"Whither goes thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?".

This is Dean Moriarity, speaking to Sal Paradise, in "On the Road", by Jack Kerouac. It seems late to the party to read this novel for the first time at sixty. I found the 50th Anniversary edition last week at the Bellevue branch of the Nashville library. There it sat, shelved with the Chick Lit, and the cozy English country novels, and the faux Victorian mysteries, and a handful of books about Women, Food , and God.

I am grateful to the library for buying it, especially after reading today that Camden , New Jersey, is going to close its public libraries. It cannot pay for them.
Nashville Metro government has talked about cutting hours at our libraries, but so far they are still open every day except Friday and Sunday.

The Bellevue branch is cramped. I was going to come right out and pronounce it pitiful, but that would be mean-spirited, for the people who work there are earnest and well-meaning. Is it their fault that the shelves are full of large print thrillers,while Edith Wharton is limited to "Ethan Frome"? They do have a huge cookery section. Lots of gardening books. Many biographies. Yet they managed to squeeze in "On the Road", a book I believe is The Great American Novel. I am mesmerized by it. It is the restlessness of this country. The love of its size and space, the faith that down to your last dime there will always be a car of strangers willing to take you as far as Denver , and if you are really lucky- on to San Francisco, where someone's uncle can feed you and put you up. And you will see the country night and day in the company of your strange but wonderful friends. What a book. I plan to buy a copy. I plan to open it randomly. Every day. It will be a guide-post. "Whither goes thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?".