by Jack Kerouac
Neal now is not going to NYC but to Mexico fast and back. He’s still working on S.P.
Allen Ginsberg [San Francisco, California] to
Jack Kerouac [n.p., New York, New York?]
Friday Jan 14, 1955
Dear Jack:
Just returned from the library carrying Goddard’s handbook (Golden Path), 1954 Philo Lib Buddhist Texts, thick book varied selections, and 2 vols (II and III) Rhys David’s Dialogues of Buddha. I’ll read in these for awhile, first.
Reread your letter: keep writing. Since unfamiliar with the vocabulary difficult to follow actual thoughts. I’ll familiarize myself with the titles and states soon, though, that may make communication easier for you, for me.
I have no, or few, doubts that you have conceived and touched (by means of mental, physical sensation) the basic single truth. This touch I distinguish from a general or even sharp idea, symbol in mind, or literary vision (emotional poetic passionate world ken) in that this touch is touch on another totally unknown sphere of let us say “inhuman” sensation, which I will call henceforth (the unknown or unknowable, outside conception of poetry or imagination and also outside possibility of representation by ideas). So I begin with a basic X which is “unspeakable,” “unknowable” and “unthinkable.” Believe this X can however be experienced. I image it can also be communicated, or hinted at, pointed to (with finger, image, X, poem, word, etc.) (letter too). Communications on the subject are limited.
One problem I have always found, that those who seemed to me to have experienced this “break in nature,” or breakthrough of eternity into time, have different ways of describing it—I would think they all have the experience of the identical X—but when it comes to matching symbols and circumstances under which X was experienced, though the signs all point to an experience outside the limits of understanding (comprehension, imagination, even memory) (memory of the experience, as in Dante, “here fails me”), as I say though all signs point to some kind of break in nature, breakthrough of an X, the little descriptions of the X do vary, confusingly, and the circumstances under which X manifested itself or was experienced also seem to vary. Peter Orlovsky (who seems to me to have grasped something—actually) says it comes to him after torment struggle. With me only when I am totally empty. With others for no reason at all, etc. With you, with preparation. Now here you think in comparing our X’s. I am presuming your Buddha experience and my Blake ones are on the same level. And I have no way of knowing.
My minutes after Blake were such that they satisfy above description of unspeakables etc. and such that at the time and to this day I vowed to believe in that One of which now I remember only the absolute absolute absolute absolute absolute absoluteness, infinite absoluteness, I mean, no possibility (no way for me to conceive) of there being any other One. But because I am unable to conceive other does not mean I did see the final X—perhaps there are further developments of X only imaginable after further experience, which you are offering me, with Buddhist doctrine and methods. For this I keep mind open and also for the reason that though at time I thought, hoped, had to, by its very nature, perfection, continue to undergo the experience, learning how, so to stay in bright room all the time, temporally, it was not under my control—sent perhaps when I was unaware as a sign, but no more.
Since its nature was to be unknowable by me, Allen mind, but only by not me, but it which I was while experiencing, I saw, after a year of every third thoughts, that thought on the subject (I had really reduced my mind to complete absorption, relatively complete, perhaps not absolutely complete though, no not absolute, was still on York Ave., etc.)—I saw, or thought, that having thought all things down to one thought, sooner or later the thought, still human, would embody itself in inhuman experience—the thought (an image of the thing, a shadow of the X) would terminate by becoming the X suddenly, and the thought disappear, (boat to cross river, image to concentrate on and discard) and I would be left in pure thought-less state of X.
The thought, thought toward X, I soon found (1950-1951), were themselves the wall, the door lock say, no key at all. I had replaced experience of X with thoughts of X. So I had to begin consciously to eliminate thought of X from my mind, thinking, paradoxically, that by sacrificing my continuous preoccupation with the goal I might attain it.
I also perhaps mistakenly (thru reading Taoism and Confucius and Yeats and Blake) followed the line thus: since all things are One, absorption in the idea of One is an absorption on the one thing that One isn’t, so to speak. So that to enter the One I had to enter its manifestation, the world, picking up on concrete particulars (that’s when I began writing free verse too)—and become so occupied with the world that I became thoughtless of the One, and therefore a part of the world, and therefore One with the One—sing as the Tao Bird sings. Also influenced by poem ♯1 in Lao-Tze (don’t have it here, but it says, since the inner mystery, X, and the surface of the universe are One,—men give them different names are confusing the issue metaphysically—who names or touches surface touches the inner mystery.) Now, this line of sacrificing idea of the one (and ego aspiration toward sanctity and illumination, in itself a process of letting self like Christ descend from heaven nirvana in order to be crucified by the world—living in it, being mortal) I conceived of as the most sublime paradox, in itself probably the way toward sanctity. Twistings and turnings of thought. So you see in a way I have been—especially in this last lust affair—been steadily pursuing the path, however it may be only to find that it is the wrong path, despite my “faith” in the fashion I conceived to be indicated—by warnings from half-wise Van Doren, whom I took to be an angel advising me when he said forget about this metaphysics and read a book about modern Chinese sociology. Van Doren is famous for working by metaphysical paradox and I took it as serious pun arhat guidance toward austerity—no ego self-indulgence in sanctity to glorify Allen. I thought I was being punished for saying (several times) “I want to be a Saint.” I meant it. Was prepared not to be, in order to be.
