by Jack Kerouac
1. it was to be a mass of images moving on a page . . .
(NOT “moving on the page”—see?)
moving on a page is like “paranoia about a crash.”
Correction No. 2—also,—
Cuban cousin meets Cuban cousin
in a dim-lit listing focasle.
not “in a dim-lit foc’sle” because that spelling is too labored, obvious and stupid, as we all know . . . by deliberately misspelling focasle (instead of forecastle) you are using a poet’s prerogative which was once a seaman’s—I know everything about language, I’m like Ezra Pound in a past.
I must type up On the Road at once but dammit Neal and the railroad keep pestering me with work, and I keep losing the money I painfully earn in stupid accidents and connections that don’t come back with my loot, I’d rather lay up in the attic with my innumerable moans, broke.
What will
I care if I faced my responsibilities
instead of my mysteries?
is I guess the greatest statement you ever made. Didn’t I show this kind of enthusiasm before Random House? When you “open your mouth to sing,” however, you are the end . . . and the beginning . . . the greatest living poet in America and I guess the world, “no hyacinthic imagination can express this cloaked man”
Now we shall go to Paris and Venice together, within a year.
CARROUASSADY is the name of the 3 vast geniuses, but don’t fuck up your dedication with that anagram.
One possible furtherbility
make “jumping with jazz into the Pacific” like you mused . . . maybe, only maybe . . . LATER, in a bum beanery on 3rd St.
I must be headed for a big breakdown, I’ve never been so exhilarated and exuberant—like you, I’m blowing my top with words words—They come to me muting in a mad dream, I have it all solved, etc.—Good bad, so what, okay, Allen, Neal C. I’m going to see him in fifteen minutes at his tire-recap garage, drink wine from my pocket while he works, we’ll talk about you, go home for supper together, pick up a can after in the evening, we’re inseparable, immitigable, unsolvable, won. The “French onion soup” in this bum joint tastes like a shroudy stranger tincan special. I threw horseradish in.
I think it would be a good idea for you to use those side-remarks like you have in your letter to me—“I think of this week’s humiliations” capped with “opening statement” on the side, you know what I’m talkin about . . . and “the shame of my poor beat down brother” is capped “example,” and then “the whole crooked ass unlazarus like lot of em” capped curse, and then “not a come in a carload” is “expansion of curse,” a pure method. Incidentally, too, don’t say “crooked assed” but just let “crooked ass” adverb its way by itself.
Love for sale, daddy, love for sale
Let me know about [William Carlos] Williams on River Street if you did it together.
I haven’t written to Bill [Burroughs] but will tonight because I think I’ll go to Mexico for two months now.
When do you think we should go to Paris? I’ll be passing thru NY before year’s out, as seaman, so we can plan and write; a colored buddy of mine is going to make it with me there, either meet me, or go with me, his intention being, to eat lovely white girl’s cunts and mine to fuck and eat them . . . but with you it would be big Genet underground explorations at the same time and the glamour of our two books about to come out and [Bob] Burford, [Allan] Temko, all of em,79 and wine, the gamut. I am have become completely sexmad and completely incidentally straight, that is no virile Ow without aMOw . . . When you realize that the “shrouded stranger” itself was my original phrase, and as you say, “lovingly mixed up with my phrases” etc. there’s nothing we can do about it—I think I could find some of my prose which uses some of your feelings, lemme see, but anyway, don’t worry about that at all because I’m overflowing and don’t need anything or to worry about anything, so long as I’ve got my wine and shit and cunt I guess. Haven’t been laid for three months except—shit, tell Dusty. No on the other hand, hell, fuck it—Just now dammit two men walking down the street with wine bottles and a swaddled baby, pause a while in a waterfront door to slug, the baby’s too young to know—I realized they just don’t know how completely sad life or themselves or the whole void is, damn I’m high and gone and a crazy one—drunk now, on wine, writing this to you, let me know, (O for Fhri cirhe eu) P
Please tell Carl Solomon to mail me, at once, the first 23 pages of On the Road so I can see what I’m working on, I have no copy of that myself. Okay? please do, it’s important.
