by Jack Kerouac
It’s lonesome of course, but I really don’t mind it. Lowell is on the boom they tell me. Celebrating because they’re going to make things to kill the youth of the world. Isn’t that Lowell for you. God, what a rat hole. Thank God I have not had to keep making death dealing things and I hope that I may never have to do that. I make a small pay, but it’s all green and is not stained red with the blood of the vast army of the world’s underprivileged.
My health is good, eat regularly, except this week. (Bet a plug) you know, so missed a few breakfasts. Not having your ability to rhapsodize in words, I could eat a big meal just now—and it wouldn’t even make a dent in my middle. I spend $18 regularly, make or break, and that’s that.
Be practical Jack. Put yourself on a budget, send money home every week if you go to work, by special delivery and money order—it’s the best way to handle that. Your mom tells [me] you’re going to make good money, so don’t waste it, and we will find it handy later for the completion of your education.
If you’re drafted take it with good grace. Don’t be a slacker and put yourself behind the 8-ball. Be courageous, and trust to luck, they don’t all get it!—and the things you’ll see and run across will make a better and greater man of you. You must resolve that you are grown up and assume the responsibilities of your new estate.
That isn’t preaching, Jack, only a word to encourage you I hope, for the trying times ahead of you. As for us, we must realize what it all means, our only son, facing the horrors and uncertainties of what is to come. It is a heavy cross to bear, and more so for us than you can imagine.
I don’t know whether all I’ve said so far means anything to you, for I’ve given up trying to interest you some years ago. I realize the gulf between the old gang and the new generation. There are so many things I cannot understand about you but I have faith that time and experience will bring us around to a better understanding, and you on the verge of upheavals which will either make or break you.
So I’ll close now and hope I may see you sometime this summer, maybe in N.Y. some Sunday. They run excursions every week and we might meet if you decide to work in Washington.
Give my love to Old Roosie, and dear! dear! Eleanoah!—the sweet thing! Bet you get a whiff when she’s in town.*
Be brave, be gay, be a regular guy—always! That’s the way to live. Don’t repent! Don’t forget your Dad, your Mother, your sister—all A-1 rooters.
The old weasel—
POP
Saturday Eve, ’42
Dog my cat, so I whelped a Gigolo—that’s what Roosie does to everyone in America, makes ’em into what they ain’t meant to be—or ever dreamed they were. Ask Charlie Lindbergh and others who tried to do some straight thinking. Anyway, don’t let the Washington merry-go-round make you permanently dizzy.
Are you saving money kid? It’s mighty handy sometimes. Have you sent some home—and did you remember your mom on Mother’s Day, or did a blonde make you forget her?
Your letter was most welcome and it pleased me immensely. I hope you’ll find time to write as often as you can. I didn’t get it [about] Brooklyn! I haven’t much to say because I’m afraid if I say things you’ll think I am trying to preach. If you have too many skirts, send me one willya! Ain’t there a cast-off redhead that ain’t too fussy? Woo-woo.
Oh, seriously Jack, am going home over Memorial Day, it being on Saturday it will give me a couple of days, and so I am going to visit my home. Ain’t dat sumtin’. Too bad you’ll be so very far away, we could have a little reunion (Could it be arranged?).
You tell me you take naps on your job. Gosh, I hope you should try to keep this job. The money you can make would probably mean a lot to you next Fall.
I am rambling a lot. My mind is not on writing and so just consider this note a little greeting and my fervent wish for your welfare through these trying times—keep your head. Think clean, act clean, don’t let your life become sordid.
—POP
(AFTERMATH—or sumpin)
Gosh, I don’t know Jack. I got to tell you about some of the good things I ran across the past few weeks.
