好sad的一本书，尤其是结尾，Dean孤独离去的背影里霎那间涌出无限的忧伤，好似一款缓缓流动的山泉在某个时刻突然嘎然而止，而带有速度的，本来就已经伤感的心情被突然抛到一个空旷无边的空间里。
说忧伤，其实这不是一部容易让人落泪的书，它平平淡淡的开卷，平平淡淡在路中摊开所及的环境，平平淡淡的勾勒人物面貌，平平淡淡讲述每个人的故事，即使是纵酒狂欢，也好像被mute了一般，人物的面貌和性格在爆发的快乐中有一种沉默的力量。在平淡里，在沉默中，落魄艰苦的旅行和迷茫的人生之路叠映起来，让人常常咀嚼出一种苦涩的味道。
书从第一个part开始，一卷比一卷好，笔锋简洁又不失细腻，人物事件平易真实，最喜欢第四卷在墨西哥的旅程描述，有些探险的历程让人想起鲁宾逊漂流记的中片断，但文笔更胜一筹。
I went back to my bed of steel and stretched out with my arms spread. I didn't even know if branches or open sky were directly above me, and it made no difference. I opened my mouth to it and drew deep breaths of jungle atmosphere. It was not air, never air, but the palpable and living emanation of trees and swamp. I stayed awake. Roosters began to crow the dawn across the brakes somewhere. Still no air, no breeze, no dew, but the same Tropic of Cancer heaviness held us all pinned to earth, where we belonged and tingled.
还有书中一些思考的文字，智慧，但不嚣张
We came into the dizzying heights of the Sierra Madre Oriental. The banana trees gleamed golden in the haze. Great fogs yawned beyond stone walls along the precipice. Below, the Moctezuma was a thin golden thread in a green jungle mat. Strange crossroad towns on top of the world rolled by, with shawled Indians watching us from under hatbrims and rebozos. Life was dense, dark, ancient. They watched Dean, serious and insane at his raving wheel, with eyes of hawks. All had their hands outstretched. They had come down from the back mountains and higher places to hold forth their hands for something they thought civilization could offer, and they never dreamed the sadness and the poor broken delusion of it. They didn't know that a bomb had come that could crack all our bridges and roads and reduce them to jumbles, and we would be as poor as they someday, and stretching out our hands in the same, same way. Our broken Ford, old thirties upgoing America Ford, rattled through them and vanished in dust.
