by Jack Kerouac
My school has as usual been giving me trouble. I flunked a course in Victorian literature [summer 1948] because I wrote an exam on the dead authors based on a living idea of eternity. Teacher said it was “Pretentious generalization.” I guess it really was, too, but what is one to do on that score?
And you? I haven’t been talking to you all this time, I know. I wish I already had your humble courtesy. You are a pot of gold, don’t think I don’t realize it. Lawrence29 rejected your novel because of reasons of security. Well, don’t despair, we are on the right track. It’s too bad our problems are not solved more easily. But that is an old stupid complaint. Still the others are stupid. It is as if to save ourselves we had to save them too. That is why genius must suffer—it has to bear the burdens of the whole world. Our happiness and reality depends on the happiness and reality of others. Remember Rimbaud’s remark when he said that some day he would have to leave Verlaine and help others? Dear soul, that’s not a very tasty proposition. My humor is getting senile—that is because my wit is tired and irrelevant, not because it is vague in itself. Well, as I was saying, maybe if you have to be refused by them you will have to break down even more, break down another defense, break down the falseness of your rhetoric. Dear soul, it’s not a very tasty proposition. The soul must speak, you must speak out directly, not through literary symbols like “Brooding.” You must assume every responsibility in the novel that evades you. Total, total, no superfluity. But you sense the superfluity so completely that the situation is sad. I think you are right to put off the decision to the next novel. This one is good enough. The only trouble practical is with the world. Well, this is where the trouble starts for you, I guess, the real trouble, with your art. The only thing is to look that directly in the face. The world will force you to, and that is good, unless you weaken and take to rage and illusion. I am really talking to myself, not to you. These are my decisions that I’m speaking of I guess and projecting them to you. How true they are for you I don’t know. But you are certainly advanced beyond my comprehension, when I try to comprehend or “help” in a sacerdotal way, etc. etc.
I want to see you. I feel more and more at home with you now actually than ever before, I feel you more, actually more clarity, more confidence, more trust. I will be in Paterson for several weeks. Will you come in, at last?
Jack Kerouac [n.p., North Carolina?] to
Allen Ginsberg [Paterson, New Jersey]
ca. December 16, 1948
Allen:
I am aware that Reginald Marsh, and his cool change from tense faults and naturalism, to God’s-eye view of man in the God-real world, is great. (SPOKEN IN A DEEP VOICE.)
Not screaming over the telephone—you and Barbara [Hale] are queers.
You ought to go to the Rehn Gallery and dig “New Gardens.”
Do you know what I think?—People in this century have been looking at people with a naturalistic eye, and this is the cause of all the trouble. I think women are beautiful goddesses and I always want to lay them—Joan [Adams], Barbara, all—and I think men are beautiful Gods including me, and I always want to put my arm around them as we walk somewhere.
Last night I wrote an apocalyptic letter to [Allan] Temko and I made a copy of it to show to you and maybe [John Clellon] Holmes. It is full of “frightening” and inescapable predictions, scatalogically smeared with an evil leer sometimes, much as “old me, old spontaneous me” is that way. All truthful words are that way . . . “Snake Hill was so-called for a very real, snaky reason.” “If that’s the case, then I am glad that shadow changes into bone.”
I said to Temko—“When we get out of the narrow ‘white light’ of our surface rationality—when we get out of the room—we will see that mystic makes no mud.”
However, I hate you. Because years ago you and Burrows [Burroughs] used to laugh at me because I saw people as godlike, and even, as a husky football man, walked around godlike like, and Hal [Chase] did that too, and still does. We long ago realized our flesh happily, while you and Bill used to sit under white lamps talking and leering at each other. I think you are full of shit, Allen, and at last I am going to tell you. You are like David Diamond30—you confused your claw with the hand of a godly man; you confused affection. I am sick of you, I want you to change: why don’t you die, give up, go mad, for once.