Read Upton Sinclair’s latest book Dragon’s Teeth, mighty clear story of what the shooting is all about. I don’t know whether you’d like it—but it is a very clear picture of the rise of Adolph Schicklgruber—and shows just how the power of politics operates in the hands of scatterbrains!*
And for a picture, 4 bells to “Butch Minds the Baby,” Damon Runyon’s story. A little gem, with real laughs, an adorable baby, and human! I liked it so much I actually squirmed in my seat. And a great cast, too, wait till you see the guy with the “specs” who was nearly blind from drinking prohibition booze. It’s New Yorkers—and how! Ronnie Reagan and the curvaceous Annie Sheridan do a pretty fine job in “King’s Row” also. And Rooney’s latest. “Doc” [?] Kildare. The new glam in Kildare looks like a Jew to me. Too bad they didn’t give a real kid the part, it’s a honey.
Am reading translations of Guy de Maupassant. What a dart! I sometimes wonder if guys like him are great writers or just plain, common double-action jerks. They sure sound like ’em in spots—but they can tell good stories, and how they love the [?]. I can imagine how they would read in French!
Well, anyway, bye-bye, my job is the best I’ve had and I’m keeping my fingers crossed. Gee, I hope you play football next Fall. I’d be near enough to take in a game.
POP.
Friday Nov. 5, 1942
Oxford Arms
[?]
Meriden, Conning Towers
My Dear Unpredictable Offspring,
I thoroughly enjoyed the contents of your recent scribblings. That thatch-covered cerebellum of yours is certainly sprouting plenty of unexpected visions—it’s a good sign for so young a man to tackle real things and try to reason them out. In due course, your efforts and those of the many like you may in time make a world more livable. It’s a healthy sign.
Your poetic conceptions are over my head but I cannot help admiring the things they imply. Your diatribe on the future world policies are well rounded out and believe me the French thought in literature and effort has always tended to an ideal of world peace and security, and you have something there. Democracy is a too open field for the grasping shrewd gentry that roam the world. Poor Russia, she is sadly misunderstood. But her movement in the right direction might lead all of us right eventually. You mention the Willkie-Roosey fracas. Well, it strikes me that we have a man who will out-smart the old fox [?] Eleanor and her activities with the new movements. Well, deep down I think that Roosey wants to stay on top no matter what the future brings—and Willkie got in a full nickel’s worth when he put the idea across just before our still smoldering election of the actual amount of help our allies were getting from our befuddled Washington.
So it paints out that the billions are being sacrificed by the [?] and just dribbles in the pols’ pockets, and we are getting nowhere fast. So that’s strike one for Willkie. He’ll step in later and reap the spoils from the gang that is already in, strip ’em of their dough [?] a great war job and be the Lincoln of his day, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he has to do it [?] way he’ll be glad to boss the job. He is a good boss you know.
His record, man to man, is so far ahead of Roosey in actual achievement as day to night. Roosie was born in the velvet and won’t part with his trimming unless they take it away from him. Willkie got his the hard way and hasn’t much, has rubbed elbows with the working man and he knows his answers. Does that make sense to you? If Willkie sees the light he can go places. That’s my reaction.
You ask me to write up the stooges of old Stinktown. I’d get writer’s cramp and there’s so much of it. I’d need a typewriter—and I haven’t got one, along with a lot of other things I haven’t got. After all, it would only add up to a cross-section of smalltime punks and that has been done to death.
So you’re out of football at Columbia. How it bears out. My observations weren’t any too far wrong. “A fa
rt by any other name” would stink as much. You’re like your old dad—bet your bundle on the wrong stag that time—but other days, other places—it’s not too late. You should try it with the Navals should you be lucky enough to get in eventually. I wish the day would come when you could show Old Shit-Face that you’re a better man than he is. Wops!*
I read through one of these Saroyan books, 25 cent paper covered. I still have it. Well, my candid opinion is that he is an exalted gutter-snipe. He reminds me much of [?] in his serious moments. They both seem to be amazed at the ease with which they make good. There’s nothing solid or substantial to any of them. They’re both good observing reporters, that’s all. Since the world is full of [?]—we all know it and the European Species falls back on Old Women’s tales from the Old Countries and they wallow in it [?] their own personalities, and there you have your Saroyan. A cockroach on the loose. Observing the intricacies of the other vermin that crossed their path. They talk about irresponsibilities of life because they are that way themselves, and so are the source[s] of these ideas.