Eugene [Brooks] sent me splendid efficient legal papers that will save the day for me; I appreciate him hugely; he doesn’t ask for fees; but when I see him, or in the future, soon, I can give him, if he needs, what ever it is, or whatall, you know, embarrassing; but in any case he’s great and thank him personally for me in your own words, as I’ve thanked him in a letter recently.
I’m going to start typing my novel this week.
I’m just rambling, don’t know what I’m saying, got to go buy bread now and Neal pays no attention to anything some days like today, he just says “Yeah, yeah,” to everybody and anything, isn’t listening, in fact is slightly deaf, and just doesn’t care,—and this, finally is the reason why I can’t establish a permanent formal relationship with him . . . I don’t care if he is relaxed, I’m interested and excited and that’s all, and will go to my founts without him. He’s the most un-reassuring guy in the world. Incidentally, write a note to Carolyn next out, she really is a gone gal and the one likely successor to Joan (not Dusty, who isn’t intelligent like C).
Well so long buddy I gotta go—morderoga. bye Allen Mountain
Give my best to everybody—say hello to Alan Ansen if you see him and how I’m still sorry I missed our appointment at his pad in Elmhurst when I came out here instead.
“Across from that rocky village with its cactus foundations is an earth of the young Jesus; they’re bringing the goats home, long stepping Pantrio comes fumilgating along the maguey rows, his son gave him up a month ago to walk barefoot to Mexico City with home made mambo drum, his wife gathers blossoms and flax for his embroideries and kingdoms the young inquisitive carpenters of the village quaff pulque from urns in the goateries and shelli-meeli-mahim of Mohammedan Worldwide Fellaheen dusk and nightfall, Ali Babe be blessed.” Road
But please don’t use any of my new words (such as fellaheen on a big scale like I’m doing for instance) till later altho I dig “inquisitive” as a you-word.
Jack
Allen Ginsberg [n.p., New York, New York?] to
Neal Cassady and Jack Kerouac [San Francisco, California]
March 20, 1952
March 20?
Dear Folks:
Well Neal I read your novel and it’s coming along fine. Even the early tight-assed section on parents reads easily now (on 3rd or 4th reading. I read it a few times two years ago) and it improves with each reading—all that effort despairing as it was was not wasted but should be kept as is. It also gets better from rereading I notice more and more humor in it—the sections you invented are very great—as I was once struck with the collapsed porch and old man Harper. You seem right to me in thinking you are picking up pace and ease in jumping along in detail blowing Proustwise. As described in your letter to Carl [Solomon]—whether or not you had faith in yourself to go on in that way—you are right. The more frantic and personal you blow the better, it sounds more and more beautiful by the page.
I gather from Carl he is sending you letters telling you to go to writing classes (though he does accept and like your novel—more, even than he admits in public) but I think he—in fact I know he—is very hung up with his own personal metaphysics of publishing—and it is a metaphysical structure of no mean—and in fact it is a great structure—proportions who’s labyrinths he is haunting these days (the last year)—so really disregard—I say, from my vantage point on top of the ass-teasing skyscraper pinnacle of the East—everything he say
s and continue to follow your and Jack’s hearts. Carl is worried about form—and literally has confused whatever “form” is with the temporary, in fact weekly shiftings of necessity and opinion in his publishing office.
You see (both of you) he has now on hand a million strains and squabbles at Wyn’s. He’s really the only one there with any knowledge and everything hip he does is so fucked up and made problem of by his office he is having a nervous breakdown almost. He went off, in fact, this week, for a week’s rest. Alone in the woods upstate N.Y. in a rest camp for “physically—mentally tired businessmen.” Among his problems have been:1. Worrying how Jack’s novel will turn out—he got frightened by Jack’s description.
2. The de Angulo80 book which Wyn handed posthumously to an editor whose revisions have now precipitated a major literary squabble between de ngulo’s widow and office on one side, and Ezra Pound himself on the other.
3. The fact that Wyn has invested in several dear books like Jack’s and are afraid to put out more money for [Alan] Ansen’s novel (which is great Ansen) even though they actually want to publish it when its done and Ansen won’t write any more unless they like gentlemen give him a token advance of $150- 250 (with Carl caught in the middle).