I have decided that I am dead, given up, gone mad. Thus I speak to you freely. I don’t care any more. I may get married soon, too—to Pauline maybe. We’ll run away. I am on the verge now of loving my geekish guilty-flesh self—thus reverting to the original sanity of the Hal-days. The reason why I always dream of torturing and murdering Bill (as last night) is because he made me geekish in the name of something else. However, I wrote a big letter to Bill and am sending him Tea Party. I am lost. The only thing to do is to give up—I am giving up.
Thinking of getting a job in a gas station, I shudder as before. I’m lost. If my book doesn’t sell, what can I do? As I write this to you I am on the verge of falling dead from my chair. Just now I felt myself swooning. It is too much, too close to death, life. I must learn to accept the tightrope.
Do you know what Hal does? Like Julien Sorel,31 the moment he enters a seminary, he says to himself, “There are 383 seminarists in here, or rather, 383 e-ne-mies . . .” The only seminarist who befriends him is, therefore, “of the 383 enemies the one and greatest enemy.” I think Hal is full of shit.
I am full of shit too. Don’t you see? we’re ALL full of shit, and therefore we can be saved.
In the picture on the beach there is a man embracing a woman front-wise, naked, and this is all I want to do—nothing else. So please don’t bother me with your verbiage. Write me a big verbal letter. I don’t believe anything I say.
However, I believe in love. I love Ray Smith. I also love Pauline, my mother, Lucien (in a way), Bill and you (in a way), little children, and finally I love everything about little children. Goombye. Chinaman.
There is a false note throughout this letter that hides from you the real me, which is simply the madman-child I am . . . and forgive me for saying you are full of shit, in fact. I don’t know what to think or say, Allen, and so it begins . . . that is, why think? why say? let me just be. You were right sending me the picture. Let us be gods saying nothing much, just standing like the two men on the beach looking at the ocean. There is too much talk nowadays, isn’t there? Yet you and Neal hate me for not-talking and for “dignity” as you called it. ah, well, ah, well, ah, well, ah, well, ah, well, ah ah ah
I don’t have to tell you what I believe, because you don’t believe in belief, and neither do I, but I do believe . . . (I really do).
I believe in shelter from the cold, and good food, and drinks, and many women all around, the interplay of the sexes, and much happy meaningless talk, and tales, and books, and Dickensy joy. I even believe in your existence. I believe that soon we will all die, go mad, give up, drop off. I believe in children and everything (see how false that sentence?) I believe that when I talk to you I feel I have to be false. Thus the hysteria of the subway. I used to be more truthful to you when I used to glare at you and call you names. Now I pretend to believe like you and to be like you. I don’t.
I believe that I have to continually remind you of my love for women and children only because I feel (perhaps inaccurately) that you hate women and children. I believe (perhaps wrongly) that you are a cosmic queer and hate everything but men, and hate men, therefore, the most, and hate me the most (as you hate Neal, how you must hate Neal.) I believe in shelter from the cold. I have rages, too, and hang up from the phone and will continue to do so. Barbara and I are lions, we meet at the watering-place of the lions and don’t notice the fawns, the giraffes ([Alan] Harrington) or the weasels ([John Clellon] Holmes) or the panda bears (Marian [Holmes])—or the cardinal birds ([Alan] Wood-Thomas) or the cats. bla bla bla bla bla. This is all hysteria and I wonder why I have to be hysterical with you, when I used to be old-brotherish. You see how honest-dishonest I
am? You see how good-bad the world? You see how we must shelter ourselves from the cold-warmth?
you see how we must shelter ourselves?
you see how we must?
you see how?
you see?
you?
me?
who?
what?
I don’t un-stan’
I am speaking to you as I would like to speak to everyman
No one else would take this shit but you
Thank you
Finally, when we’re all honest, we will cut down our sentences as above and end up saying nothing. With our new deep voices we will simply say—“mooo.” or “shmooo.” or “beeee”—or “faaaa.” and we’ll all know. And our belief will have become us. Then everybody will walk around gravely like gods—like in the picture, you see. The two gods looking at the sea will say, “Beeee.” The other will say, “Roooo.” And the man facing the woman will say, “Geeee.” and she’ll say—“Chaaaaa.” And food will taste more delicious than now, orgasms will last longer, warmth will be sweeter, children won’t cry, fruit will grow quicker. Finally, out of his mind, God himself will appear and have to admit that we did it alright alright.
