I read Orpheus Emerged, a posthumously published novel by John Jack Kerouac. written when he was in his early 20s, and it shows. a self-conscious effort, albeit fairly supple nonetheless. being so short, the publisher plumps it up with a Creeley intro [actually, I don't know how tall the publisher is], which refers little to the novel, some journal entries that do, a note on the Beat movement, and so on till 176 pages are filled. at least the publisher didn't resort to 16 point type. Kerouac's journal encapsulates the characters:

Michael--the genius of imagination and art, 22
Paul--the genius of life and love, 22, etc

oh brother. what interests me about Kerouac is full steam ahead, the energy of writing. the sort of school-taught writing mode here is good only in stifling Kerouac. "Symbolized Idea--M. trying to transcend human emotions to those of God...". yikes! the novel kinda says that, unconvincingly. see, I'd rather read a Fu Manchu novel than be bothered with stuff like that. it aint ultimately sincere, really. the best novels and fiction are the ones in which the author gets really wound up. this occurs in different ways, a trusting of the invented world, say, or of the process. Woolf commits to her experiments and the intensity of her characters, Tolkien to his imagined world, and so forth. I didn't actually find On The Road such a breakthru, it is slacker and driftier than I expected. but I like the idea of Kerouac pounding away. here, tho, he's still just a student.