How is a book like a painting?

I’m currently reading the novel Maggie Cassidy, by Jack Kerouac, for the second time in a fortnight. I’m just a little bit in love with it. It’s a simple, sweet coming-of-age story. First loves, how we learn from them, grow from them, move apart from them, outgrow them.

I’d not read any Kerouac before, and his style took some getting used to. The best way I can describe it, is that where your everyday, classic novel describes a scene in precise detail, using more of a realist style:

Canaletto’s Grand Canal, Venice.

Kerouac is more of an impressionist, making use of broad strokes of vivid and emotional words to show us what he wants us to picture. It’s almost poetic.

Leonid Afremov’s Grand Canal.

It’s just really different. Anyway, this one short chapter, Chapter 9, really stood out for me. I just feel like it exposes such beauty in the everyday act of getting up. And of course it’s something everyone can relate to- especially that last line.

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