Excuse me again for trying to be mad . . . Roooo . . . like you; I am your crazy pal.
Now that I have more or less settled that, and expressed my appreciation of our new life and regard for each other, let me go on to the next “great” thing: (you see, I used “beautiful” and “great” only in quotes now to show you I am conscious of our former hypocrisy)—
It is this, “dear” Allen . . . (you see? but you don’t have to see any more, we have dead eyes now, we’ll be quiet)—
Neal is coming to New York.
Neal is coming to New York.
Neal is coming to New York for New Year’s Eve.
Neal is coming to New York for New Year’s Eve.
Neal is coming to New York for New Year’s Eve in a ’49 Hudson.
etc. . . . in a ’49 Hudson.
I have almost real reason to perhaps almost believe that he stole the car, but I don’t know.
The facts: last Wednesday, Dec. 15, he long-distanced me from San Fran, and I heard his mad Western excited voice over the phone. “Yes, yes, it’s Neal, you see . . . I’m calling you, see. I’ve got a ’49 Hudson.”
Etc . . . I said: “And what are you going to do?”
He says “That’s what I was going to say now. To save you the hitch-hiking trip out to the Coast, see, I will break in my new car, drive to New York, test it, see, and we will run back to Frisco as soon as possible, see, and then run back to Arizona to work on the railroads. I have jobs for us, see. Do you hear me, man?”
“I hear you, I hear you, see.”
“See. Al Hinkle is with me in the phone booth. Al is coming with me, he wants to go to New York. I will need him, see, to help me jack up the car in case I get a flat or in case I get stuck, see, a real helper and pal, see.”
“Perfect,” I said.
“You remember Al?”
“The cop’s son? Sure.”
“Who? What’s that Jack?”
“The cop’s son. The officer’s son.”
“Oh yes, Oh yes . . . I see, I see,—the copson. Oh yes. That’s Al, that’s right, you’re perfectly right, that Al, the copson from Denver, that’s right man, see.”
Confusion.
Then—“I need money. I owe $200 but if I can hold off the people I owe it to, see, by telling them or perhaps by giving them $10 or so to hold them off. And then I need money for Carolyn to live on while I’m gone, see . . .”
“I can send you fifty bucks,” I said.
“Fifteen?”
“No fifty dollars.”
“Allright allright fine. See.” And so on. “I can use it for Carolyn, and to hold off these people I’m in debt . . . and my landlord. Also I have another week’s work left on the railroad so I’ll make it. It’s perfect see. Reason why I call is because my typewriter broke down, and it’s being traced (sic! I’m only exaggerating here)—and I can’t write letters, so I called.”
Anyway, how crazy it was. So I agreed to all our new plans, of course; I had been writing him asking him to go to sea, but this is better we both agreed, more pay, too. $350 a month. And Arizona, see. He says he traded in his Ford and all his savings for the ’49 Hudson. That car is the greatest in the country, in case you don’t know. We talked about it more than anything else.
But come Saturday, and I’m in New York with Pauline my love, and Neal calls up again and beseeches my mother to warn me not to send the money to him in name but in another name he would mail me, and another address. I had, however, already sent the money to him airmail registered . . . but only $10, I couldn’t make my mad happy miscalculation of the phone. My mother’s report included a certain remark he seemed to have made without connection, viz., “I ain’t there.” (?)
Unless he means 160 Alpine Terrace, or something.32
Secondly, when I sent him the $10 I asked him to pick me and my Maw up in North Carolina on his way East, so we could use the money saved to our advantage and to return to Frisco and Arizona. He agreed to this with my mother over the phone, altho he mentioned going to Chicago too, which is pretty far North off the Carolina course. But he apparently will do that . . . both.
