Before I started this book, I heard an unscrupulous lie about it. I have been told that it inspires faith in the future, inspires travel and teaches to love and understand one's neighbor. It may be so, but no one has told me how lonely and sad this book really is. Yes, it is a treatise on hopeless loneliness, which seeps through the letters, running down your fingers and flooding the floor. This slurry stinks of whiskey and despair. Wherever our tramp came, whoever he contacted, he remained alone, unneeded, and indispensable. He, in love with a madman with his mad ideas, searching for the truth in the mad chatter and infinity of the road, is ready to give his soul to anyone, if only someone would need it. He, a hopeless loner, reminds me so much that it hurts to read. However, this has its charm. He owes no one anything, without promising tomorrow, he crosses the country length and breadth, enjoying the moment. My opinion (as well as any) is quite subjective, you may not listen to me. A classic classic, this book makes you rethink many things and almost collect a suitcase for a long journey. But if you are not already eighteen or you have just gone through this stage of your adulthood and realized that the whole world is a reflection of your self and vice versa; that you will not run away from yourself, and a wandering philosopher, usually an irresponsible fool, will most likely not like you.