by Jack Kerouac
Actually didn’t think till you write about strangeness of phrase arms of the trees. Thought green hairy protuberances was the neediest. That’s why its confusing to me—I never noticed—can anyone—what’s going on, in poem.
Didn’t realize how seriously you were working in dreamy sentences and compound phrases in streams. Gets very good. Have just started reading Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake, with skeleton key. Joyce is too hard—too much fooling around with verbal ideas and historical abstractions, so it’s hard to understand him when he’s referring to esoteric literary matters. But an American Joycean mode (bop inventions in lines, “shirtless, hatless, the moon leering over his shoulder” is great—think that’s fine for you—gets the whole point of your personal myriad sense of enormousness of Neal-Bill-Huncke-me-tree across) would work and be read. Faulkner does it a little too, and understood. (I guess not too many shrouds and lots of particular moons, best.) Also coyote with dog grin, I noticed, in fact things of that paragraph I noticed were: Coyote, icon in tree didn’t like wines of repentance on account of its like title of some middleclass novel (my Martha Gellhorn81 Drapenport-Chicken-every-Golgotha); liked sentence bent over wheel, moon; liked fast shroud, but wondered about whole apex-shroud clause; liked old ford joint etc etc. Got to talk.
Whole sentence about “my daddy strutted” is on, including through vegetable bin.
Now second letter received on back of RR forms. Neal is working too hard on money problems, too bad he can’t get some kind of peace for his own work. Don’t he know he’s forgiven and don’t have to make up by crucifying self on practical exhaustion? anymore? Will have to think in a year when possible about getting him a subsidy.
You bastard I outright deny you made up phrase Shroudy Stranger, you’ll hear from Brooks the lawyer tomorrow. I natcherly steal from you. But didn’t you and I make it up together that day on York Avenue? Don’t you go stealing my glory. Hole.
John [Clellon Holmes] wants to call his book “GO.” (so suggested his editor Burroughs Mitchell. Yes? How about GO, MAN. But maybe go. Better “GO!”
The two improvements you suggested are accepted, esp. focasle. Too bad I can’t see you before book out, but probably will anyway. “River Street Blues” is other consciously worked poem, not finished yet—will be a long poem with real blues songs in it and more details about Paterson.
Mysteries—responsibilities was something I thought you said right out to me a long time ago.
The rhetoric of Song and our Hart Crane I don’t know how or where to use so it will mean anything yet.
Paris? Would like to go but how should I know when? Williams says he will get me $1,000 Arts and Sciences grant after book out. Maybe on that?
What other side remarks did I have on crooked ass—poem? I forgot. You mention all up to expansion of curse (except the first) put them down and send them, I’ll put it in.
If you hit NY you can live in my attic—I’m not there all the time, costs me only $4.50 per week to maintain.
I haven’t been really laid for months either. Dusty ain’t interested, have not been seeking anything out. Too tired, too unsuccessful. But got to get back to it, am losing touch with world without. But we can’t be anywhere really while we’re so hungup sexless and without relation with any females. Ask Caroline [Carolyn] for advice. Actually we’re crazy, and that’s no joke, that’s why I don’t want to go so much to Europe and play the Whitman character in front of well meaning admirers, who I’ll vanity like take foolish. Why carry on in Europe, for me? Maybe I’ll find love there, that’s a reason, but everybody has empty Hemingway affairs in Europe or had. I don’t want to go to Paris so I can write.
How strange I am in Paris.
I’m sitting up on top of
the Eiffel Tower looking at
an angel on the sacred heart
church, wishing it were
alive and looking me in the eyes.
Gee Paris is Paterson. etc.
You know what I mean? It’s such egotism to be a lonely writer in Europe, and I don’t too much want to go there for that. However there will be maybe mad adventures. Kingsland met Genet in Paris, by the way. Kingsland had a great party (I wasn’t there—he thought I was away) at which were Hohnsbean, Auden and his boys, [Chester] Kallman, etc.; famous harpsichordists and counts and patrons, and Marianne Moore, etc. Very amazing of Kingsland. He’s living with an old queen, nice guy, on 57 St. Right around the corner from Marian Holmes, who is always drunk and John is not there (J. Holmes I mean) anymore.