I know nothing. If he stole the car, or what’s with Carolyn, or his landlord, or something, or debtors (creditors?), and what’s with the cops, or that phony address he wanted to send me. All I know is that he is tremendously excited about the car, and that “He’s off,” of course.
So I expect to see him in North Carolina around the 29th of December, and we will be back in New York for New Year’s Eve, and of course you’re going to begin right now arranging a big BIG party in your York Ave. place for New Year’s Eve inviting everybody . . . especially [Ed] Stringham and Holmes, etc. We will rotate the party to the Holmeses and your place and Ed’s and Lucien’s and then Harlem after-hours or anything, in our big car. Invite a select group—Ed Stringham, the Holmeses (I will have Pauline), and of course Lou and Babala [Barbara Hale]; and Herb Benjamin for tea and for kicks. I will try to get Adele [Morales]33 for Neal.
However, if you wish, don’t arrange anything, inasmuch as it is no longer necessary to arrange things anymore; we have changed. Use your judgment. Meet me at Kazin’s Wednesday night and we’ll talk. On the other hand no, meet me at Tartak’s at 4 Monday afternoon (today if you get the letter Mon.)
If . . . well, to hell with it. That’s it,
Jack
P.S. You may not believe this but as I write, a little child is looking over my shoulder . . . a real little child who is visiting us with his aunt, and who is amazed because I type so fast. Now what that little child is thinking is it, see.
Allen Ginsberg [Paterson, New Jersey] to
Jack Kerouac [n.p., New York, New York?]
ca. December 1948
Dear Mistah Krerouch:
When you scream over the telephone I first begin to recognize your voice. Isn’t it you? You never heard me scream over the phone. That is why I sit here in Paterson and rock back and forth on my heels masturbating and crying to god.
Why do ageless angels cry
against their own eternity?
All their fallen faces feign
Thoughts of uncertain certainty
That what was sure will be as sure again.
I think I would be content to live
All of a thousand years, and give
A thousand thoughts to melancholy;
I’d trickle endless till I’d sieve
My thoughts all down to one, and that one holy.
A thousand years alas! are given
If I wish, till I am shriven;
It is a miracle to believe.
What thousands have I not forgotten?
And why do all the other angels grieve?
[ . . . ]
Years ago when you saw people as godlike—if you truly
did—I had no idea that such a thing was possible. I have only to believe you and you dare not lie. Did [Hal] Chase and you actually have the vision (not mine) but the? If so “I bow to my offended heart / Until it pardon me.” (W. B. Yeats). I will say in my defense that I do confuse the claw with the godly hand. You want me to change; I also want to change. That is why I speak of the gate of wrath—my own coming shame.
I shall feel shame for all that you accuse me of truly. My heart leaps up for wrathful joy when you say that you are sick of me—my ego. I wish you were and were not afraid to show it. This gives you complete freedom henceforth.
Don’t you know why I wanted you to beat me up in the subway? O Jack . . . Shame!
For Bill and his white leer you must be gentle, as he is not yet ready . . . I am not either, perhaps, that is why you contradict your hatred. I hate you for the same things in you where my suspicious mind fancies they exist.
I am nowhere near going mad. I must sooner or later; at that time there may be a temporary rupture between us. You realize that it works both ways?
When we were talking before [John Clellon] Holmes, didn’t it sound to him as if we didn’t know each other at all? Didn’t we sound naive? Were we? Yes and no.
I and Bill made you geekish in the name of something else. True. Also, you couldn’t have been made so if you were not already a fallen angel. Blake accuses us (me particularly) of the “wish to lead others when we should be led.”
The tightrope you speak of is what I live on. Anyone can give me a push either way. You and Bill help steady me, Lucien once and a while gives me a push off, so does the rest of the world. People like Van Doren and Weitzner34 and W. Shakespeare tell me to realize I’m really on one and get over to the other side . . . or something. They don’t insist on pushing me though. They just make it so obvious to me where I am. Chase also. He must be wise.