Hip, Cool, Beat�and Frantic The hipster-writer is a perennial perverse bar mitzvah boy, proudly announcing: �Today I am a madman. Now give me the fountain pen.� The frozen thugs gathered west of Sheridan Square or in the hopped-up cars do not bother with talk. That�s why they say �man� to everybody�they can�t remember anybody�s name. But Ginsberg and Kerouac are frantic. They care too much, and they care aloud. �I�m hungry, I�m starving, let�s eat right now!� That they care mostly for themselves is a sign of adolescence, but at least they care for something, and it�s a beginning. The hipster is past caring. He is the criminal with no motivation in hunger, the delinquent with no zest, the gang follower with no love of the gang; i.e., the worker without ambition or pleasure in work, the youngster with undescended passions, the organization man with sloanwilsonian gregory- peckerism in his cold, cold heart.
--Herbert Gold, review of On the Road, by Jack Kerouac, November 16, 1957 in the Nation magazine