True culture and real worth lies in a different direction I believe. I still stick with the French when it comes to feelings and a keener understanding of life. Their books, their movies show a complete superiority over the American products which in my estimation, in our modern world, are among the best. We must not forget our Swedish, Norwegian, English and other toilers who are right up front in the parade. Germany has lost its momentum under Hitler and the last war’s impact. What the future holds will be determined by the results of this war we are now thrashing out.
Now that I’ve tried to say a few things, I suppose you’ll laugh at my puny efforts at analyzing things.
Sunday, March 24, 1945
Dear Caroline,
Here I am with a sheet stuck in the typewriter, and trying to think of what I should say. I know you want news about us, what we’re doing, thinking, how things are. Well, your mother covers that pretty well in her many letters to you, and so I’m stuck with the morale end of it. My own morale is not at high pitch as you know.
We see many things here in a large city, and I doubt if there is a more corrupt or ridiculous city in the world than New York. It simply cannot be summed up in a few paragraphs. It would take a book and a big one to explain its people, politics, depravity, and the occasional good things there are in it.
And I can’t see that it would be very interesting to most people. It is not a part of America, and maybe on the other hand, it expresses America and its prevalent hypocrisies better than anything else can. THANK God that we have our small apartment away from the center of the city where it seems intolerable to have to live.
We haven’t heard from Paul lately, so I suppose no news is good news.* How about you? Hope that you are well and as happy as circumstances permit? Jack lives with us, with a skip now and then. He has written a book which he hopes they will publish. But that’s as far as it got so far. A publisher has it now for two weeks, and was supposed to let him know this weekend. He went away last Friday night and now, Sunday afternoon, he hasn’t shown up. He had a few dollars he earned with small jobs, and went on one of his intellectual? binges, I suppose.
The story deals with the screwy stuff that happens every day in New York, and it isn’t all nice stuff by any means. It tells the story of some European whackie who comes here at a tender age, and finally lands in the jug after a murder he commits, because he is being pursued by another man??? Just imagine that!!!
As for myself, I work anytime I feel like it. Was subbing at a newspaper this week, and got $71.25 for my week’s pay, so you see it could be worse. They kept me on for two other days, with a prospect of fairly steady subbing work. It’s easy work, and I’m going to do this a while, as I have some $65 vacation money coming, and I’m anxious to lay my hands on this money. The Union has it, they keep it and pay off once a year after April 1st.
I’ll probably stick around visiting museums, zoos, etc., and buy myself some clothes if I can find them. I really need new clothes. I feel like a bum as usual, with my broken teeth and wrinkled rage.
Your mother seems well, complains of being tired, and I guess she is, it’s a question who is the more tired, her or I. Jack sleeps all day anyway, so that makes it even. Hope you are the same, like Uncle Ezra would say, by gum. Yer lovin’ father
THE WEAZEL
* Joe Doakes is period slang for the average man, since replaced by Joe Blow. It is unclear whom Leo is referring to in this case.
* These are derogatory references to Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt.
* The reference here is to Adolf Hitler and is based on what was then a popular (but fallacious) belief that Hitler originally bore the surname of his paternal grandmother, Maria Anna Schicklgruber.
* The reference here is to Jack’s football coach at Columbia, Lou Little, whose birth name was Luigi Piccolo. Leo’s accompanying reference to the “Navals” pertains to the US Naval Academy, whose football team was a regular opponent of Columbia at the time.
* Paul Blake, Caroline’s husband.
A Sketch of Gerard (1942)
LEO KEROUAC
A very tired limping man turns in the street leading home. He has just been through a searing siege of sickness which nearly finishes him, but life and its obligation. His little Gerard, chubby Jack, jolly little Caroline, and a distracted nearly-driven crazy mother finally pulled him through. He just wouldn’t die, so he lived, and miserably for months and months.
And now a new sorrow enters his life. Ridden with debt, working under unbearable conditions, caused by that life-sapping sickness, his beloved little boy, his little favorite, his little Gerard, his first born was ailing—and it began to dawn that a leaking valve of the heart was the cause and he was so sweet, ah, my dear God, so sweet. And so pitiful, what father’s heart could ever bear to look!
