Cassady wasn't just a petty criminal, charmer, car thief, bigamist and serial deserter, he was also the cornerstone of a literary industry. Quite a weight to bear, especially when all this modern Atlas wanted to do was become a writer himself. Ginsberg celebrated him in "Howl" and Kerouac would have no great novel without him. Only Burroughs seemed doubtful. Perhaps he already knew too many criminals. Then again, perhaps he did not fancy him. Kerouac and Ginsberg were both enamoured of him. In "On the Road" Kerouac emphasises Cassady's uninhibited nakedness as something which sets him apart. Ginsberg, no stranger to nudity himself when it came to reciting his poems, also refers to this quality in Cassady.
But there is something pathetic in this boyish obsession with Cassady - something which, deep down, Cassady probably realised. In a sense Cassady could not help himself. He could not help his wild erratic behaviour, his compulsions for cars and women. Ginsberg and Kerouac (more so) merely shaped the behaviour of a minor charming conman and thief into legend. It is more their fault than his. It's probably worth noting that the women of his life, whilst charmed by him, were less than impressed by his sexual technique. Carolyn Cassady describes it as more like rape. Cassady also admitted to marathon masturbation sessions.
Cassady may have been able to drive like a demon and keep most of his listeners enthralled but he could not write. Strangely he friends could not see this. Time and again one or other of them states that Neal is working on a great novel but nothing emerged until after his death and the only literary effort that is regularly quoted is his "sex letter".
The truth was that, given a choice, Cassady would probably have preferred to be Gregory Corso (who was not that impressed by Cassady) who also came from a jail background but turned into a good poet. Neal's attempts at art turned to ashes. The only art he had was himself. He was performer. But performing for the counterculture is a young man's game and Cassady was incapable of ending the performance. He tried domesticity - many times - but it never seemed to graft. So he became a Merry Prankster - perhaps the most merry of them all as he abandoned the wheel to let the bus journey on its own "merry" way. Then when it looked as if he might become a living joke, fate intervened and he died suddenly - the result of sleeping out in the great outdoors where he seemed so at home.
