Fifty years ago, take a vehicle to escape the urban amenities, travel long miles, jumping from one place to another and even pave another country, it meant the total irreverence. To bail a little more authenticity and, if individuals were proud to write paragraphs unprintable due to the anger of the texts. No matter staking everything on drugs, for the trip through the charming company of other budding writers. Now might sound appealing to many people, including the brand new literary critics who refuse to live with us in the mud, in Mexico. I would also imagine that the mind would Kerouac drove through the villages of Michoacan or the streets of Ciudad Juarez, insurance flatly refuse to cross the border. Not have the stomach to collect human heads or casings have cartridges of AK-47.
I reread
On the way and indeed, it seemed outrageous and childish. I think I rot increasingly, and almost nothing shakes my insides. Israel Chavez 11:14 pm
"An ambulance passed like an arrow. American Ambulances advanced dodging traffic and sounding the siren, here [in Mexico] ambulances are on the streets of the city over a hundred miles an hour and everyone tries to depart on time and the ambulance did not stop under any circumstances and is in full swing. The drivers were Indians. People, even old ladies running after of the buses that never stopped. The drivers were barefoot and gesticulating wildly. Some crucifixes and marijuana sold in the street, others were drunk in chapels or stealing all the time. "* Jack Kerouac. On the Road. Barcelona: Anagram. 2005. 364 p.
