Then I suddenly had the most tremendous feeling of the pitifulness of human beings, whatever they were, their faces, pained mouths, personalities, attempts to be gay, little petulances, feelings of loss, their dull and empty witticisms so soon forgotten: Ah, for what? […] Suppose we suddenly wake up and see that what we thought to be this and that, ain’t this and that at all? I staggered up the hill, greeted by birds, and looked at all the huddled sleeping figures on the floor. Who were these strange ghosts rooted to the silly little adventure of earth with me? And who was I? –Jack Kerouac in The Dharma Bums (1958). Kerouac is 91 today. via: parabola-magazine:

Then I suddenly had the most tremendous feeling of the pitifulness of human beings, whatever they were, their faces, pained mouths, personalities, attempts to be gay, little petulances, feelings of loss, their dull and empty witticisms so soon forgotten: Ah, for what? […] Suppose we suddenly wake up and see that what we thought to be this and that, ain’t this and that at all? I staggered up the hill, greeted by birds, and looked at all the huddled sleeping figures on the floor. Who were these strange ghosts rooted to the silly little adventure of earth with me? And who was I?

–Jack Kerouac in The Dharma Bums (1958).

Kerouac is 91 today.

via: parabola-magazine:

“On soft Spring nights I’ll stand in the yard under the stars - Something good will come out of all things yet - And it will be golden and eternal just like that - There’s no need to say another word.” 

—Jack Kerouac

Thank you, theworkofwings.

(Source: shawnparell)

If possible we meet again sometime and I’ll tell you about the gypsy shrouds, pull out the crystal meaning balls, and show you the secrets of the magic saints and the radiant perfumed hands of the Tathagatas that may one day be laid in a wheel shimmering upon your awakened brow, if I have anything to do with it before I lost myself in the recognition that I have no self, no ego, and therefore can no longer act as “I
Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg: The Letters (Thank you, petersantiago. Good to have you back!)
track San Francisco Scene
artist Jack Kerouac

Jack Kerouac: San Francisco Scene (The Beat Generation)

“Now it’s jazz. The place is roaring, all beautiful girls in there: one mad brunette at the bar drunk with her boys; one strange chick I remember from somewhere, wearing a simple skirt with pockets, her hands in there, short haircut, slouched, talking to everybody. Up and down the stairs they come. The bartenders are the regular band of Jack, and the heavenly drummer who looks up in the sky with blue eyes, with a beard—he’s wailing beer-caps of bottles and jamming at the cash register and everything is going to the beat.

It’s the Beat Generation. It’s beát. It’s the beat to keep. It’s the beat of the heart. It’s being beat, and down in the world and like old-time lowdown, and like in ancient civilizations the slave boatmen rowing galleys to a beat, and servants spinning pottery to a beat…”

(Thank you, i12bent & time-out-of-life)

Holding up mypurring cat to the moonI sighed. —Jack Kerouac, American Haiku, 1959When he wasn’t “on the road,” famous writer Jack Kerouac was a self-avowed, cat-loving homebody. The photo above of Jack, taken by John Sampas, is from our Berg Collection of English and American Literature and is proof that he loved kitties. So happy Caturday! Thanks to our own Jeremy Megraw for finding this gem! Meanwhile, need inspiration? Wander through the Jack Kerouac Papers at NYPL and discover troves of unpublished fiction (“The Brooklyn Cat”) and non-fiction (“Untitled,” which involves observations on cat and human behavior). Thank you, nypl

Holding up my
purring cat to the moon
I sighed.

—Jack Kerouac, American Haiku, 1959

When he wasn’t “on the road,” famous writer Jack Kerouac was a self-avowed, cat-loving homebody. The photo above of Jack, taken by John Sampas, is from our Berg Collection of English and American Literature and is proof that he loved kitties. So happy Caturday! Thanks to our own Jeremy Megraw for finding this gem! Meanwhile, need inspiration? Wander through the Jack Kerouac Papers at NYPL and discover troves of unpublished fiction (“The Brooklyn Cat”) and non-fiction (“Untitled,” which involves observations on cat and human behavior).

Thank you, nypl

Fred McDarrah: Jack Kerouac (Thank you, i12bent & fuckyeahbeatgeneration) “I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn’t know who I was — I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I’d never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn’t know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds.” —Jack Kerouac, “On the Road,” Part 1, Ch. 3

Fred McDarrah: Jack Kerouac (Thank you, i12bent & fuckyeahbeatgeneration)

“I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn’t know who I was — I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I’d never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn’t know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds.”

—Jack Kerouac, “On the Road,” Part 1, Ch. 3

I marvel at the calm of the Japanese haiku poets who just enjoy the passage of days and live in what they call “Do-Nothing-Huts” and are sad, then gay, then sad, then gay, like sparrows and burros and nervous American writers.
Jack Kerouac, in a letter to John Clellon Holmes (Thank you, petitchou)
“‎[…] the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’.” — Jack Kerouac, On the Road. Thanks to theimpossiblecool.

“‎[…] the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’.”

— Jack Kerouac, On the Road. Thanks to theimpossiblecool.

Then I suddenly had the most tremendous feeling of the pitifulness of human beings, whatever they were, their faces, pained mouths, personalities, attempts to be gay, little petulances, feelings of loss, their dull and empty witticisms so soon forgotten: Ah, for what? […] Suppose we suddenly wake up and see that what we thought to be this and that, ain’t this and that at all? I staggered up the hill, greeted by birds, and looked at all the huddled sleeping figures on the floor. Who were these strange ghosts rooted to the silly little adventure of earth with me? And who was I?
Jack Kerouac in The Dharma Bums (1958). Thank you, predatorywaspobserver.

the stars are words

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 stars and mountains,
it’s all in my mind.

~ Jack Kerouac, Lonesome Traveler

Thank you, Love is a Place, The Lifting of the Veil & Zero to Infinity.