And as he turns towards home, Gerard is eagerly waiting for his daddy, he really loved his dad, Oh I knew it, felt it. Sitting on the arm of my chair at night, telling him evasive little things to make him give out his sad little smile, and he’d kiss me on the cheek, shy, pecking little things that hurt, hurt, hurt, Oh, God.
That night Gerard is waiting eagerly, but my slow steps are not fast enough for his love. He must run out to me, meet me, and I pick him up, saying, “Poor little sonny, why did you run, you know you shouldn’t.” “But I wanted to meet you daddy” and I pressed him so tenderly to me, with eyes honestly full of tears. I didn’t care what neighbors saw. Gerard was my ALL, my sweet. Loving little animals, loving life! And he had such a short, short time to live it.
And as I press him to my heart, and limp along with him, holding him dearly, lovingly, his little heart is beating against mine, and that beating, ah, dear God, that beating—Life ebbing away. And I knew it, and couldn’t bear it, but clung to him with tears in my eyes and heart. “Don’t you feel my heart beating, Pop?” he asks. “Feel, see how hard it beats.” “Yes,” I answer, “yes, Gerard, God gave you too big a heart, and that’s why it beats so hard. It’s too big for your body, and that isn’t good,” I told him. And he smiled his sad smile, as he knew that angels were waiting for him, for he was too good for this earth.
And so it came to pass. One night I could not stand it any longer. I had business, so instead of staying home, I got away from the pain for a moment, and Gerard asked his mother why I was always going away. Why? And that night, the angels came, and left me nothing but the sweet, tender memory of the really only one that ever mattered in my life. I cried like a child for weeks, and wore a black necktie for over a year, and by and by the memory became hallowed, but even as I write this I barely can see the typewriter keys—it is as vivid as the night of June 5th, the night the angels claimed my—Gerard.
A Sketch of Nashua and Lowell (1942)
LEO KEROUAC
This is the narration of a little episode of some forty-five years ago. Yes, it’s a long, long time ago.
A little boy is sitting dejectedl
y, tired, hot, on the curbstone of a street in Nashua. But look—there’s something strange too. He has one perfect leg, but the other is a useless thing, barely as large as a grown man’s forefinger, every bone traced by its skin covering. It’s a leg that has stopped growing. A pitiful sight! The little fellow is moodily spanning the scene of going and coming people, wagons, with the dust of horses’ hoofs covering his sweaty little feet. He is not far from home, but for him it seems thousands of miles away. You see, the poor kid can’t walk very well, and every step is misery. He has a rickety little crutch to help him along, but that’s hardly the thing he needs to carry his puny weight home. A cord was twined around running from his useless leg to his shoulder, thereby saving it from actual contact with the weight of his body as he hopped along on one foot and his crutch.
A kind-hearted woman stops and bends over. “Are you far away from home, little boy?” she asked with moist eyes. “No, just around the corner at the end of the street,” answered the child. Four years old, hardly lisping his answers. “Won’t you let me carry you home, sonny?” “No,” answers the boy quickly, so he struggles up with the aid of his crutch, and lopes off, finally reaching home where his mother tenderly picks him up, and kisses his worried little face into smiles.
We lived at the end of a street, and one night, a tall, kindly looking man with flowing beard, knocks at the door, and asks for a night’s lodging. He seems so good and kind, that both father and mother quickly accede to his demands. And after the evening meal, in the old fashioned parlor, he speaks of the little boy with the useless leg. After a series of questions, he picks up the lad and takes his foot in hand, and begins to bend and twist the useless thing, asking every second if this or that more hurts. The little lad answers and “ouches” a few times. But somehow from that moment things began to happen to that leg, and it began to grow and came in time to bear up to 250 pounds of flesh in all kinds of conditions. The boy never became a star athlete because of that leg, but was one of the best swimmers the YMCA ever produced locally, and he could twist and bend his body with wonderful agility.