Don’t write me, don’t send me eggsurps, I’ll see them from Carl, don’t waste time, but do write often short letters maybe with short facts about what’s going on—don’t take up your time. I have time to write, so I do and will.
I enclosed note to Neal, read his work and believe in it as much as I believe in mine for me and yours for you, and don’t believe in Bill’s Junk or John’s Go. He [Neal] always reminded me of grim Julius Caesar on the trolley in Denver and iron bones of purity are emerging in his First Third. The end should be the most serious expression of serious soul ever seen, in these days in America if he goes on natcherally as he has done. He can afford to relax and let the perminess take over. The true gyzm (jizem, gyzem) of Cassady will roar o’er the pages like Niagara.
Love,
Allen
Jack Kerouac [San Francisco, California] to
Allen Ginsberg [Paterson, New Jersey]
late March, 1952
Dear Allen:
[ . . . ]
Appreciated your thing about you and Williams—I saw him, it’s a classic night, he’s 68, what’s he got left . . . good thing he was at least a doctor, I feel shame all the time from all this poetry, I don’t know how the hell I manage to live with myself being so open and cuntlike and silly like ROAD will be and you with your tragic “sandwich of pure meat” made me shudder and wish I could help you on Judgment Day . . . not in the face of God but your own when you realize . . . That pix of you and Lucien, he says your poetry is amusing in it . . . he looks like a successful snob, you look like a hipster from San Remo but I love you, don’t doubt that part of it.
I’m just being Lucien like now. News of Bill’s book astounding—I knew it, who else writes a full confession, hamstring your cunty old Merton’s in a hog-farm, blah, Bill is still great; I wrote TWO weeks ago and asked him to take me to Ecuador with him and [Lewis] Marker, am waiting for his reply: here’s a quote from the letter he wrote me:
“Dear Jack, I do not know how much longer I will be here. I am charged as a ‘pernicious foreigner’ and the immigration dept. will request my departure as soon as the case is settled . . . ” (later) (talks about his new novel about queer, I’m suggesting he call it Queer, it’s sequel to Junk, he says it’s better, I bet it is too . . .) “And let me tell you, young man,” (he writes) “that I did not ‘leave my sexuality back somewhere on the opium road,’ that phrase has rankled with me all these years. I must ask of you, if I am to appear in your current opus, that I appear properly equipped.” (and then adds, beyond period) “with male facilities. Jesus, man, you sure can pick your women. You needn’t have cautioned me not to reveal your address to Kell’s wife, she and me don’t hardly say hello, I gather she don’t like me” (this sounds like old Runyon 8th avenue bill don’t it?) the PS is as follows: “Another thing, I am not entirely happy about appearing under the name of Old Bull Balloon, I cannot but feel that the epithet Bull contains an uncomplimentary reference, and I am by no means old . . . you’ll be equipping” (equip again, the word twice) “me with white hair next book”. Isn’t that interesting from Bill? . . . in new book he is Bill Hubbard, incidentally. He says Dennison has been discovered by his mother, in Town and City, so he will have to use Sebert Lee as name in Junk, but to hide from Maw, but . . . “I thought of Sebert Lee, but Sebert is like Seward and Lee is my mother’s name. I guess it will do though.” (end of letter). (crazy?)
If he sends for me, my third novel will be underway immedi
ately . . . it will be about Bill sinking into South America, no title as yet, as vast as On the Road, tell Carl, also tell Carl I’m sending in Road completed and neatly typed and all considered and pruned no later than April. So I can start on novel No. 3, I want to hit onwards, one of these years I will knock off THREE masterpieces in one year like Shakespeare in his Hamlet-Lear-Julius Caesar year,—I didn’t ask you to go to Paris with me because I need you, I was only being kind to a fellow writer and being traditional, fuck you too.