4. Several great ideas of Carl’s which they will sooner or later accept but due to office reorganization haven’t noticed, etc.
5. My own crazy poetry and Holmes’s book which his office rejected and which have found success elsewhere.
6. Wanting and not being able to get Alan Harrington’s book yet.
All in all Carl—with my pushing him and yakking at him and trying to influence him all the time to counteract evil effects of office (we’re even planning a Huncke revival)—has actually begun to officialize the new movement in literature which, Jack, as you said, years ago, is only us after all. All things considered I have really come to believe that between us three already we have the nucleus of a totally new historically important etc. etc. American creation. Nobody knows how ripe we are now already, yet.
I have therefore put all aside, including my shipping, to type up my poems and yak at Carl. Also he’s taken Junk back by Bill and is trying to get them to read it and they’re too dreamy to see yet but will inside of three weeks I think.
So this was to say for Neal that it is important to the future of America that he work fast—Denver is lonesome for her heroes, she waits with tears in her dreams like Billie Holiday and work as he wants not as Carl says—because the final thing is what interests Neal, You, which is great or anything.
It is us that is important—(not so much our juvenile egos but) our hearts our true hearts of our own—that is the end—whatever way we see it. Tee hee.
Love
Pope Ginsberg
Allen Ginsberg [New York, New York] to
Jack Kerouac [San Francisco, California]
ca. late March 1952
Dear Jack:
I got your letters, got first note through John. You’re the only one who’s really understood the poetry—[William Carlos] Williams knows a lot but hasn’t got the whole naked junkyard in the moonlight of his intelligence like you. I don’t think—so far he’s been acting like W.C. Fields—country doctor a little; keeps talking about “invenshun” of pure speech and knows whereat it lies—but certain things of our generation or mutual understanding escape him—however he’s been perfect so far, no bitches, no egos, just amazing cooperation—said in fact he’d write an introduction, said to leave thoughts unfinished if I wanted—“like Cézanne left his canvasses unfinished” if he didn’t figger what to do with a corner of the canvas.
We went out in Paterson, but got a little drunk in expensive downtown restaurant, talking about friend of his I met in Mexico, about Genet (who he likes), about Pound and Moore—I pointed him out antlers heads and silly signs in restaurant. Then we went to look at old swimming hole in middle of coteries, rode around in car on street, stopped and picked up a handful of trash at river-bank and made a poem then and there about its contents under the light of a riverside advertising signboard (piece of old concrete, sliver of tin, pin from a loom, 200 yr. old dogturd.) I wanted to take him to bars but he was old and wanted to go home, we went into one and vaguely dug the people, broken down white orchestra with accordion, then rode me home; sat in car. He said, “What’s it all for?” I said, “Why?” He said, “I’m getting old—two years more and I’ll be seventy.” I said, “Are you afraid of death?” He and I looked into the asphalt suburban street road and he said, “Yes, I think that’s it.” So we talked for a minute about the asphalt pavement (what is there in it?) as if it were the walls of the universe. Saw him later at his house, went upstairs to his writing room, looked over book I left with him, discussed arrangement of poems and how hard it will be to publish. Read me a letter from Robert Lowell in Amsterdam (“it’s like a grey Midwestern city”). Lowell is called Cal—or Caligula for short, on account of some old school class apocalypse years ago when they were talking about Rome—and Lowell leaned out of the hotel window in Chicago a few years ago and screamed “I AM JESUS CHRIST” before Alan Tate, eminent critic, pulled him back in and called doctors. Just like Cannastra and R. Gene Pippin combined. But nowhere I think. Will show Williams your letter.
But your specific understanding of certain things is my salvation: Lucien, for instance, liked poems, but said that the best ones were the “amusing ones.” Hollander around Columbia liked them but worried about arrangement and Greek titles for them so they’d look like poems; Kingsland liked recherché ones about Marlene Dietrich. Dusty liked (eek!) the metaphysical ones best. But thoughts “ored up unplanned from dark mind” is the only true level. Thank you for specific comments, they matched my own ideas completely—despite all you did “talk seriously” about work; more incisively than anyone else knew. I guess that’s the test now. So much for generalizations.
