Bruce Cook

It may seem hard to believe, but at the time of his death 10 years ago, Jack Kerouac was considered a has been, all but forgotten by those who had read On the Road and proclaimed him the king of the Beats. The hippies, the inheritors of the freedom that Kerouac extolled and exercised, had never heard of him—or, if they had, thought of him as one of those old guys who wrote books. He languished in Orlando, Florida—alcoholic, dyspeptic, given to fits of anger against both the Establishment and those who opposed it. Was he a man without a country?

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