Books My Son Needs To Read — On The Road

Now that I have a son — a chubby, happy one — of course I’m thinking about what he ought to read. You know, once he can read.

There are the things all humans should read: Shakespeare, Milton, Woolf, Orwell, Wilde, Cather, etc. The stuff in the canon, the stuff you’ve got a 90% chance of being taught in school. And that stuff’s great.

Then there are the books boys should read. They’re not just for boys, but in my opinion they’re mandatory for boys. And since I’m in charge of only one boy for the next 18 years, they’re mandatory for my son.

(I’d love to do this for my daughter. However, I’ve never been a young girl of any age, so I’m afraid I can’t help her much with the girl-specific stuff. My wife’s on the case, and she’ll do an amazing job of it, as usual.)

Number one on the list is On The Road. When I think of a boy book, this is the one. If you’re American and have a Y chromosome, this should be the book you pick up on your 16th birthday.

Every year I have a disturbing number of college freshmen who’ve never read On The Road, never heard of Kerouac. This trend shows me a serious lack of wonder in these guys about the world around them. To have a few students who’ve never read On The Road, hey, that happens, but to see it en masse, that has to mean something about the way these kids think. Maybe when you can YouTube a video from any place on Earth, a book about 1950s America is underwhelming.

But that book isn’t just about the 50s, and it’s more than Americana. It’s about wanderlust, the craving for something else, something new, something bigger than you’ve ever had before. If you’re a teenage boy, this is a feeling you probably have.

And it’s one I’d want to encourage in my son. Get out there, kiddo, it’s a pretty cool place, this planet.

And then there’s also a reckless nature to the novel, to the characters as well as the prose. Certainly Dean Moriarty makes some poor decisions through the book, and serves quite clearly as Sal Paradise’s Id, which is enough to appeal to any young boy. But the prose is also wild, which Kerouac wasn’t ashamed to admit. In fact, her reveled in it, claimed it as a part of his writing process.

Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy.”

The legend of that process has become more of a tall tale. He didn’t, for example, write the whole book in three weeks, though he did write it on a scroll. Kerouac was more of a craftsman than his reputation allows. But even then, there’s that wild streak, one that I think it’s helpful to respect in teenage boys.

Not indulge, but respect. And there are few better places to do it than in a book like On The Road. Last I checked, no one got themselves in big trouble by just reading a book.

And hopefully, the book encourages my son to get out there and explore. Not like Dean, or even like Sal really, but to see that doing so can enrich his mind in ways nothing else can. Maybe one time he’ll even deign to take a trip with his old man…