“Long Live the Spiderweb” is experimental poem; some seed of it was spontaneous, but it was only one consciously worked and re-worked for half rhymes, rhythms, arrangement of lines on the page, and structure of image (spider, web, flies, etc. etc.) I tried then to write a poem that looked “moderne” like in Poetry magazine. Lucien and Dusty like it, so Hollander. But I thought it was too arty and formal, sort of, though perhaps (what Lu thought, it contained horror-seed). Do you think this type is worth doing, or is as good or fresh as rest? I noticed you noticed it and asked if it was like others or “re-worked”) (what sensitivity of you!)—what did you think—it was pretentious—I thought so a little, but am not sure. Would like your opinion—need only half sentence or two words answer on this—just as I’m not sure what to do—method—in future. Cockroach-rooming house poem Williams likes as part of whole too, that gets kept in.
Williams incidentally said he never was actually in Paterson except as younger man, he used to wander around—the whole poem itself, of his is just a head imagination—wanted to look at River St. for an epilogue about actuality, after all play is over (like an epilogue in hell or outside of world).
Neal I think must have “Ode to Sunset” (formal) around in an old letter (if he keeps them around) look it up maybe, and compare. I guess informal might be better—but in hospital I worked for six months line by line composing formal ode—practically wrote only that one poem all that time. Understand one is naked thought. But so much mental work, time, patience, craft gone into other. Wish I could publish them side by side.
You can write Bill [Burroughs] at 210 Orizaba and warn him not to let Kell’s wife know your address. He’s still at 210 Orizaba. Got enclosed letter from Laughlin rejecting Junk. Still working on Wyn paperbound, may work out.
I know you love me but I am not traveling around and am tied down yet by ideal of doctors, and not on kicks with you in Frisco and Neal, and don’t hold it against me. I felt like an outsider when I wrote you first (on yellow ruled lined paper) and tried to get back in club. Don’t nobody laff at me or insult me behind my American hunchback. Great picture you sent,
would have liked to be in it. Enclose wedding party photo of me and Lucien, folded up. I have quadruplicate of same photo so am messing it up to send. Neal looks older, Jewish, very serious and on powerful integrity drive. I have information from above that he has passed intact through his Hell of being damned and is now ascending purgatory, perhaps is out of it, and is in no longer any danger for his soul, in fact has recently been accorded grave, the worst is over for him and he has entered a new universe. I think that’s why he has been so silent, and withdrawn, to all appearances, the last two years.
“Trembling of Veil”: written in journal two years after East Harlem, or a year. At time when trying consciously to regain mystical eyesight; that’s what title was. Veil not totally rent, just trembled. The aspect of appearance of tree verging on total mystical presence that flooded sight of universe during East Harlem visions. Tried to describe instead of abstractly, a specific thing how it looks mystically. Entry in journal that day (in Paterson) substantially the same as poem; followed two sentences later by parallel notation and explanation of method of eyesight in words about imagined purposes in eternity. Both really same poem, same note in journal, perhaps will combine. That was what I was talking about alla time about visions. Except eyesight was clear and total for few moments on everything in universe at once for a few seconds—sixty perhaps—in bookstore and out of Durgin’s window. I keep explaining this because I was trying to check up my own thought and find out if anyone did does same (off tea)—do these poems say same to you as I’ve already over explained, or have you understood it already? Have I made too much of a tsimmis over this one point? I mean did those poems present anything new to my explanation? Your own “Richmond Hill” seems to me on exactly the same kick—certainly should keep five lines in middle about ants in orchestras, its the same thing as rest, and makes things even clearer, its very clear. (“That has a sound (PKICK) which is lost unless there is a country stillness etc.”) Why’d you say phooey? Same reason I didn’t realize value of own naked thoughts? It’s very deceiving—I don’t really know when I’m communicating myself, and when not—gives me a good feeling about realness of my own thoughts, that others understand them. Such a surprise, too—but few really understand. Those that do actually do though. The part about area breathes is important too. Can you write me a prefatory poem (you and Neal together or one each?) about similar subject—not about angels and shrouds so much as mysterious actual communications of very strange true thoughts that we have in common? Or anything you want anyway.