Tristessa - Book

Everyone who’s ever been to high school in America knows about Jack Kerouac and the beats. It’s likely that you’ve even read On The Road or at least might have stumbled upon the ultra-wack film adaptation featuring vampire goddess Bella as a two-dimensional bit character with one facial expression (playing against type - just kidding). If you are not an avid reader then you also likely never moved beyond the cliffs notes of old Jack’s most well-known novel. Ask anyone who didn’t drop out of college as an English major and tragically you’ll find that at best Jack finds himself hardly remembered or at least mired in the all too familiar Penguin Classics territory of American literature – a moot point – easily forgotten – old news. What most people don’t know is that Jack is the original punk rock masochist, dying the flames of his own high minded zeal and love of truth. Countless indie bands have referenced his work – even more mainstream acts like Smashing Pumpkins.

How hard was Jack Kerouac? He died of internal bleeding at the age of 47 due to advanced cirrhosis of the liver coupled with injuries sustained in a bar fight the night before. Now don’t get me wrong … drinking as much as he did meant that Jack penned some stuff that was pretty much shit. In fact it can be safely assumed that anything he ever wrote down was influenced heavily by post-war Bennies and shit-tons of cheap wine and whiskey. To get a sense of just how fucked up this guy was most of the time watch his live (at the time) TV interview with William Buckley Jr on YouTube a few short years before his death. For Christ’s sake his last words were “I’m bleeding.”

Despite his numerable intolerable literary moments however I have always had a soft spot for anything beat and as such have read even the notebooks of bad poetry and stupid doodles. I blame my dad who slipped a copy of Naked Lunch (by beat grandfather William S. Burroughs) into my trunk one summer before I left for camp. That was an interesting summer. My point is that I have attempted to save you from the obnoxious and call out one small work that I think you’ll appreciate. It’s called Tristessa and its 97 pages of the most beautiful prose I’ve ever read.

This is the book for bad hangover Sundays. You know the kind of morning where you can literally feel the lack of dopamine and you can’t seem to right yourself. The Sunday morning coming down from whatever the hell it was that you took the night before. You start to daydream about evil shit that might happen to you and you probably deserve it. You sincerely consider running out in front of a car or at least having a scotch for breakfast. This is the time to read Tristessa – out loud – all alone – as if you’re reciting it for God himself. It’s the penultimate in transcendent freshness. It hurts so good.

This short work is the story of a Mexico City whore who’s original name in real life was Esperanza Villanueva and who befriended Jack when he traveled there on multiple occasions. She is heavily addicted to morphine and lives in a shanty town that defies description. Jack named her Tristessa in the novel because in those days libel was taken seriously by publication houses. The title is apt however as it’s Spanish /Portuguese for “sadness.” Basically the story is loosely framed around real events but completely told from the first person perspective of Jack Duluoz (Kerouac) who comes to Mexico City to connect with an old friend and ends up falling in love with Tristessa. This is no ordinary love however. Jack is on a Buddhist kick – which means that he’s sworn off lust for lust’s sake. His entire ordeal is centered upon his raging alcohol fueled adoration of the strangely beatific Tristessa as he watches with cool headed hipster vision the entire cosmos manifest itself in her death march.

As you can imagine, a heavily morphine addicted whore in Mexico City is at death’s door and this inescapable reality become the most noble crutch for the deeply medicated Jack. He sees God in Tristessa, in her chickens scampering across the floor, in the dove that’s made its home in her rafters, in the sickly old face of the old woman who shares her shots.

As the novel progresses you notice that his achingly lustful longing to show her his love is thwarted by his inability to speak her language, not just Spanish but the language of a junky. His entire monstrous struggle is simply his, never shared, and only hinted at by his erratic and sad behavior. There is no hope for Jack and there is no hope for Tristessa. In this he finds that where there is no hope, all hope manifests itself perfectly.

So pour that scotch, put on some jazz, draw the blinds and cuddle up to Tristessa when you feel truly hopeless – you might find God in the endless poetic ramblings of a lovelorn legend long dead without any answers or any comfort. If you never read anything else by Kerouac, get this one in. I’d give it a TIGHT.

“You know the futility of love and you shrug – you shrug away the warm kiss” - Tristessa

Matt Cowart