“I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn’t know who I was - I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I’d never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn’t know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn’t scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost. I was half-way accross America, at the dividing line between the East of my youth and the West of my future, and maybe that’s why it happened right there and then, that strange red afternoon.”  (On the Road, Jack Kerouac).Una vez leído ese parrafito, nada más empezar la novela, me sentí tentada de parar: para qué tomarme la molestia de seguir cuando ya había leído una de las mejores frases jamás escritas en la literatura universal. Hablé con Alberto esa misma noche y le dije que tenía la impresión de que yo era Kerouac reencarnado. El problema es que yo no sé si viajo para sentirme así, o para dejar de sentirme así.