Serendipity?

I have recently finished reading Jack Kerouac's On the Road. It took me two months. I carried it around to cafes, sipping coffee after coffee, smoking cigarette after cigarette, slowly savoring each word and line. I underlined those that spoke to me and often re-read them a few times before moving on to the other pages.

It scared me how I identified with so many of the passages written. It scared me that it spurred my wanderlust day after day, night after night as I drowned and got sucked in by his words.

Today I decided to re-read Murakami's Sputnik Sweetheart as I barely remember anything of the novel having read it eons ago. And, at the the third page, I read this:

"Sumire was absolutely nuts about Kerouac... She carried a dog-eared copy of On the Road or Lonesome Traveler stuck in her coat pocket, thumbing through them every chance she got. Whenever she came across lines she liked, she'd mark them in pencil and commit them to memory as if they were Holy Writ."

Serendipitous much?