SATORI IN PARIS by Jack Kerouac. 118 pages. Grove. $3.95.
When Jack Kerouac took the oldfashioned track west to never-neverland in On the Road, he became pie-eyed piper to a footloose segment of the postwar Beat Generation, advancing, it was assumed, into the future.
But Jack, the aging jalopy jockey from Lowell, Mass., swings to a beat of his own. The pad-dwelling poets are looking elsewhere for a laureate. Kerouac, 44, has let them down. He is a true pilgrim, and his objective is not the future but the past. The latest fragment of his nonstop autobiography records, of all things, a search...
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