It's funny how things come together sometimes in life. I've been contemplating Tristessa a lot lately. I always considered it Kerouac's most beautiful, poetic, and sad story--not his best, necessarily (what does that even really mean?), but the one in which his particular gifts were the most condensed and potent. To me, the beauty of Kerouac has always been in his power to grant a halo of redemptive light to the most beaten-down aspects of existence.
And, just as I was thinking of the book and of Jack, I stumble across the story about the house he died in being saved.