I don't remember when it was that I actually started reading this book, and now it's been more than a week hence since I finished, and it struck me that it seemed to take me so long, too long, to get through the book while it barely eclipses 300 hundred pages of prose. Now, to be honest, this can most likely be attributed to my inability to speed-read, or sprint-read; no, I can barely jog-read, it's that slow because of my self-diagnosed ADD, or ADHD, or maybe I just have a painfully nomadic minds-eye. But then I think, maybe none of that is the cause. Maybe Kerouac wanted his readers to meander snail crawling (I'm exaggerating now) through On the Road. At 16, I was fortunate to travel cross-country with a good friend and his father to Roswell, NM from an area of Western New York. The two and a half week journey in his father's station wagon lead us through 20 states, give or take, and many National Historic sites and parks across the country. It's easy to recall all these sights: the arch in St. Louis, Billy The Kid's Grave, 4-Corners, Area 51, Yellowstone, and so forth, which might dominate my memory and I'd remember little else, but some of my best, most vivid memories are from when we were driving in wind-swept silence through the plains of Indiana, or glancing by Salt Lake City on the freeway, or the three of us watching eagerly coming over the red hills of New Mexico for that first anticipatory glimpse of Roswell. To put it more simply, less poetically, when we were on the road. Kerouac's attention to detail tells me of a similar recollection on his part, a keen awareness and ingestion of the landscape flickering by the car windows, despite Dean's seemingly endless conversations as they traveled. Like an ambling traveler visiting a foreign place, On the Road reads slowly and carefully, allowing the reader to take in and embrace every sight and every sound on the journey, never moving too swiftly to allow time for clear, detailed snapshots, but never ever stopping.