Perhaps the retro-Beats do read Jan Kerouac’s novel.  Perhaps I haven’t found the right retro-Beat. I asked my nephew, an avid Jack Kerouac fan, “Do you want my copy of Jan Kerouac’s Baby Driver?”  

“I might.”

“Jan is Kerouac’s daughter,” I added. 

“I’m a bit busy writing my thesis on Leonora Carrington.”

“That’s wonderful!”  I gave him the Carrington book. Both the Carrington and the Kerouac are NYRB Classics.

That said, I did admire Carrington’s The Hearing Trumpet, but you’d have to pay me to read Baby Driver.  There are too many dismal aspects to list: juvie, prostitution, drugs, alcohol, Belleville, and a stint as a racetrack hand.

As a member of the NYRB book club, I receive an interesting but quirky mix of books.  That’s because they choose one of their new titles for us every month.  As a result, I have a collection of newly translated Balzacs, which I love (more Balzac, please!), Natalia Ginzberg, another favorite writer; grim Holocaust literature (perhaps not the best choice for depressives); great Italian science fiction, a collection of Turkish short stories, and several magnificent German novels.

 But sometimes I pout.  “Why couldn’t I choose the book myself?” I say poutily.  I consider starting a pouty correspondence, but I don’t.

And then they sent me a copy of Barbara Pym’s The Sweet Dove Died.  I was so excited.

So no more pouting. I love Pym.  Thank you, NYRB Book Club. 

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