will be an intriguing read for Buddhists, and will no doubt fascinate Keroumaniacs.
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To be completely honest, I didn't really like Kerouac's Buddha. He was far too Catholic. With every "thee" and "thou" and every "lord" and "savior" I became a little more disenchanted. His Buddha was very personal, and, for that reason, largely inaccessible.While I feel somewhat certain that Kerouac might have considered this to be one of his greatest works, as he always seemed to be enthralled by his religious experiences, but it really wasn't. This, I think, was more of a personal reflection on his idea of Buddhism and a connection to a Buddha he could love. By blending together his lifelong beliefs with this Eastern philosophy, he was able to create a religion that he could believe in. A place where his guilt, perhaps his most defining characteristic, meant something greater than himself. His voice was missing with all its great unending sentences rambling long into the night like some sad locomotive barreling across the Nevada desert screaming its way into oblivion with every chug and pull and ache. But I digress. Reading this, I could not hear Kerouac. I could hear love and adoration and awe combined with the regurgitation of some prominent Buddhist texts. I cannot fault him for this single scholarly work, but it falls among the ranks of Pic and Orpheus Emerged, which, while not terrible works, were simply not Kerouac.Still, I cannot give Ti Jean a bad review. He is still closer to my heart than any writer has ever been, and for that I would love his grocery lists.
Show lessTo be completely honest, I didn't really like Kerouac's Buddha. He was far too Catholic. With every "thee" and "thou" and every "lord" and "savior" I became a little more disenchanted. His Buddha was very personal, and, for that reason, largely inaccessible.While I feel somewhat certain that Kerouac might have considered this to be one of his greatest works, as he always seemed to be enthralled by his religious experiences, but it really wasn't. This, I think, was more of a personal reflection on his idea of Buddhism and a connection to a Buddha he could love. By blending together his lifelong beliefs with this Eastern philosophy, he was able to create a religion that he could believe in. A place where his guilt, perhaps his most defining characteristic, meant something greater than himself. His voice was missing with all its great unending sentences rambling long into the night like some sad locomotive barreling across the Nevada desert screaming its way into oblivion with every chug and pull and ache. But I digress. Reading this, I could not hear Kerouac. I could hear love and adoration and awe combined with the regurgitation of some prominent Buddhist texts. I cannot fault him for this single scholarly work, but it falls among the ranks of Pic and Orpheus Emerged, which, while not terrible works, were simply not Kerouac.Still, I cannot give Ti Jean a bad review. He is still closer to my heart than any writer has ever been, and for that I would love his grocery lists.
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