Ti-Jean
xxx
Hey, how lucky you are to have a home address like that Paterson home of your Paw’s even tho as I know there, you, a ghost, etc. feel like an outsider and crazy but worse than that unliked or strange and from mars, but me, I have a terrible guilt and no-home and will never feel the same again on account of that cruel cruel little bitch [Joan Haverty] who really I think wants to have me killed—but that’s alright, but they can’t I’m too fast and strong, but Allen, you’re awfully lucky to have your father still alive, and your brother at your side, even tho your poor mother is sick, you’re a lucky good little kid, I wish I had a home in Paterson, I’m getting awfully tired of roaming and now (keep it to yourself for Christ sake, my mother writes that cops are haunting the house and priests are calling on her wanting to know my address, tell Eugene [Brooks] it’s that Goddamn Brooklyn Uniform Support of Dependents and Abandonment Bureau of the DA there, the bastards want to change the country to “meet a problem,” there’re one million men in this country trying never to see their wives pusses again and these socialistic think-they’re-well-meaning-pricks are trying to “solve” that, you and your bureaucracy, Tit, don’t tell nobody but I have to leave even Frisco in due time course shit man I wish I was innocent again) to Ecuador, . . . which means equator, jungles, disease, Burroughs and his rotten martinis rotting . . . good enough for pricks like me.
Well Allen, adieu
P.S. Tell John Holmes “Go, Go, Go” was the title of a story I wrote about me ’n Neal in a jazz joint, it was Giroux made up the title; he called his novel Go is a good idea for him, I got nothing to do with it, he wrote and asked me if it was one of my old rejected titles, Jesus Christ what am I supposed to be Jesus Christ? Also, yes, shrouded stranger you make up yourself talking to me that spring morn, Lucien woke up and talked to Huncke an hour later (I started by talking of pursuing figure in desert and you called him shrouded stranger and pulled a chair up to touch my knees and said “Well now lets talk about the s.s. [shrouded stranger].”
Are you really being published by Random House?
Might as well finish paper. Wish you were here. Having wonderful time. How’s Harrington?
J’ever see Jose Garcia Villa anywheres? or whozit? Tell Cessa von Hartz Carr to hang on to that copy of Town and City, I’ll pick it up in the next century the way things are going.
The pix of party made me wish I was back in my New York, which I originated.
Tell Lucien I wish I had been there to repay him in kind for what he done for me MY wedding party, being there, lending me money then giving me a fin, and being there that’s all; he looks great with that carnation, he’s a lovely fellow, tell him I look forward to drinking him under the table any time, I’ve changed and can now drink him under the table my gullet is so hugened.
I’m a wino in Frisco temporarily.
John Holmes is a latecomer, or that is, a pryer-intoer of our genuine literary movement made up of you, me, Neal, Bill, Hunkey (as yet unpublishable) and mebbe Lucien someday . . . just like other literary movements, and therefore John Holmes is really riding our wagon without knowing where actually it’s headed (but you know and I know). (Boy)
Remember Joe May laughing in the streets of 14th bookshops? hey?
I don’t understand your spiderweb. Get me an Arts and Science Grant, I’m starving in the wilderness, I have nothing but my seabag and no ship I have nothing, my mother gets all that Wyn money (most).
I’ve been getting laid lately, plenty, it makes no difference in what you write, it just makes your cock come alive again.
Could I live in your attic? the law would catch me, I’m a criminal, I’m going to hurle dans les rues de Paris soon, or someday, shoot somebody in Brussels, get elephantiasis in Port Stettenham mid Malaya,—I only want to go to Italy so a couple Lombard blondes sit on my head. dig? Listen, in late June a great cat is coming your way, Al Sublette off the President Monroe, treat him well, I’ll hip you later, a great Negro simple hero, no intellectual or nothin, a friend of jazz musicians in St. Louis, I can’ describe his greatness—later. Neal is great, his book is great, I’m disappointed in Carl’s [Solomon] intelligence telling him to study Mickey Spillane, what does he think our boy is an idiot? Would I write a book about a dope?
Allen Ginsberg [n.p., New York, New York?] to
Jack Kerouac [n.p., San Francisco, California?]
late March-early April 1952
Dear Jack:
No news of my book’s fate yet, is with [William Carlos] Williams and Random House, also another copy at Commentary magazine to see if they want anything. Showed Van Doren who liked and took me to Faculty Club twice in same week for lunch; made me feel accepted again almost. As we walked in the second time, I headed for bathroom before going to lunch, holding copy of poems under arm, he suddenly said, “Here you better let me hold that. You might pee on it.” Said it right out of the blue. I can’t understand that man. Also (after all these years finally) opined as I had obviously had a “Revelation” at some time or other to speak so plainly now. Said goodbye, and don’t know when I’ll see him ever again, out in the world on my own.
