Thinking of the stars night after night I begin to realize “The stars are words” and all the innumerable worlds in the Milky Way are words, and so is this world too. And I realize that no matter where I am, whether in a little room full of thought, or in this endless universe of… Continue reading Jack Kerouac
In winter night Massachusetts Street is dismal, the ground’s frozen cold, the ruts and pock holes have ice, thin snow slides over the jagged black cracks. The river is frozen to stolidity, waits; hung on a shore with remnant show-off boughs of June– Ice skaters, Swedes, Irish girls, yellers and singers–they throng on the white… Continue reading Jack Kerouac
Love her Sings the sea Bluely Moaning — Jack Kerouac, from “74th Chorus,” San Francisco Blues (Penguin, 1995)
My eyes were glued on life and they were full of tears. ― Jack Kerouac, Atop an Underwood: Early Stories and Other Writings. (Penguin Books; Fourth Printing edition, November 1, 2000) Originally published November 1st 1999.
The silence is so intense that you can hear your own blood roar in your ears but louder than that by far is the mysterious roar which I always identify with the roaring of the diamond wisdom, the mysterious roar of silence itself, which is a great Shhhh reminding you of something you’ve seemed to… Continue reading Jack Kerouac
One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple. — Jack Kerouac, The DharmaBums. (Penguin Books; Reissue edition May 27, 1976) Originally published 1958.
Beat doesn’t mean tired or bushed, so much as it means beato, the Italian for beatific: to be in a state of beatitude, like St. Francis, trying to love all life, trying to be utterly sincere with everyone, practicing endurance, kindness, cultivating joy of heart. How can this be done in our mad modern world… Continue reading Jack Kerouac
She brooded and bit her rich lips: my soul began its first sink into her, deep, heady, lost; like drowning in a witches’ brew, Keltic, sorcerous, starlike. ― Jack Kerouac, Maggie Cassidy. (Avon 1959)
I ached all over for her; I leaned my head in her beautiful hair. Her little shoulders drove me mad; I hugged her and hugged her. And she loved it. ‘I love love,’ she said, closing her eyes. I promised her beautiful love. I gloated over her. Our stories were told; we subsided into silence… Continue reading Jack Kerouac
My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them. — Jack Kerouac