What will I realize on Judgment Day, seriously, about your comment on sandwich of pure meat? (Incidentally, I had to edit that poem, I originally had lines:I ate a sandwich of pure meat, an
enormous sandwich of human flesh;
I noticed it also included a dirty
asshole while I was chewing on it.
I don’t remember if I included that in version I sent you. Lucien shuddered and said to take it out it was disgusting, so I did, also for publisher, but that’s why it says in heaven.)
Bill’s book is going thru usual publishers crap which I am handling; they want to change things, etc. etc.; it’s too short as is, they want Queer (a title Carl and I figured out simultaneous with you; such loving intermixture of thought) in first person (Bill’s writing in 3rd) to fill out, want more outside detail on Bill’s myth and life. Difficult mediations, and I see why Carl’s going crazy there; it’s so hard to be practical and sympathetic at once. And those people also are dumb, which makes matters worse, harder to deal with them.
I read last chapter you sent Carl, and liked it; missing the lines you sent in John Holmes’s letter which were beautiful and I thought were to conclude book, too. No? Carl upset, doesn’t understand references made, thought it was surrealist free association. Haven’t got chapter here with me or would say more. Interested to know how book is organized now: how many sections of what kind in what order? Hope will not have trouble at Wyn, but that’s possible. I made Carl promise to let me see it and explain its virtues to him first before bringing it to office, as he is easily overwhelmed by violent prophecies of total catastrophe at the least sign of difficulty; that is due to his position at the nerve center of practical concerns. I have liked all the prose you sent me so far. I sent your letter to Williams. Hope he will become our ally. Possibly we will need such. Wish I had more experience and self-confidence in regard to dealings with Bill’s book.
Sorry I was so stupid about Paris, I was talking straight and viewed possibility of Paris sans poetry as actual possibility and was weighing it in mind. I am submitting a short story I just wrote to New Story Contest (address: New Story Young Writer’s Contest, 6 Boulevard Poissoniers, Paris 9 France). First Prize is trip to Paris and back plus month freeloading and living at New Story’s expense. Mine is called “The Monster of Dakar,” about sea trip, futile search for hop and boy in Dak
ar, ending with assignation under streetlight made by pimp for me with local Mongolian idiot, only one he could find to sleep with me. Word limit is 7,000 and Saroyan among judges. Suggest you also enter if can make up or find story type story that length, must be done and postmarked May 1. Also money second prizes. One of us should wind up with something. Maybe we could actually wind up in Paris.
I am lucky to be taken care of, but it’s only temporary unless I want to wind up the village idiot of Paterson, grubbing off family and eating their bread and having to obey my father and live under someone else’s sway. Must get out of that and become independent, like you must; only can’t figure way, but must, more important to me than writing, though writing may be my way of getting independence.
Carl upset you still starving and that your mother keeps your money. Why don’t you use it yourself? You are in a worse hole than your mother. I spoke to Gene [Brooks] about wife and he said either change your address to keep safe or send Joan [Haverty] money (from another postal town) according to agreement. If want to stay in country safe and without anxiety, that’s only way. You better do that with Wyn money. OK to visit Bill, but no use doing that because you’re in such a hole you have to to be safe. You’re letting yourself get too unnecessarily tangled up in sad fate. Must work out some free-er and happier way. Write me, what exactly is your financial situation, your mother’s, and that in respect to Joan. Let’s figure a way to clean things up before it gets further, makes writing paranoid, and life lousy. After all it’s only question of enuf money to live and alimony. Don’t go down the other side for nothing like that. Was upset by sadness of your last letters. That’s strictly situation, external, not absolute and fixed fate for you unless you leave it be fixed fate. Am not being analytic-moral. None of us are fast and strong enuf to battle society forever really, it’s too sad, and grey. Just felt you were feeling too crazy lately, and am putting out friend-hand. Tell me real situation as you see it and we can figure out something; maybe get more gold from Wyn. Can’t never maybe be innocent again; have maybe to make own home. (This last lyrical abstract). But must not let situation drift to intolerability. We got too much else to do besides suffer.