However through various experiences—trying to live in flatworld of work, particulars, empty love, etc., or rather unhappy love—I began in 53 to see (in “Green Auto”—and incidentally my poetry as I’ve said records stage by stage all the major moments of the cycle, Empty Mirror being the phase trying not to look for eternity) or think that after all, imagination painted pix of world as heart (I had a right to heart) wanted it, so I began developing my imagination again, in order to enjoy life, went to Mexico and to see Neal.
But now not even the “human imagination satisfied the endless emptiness of the soul,” as poem on plane says. I am absorbed in the world. The world is real, as it wasn’t to me when I had first visions of X.
And now it is perhaps time for training in the absolute illusion of absolute reality, that is, time for another approach to the unimaginable only this time not by thinking of X but by emptying the mind of all thought. I had no method then, though I knew early this was the way.
For this reason, above reason, I am hesitant to nowadays really seriously speak about Harlem Visions and treat them gingerly, as with Lucien, and also hesitant to involve my mind in doctrine of any kind. Now you come along with doctrine and method, backed up by all signs of successful method and right doctrine—that is, your descriptions, almost unmistakable (I have a shade of doubt) of your experience of X or its equivalent (now beyond my conception anyway).
For this reason be careful with me, with prose, in future letters. You see why? If you bullshit me you confuse issue in my mind. If you misuse the titles of states of enlightenment, or ascribe to an experience a description or a name which doesn’t purely accurately truthfully (Chinese word for truth man standing next to his words) represent it, you’ll be doing me harm, and also making it more difficult for me to follow. In enthusiasm of your prose, in its facility to imagine eternality, I detect your giving same importance to different levels of experience, over using lesser experiences so that I may not be able to tell the deeper f
rom the less deep, and the deeper from the deepest.
I am not here doubting you, the deepest comes thru in the letters there’s no mistake I believe.
It is that I am trying to distinguish accurately what you are saying, and the depth of significance of the different moments and expression and descriptions of the letters. You once accused me of confusing literary and actual visions.
Next: certain, I must begin Buddhist spiritual exercises. If you have clarity from—clearly observed stages and methods, an order of exercise, especially eyeball, earball bellyball kick etc. phenomena, exercises, specific bodily and mental inside signposts, hip me.
I not exhausted with human love—you for instance—and so will not yet give it up. This may cause confusion. But mean to conduct myself with less selfhood, self-pity, etc., meanwhile practicing some kind of study and austerity mentally, emotionally.
I haven’t here discussed your letters really. Want first to give clearer picture of my past path, in light of possible seriousness you might interpret to it now since your seriousness began real serious. Want you to know what I’ve been through. This letter outlines clearly more or less what I’ve tried to get across on various occasions and maybe already said tiresomely in letter or in person.
The voice of this letter is that of a kind of arhat it strikes me, dry arhat, what? Unless I can’t detect my ego except in this here break.
I’m keeping a world life journal more closely now as mentioned yesterday and will send it to you.
Forgive my not discussing matters in Buddhist technology yet but I don’t know enough. I hate to send just gossip about interesting literary gossip things I find in it so maybe won’t be able to discuss Dharma with you for awhile in Dharma terms till I have some experience with it in terms of my own sensations. Please continue writing. I’ll answer speedily, and think of you if I have to delay.
Goddard is famous, I’ll find out if he’s alive.
Dig Suzuki’s books.
Realize I am interrupting literary studies (Catullus, Latin, meter) to begin this project.
Allen
Jack Kerouac [Richmond Hill, New York] to
Allen Ginsberg [San Francisco, California]
January 18-20, 1955
Jan. 18 ’55
Dear Allen,
This letter is divided into three parts, the first joyous, the second regretful, the third serious and philosophical.
FIRST JOYOUS PART. I don’t want to contaminate you with thoughts that relate to the existence of my self, your self, any selves, many selves divided into many living beings or many selves united into one Universal self; nor with ideas of or about phenomena, which I will eventually prove to you, with the aid of the Buddhas and their Sutras, is but figurative and only spoke-of. But later. In other words first the joyous human news about “me” and “such.” No, I didn’t sell my books. In fact Knopf sent back Beat G. after all that hassle about typing that had me up late night all December slaving and editor in chief Joe Fox’s opinion is rather contemptuous saying it’s not even a “good novel” which ain’t true. (But Seymour Lawrence read Subterraneans and wrote a beautyful sad rejection about how beautiful my work is and “why don’t K. get away from Beat G. themes.” etc.)
Anyway, it concerns Eugene [Brooks] and me. We went to court together this morning and were sitting at the back looking anxiously through his briefcase for an affidavit of my sickness105 Doctor Perrone (your Perrone) had written last night testifying saying, “I order this man to bed until his acute condition subsides.” But I didn’t get mad at Gene and he said don’t worry. Enuf that he is kind enuf to get up early-in-morning and come help this helpless hunk soon returning to emptiness from which it came. But Joan Haverty was there, but hadn’t been notified of my demand for a paternity test so did not have the girl daughter. But they told her right away about it, and how sick I was (from V.A. records). Sweetly she came and said may I sit with you? Sure. And guess what? She has been converted to Catholicism and talks of the Virgin Mary sadly and of Jesus etc. And how she has found peace. Hasn’t changed in looks, thinner. Showed me pixes of the dotter who I think looks like me, especially frowning square-browed photo, so may be mine. But loves her so much doesn’t want me ever to see her or ever have my Ma send involving presents etc. Said “I’m sorry I didn’t know you were so sick.” The V.A. must have given a report to the police about my condition that is worse than I realize. But joy floods by my being as I think I may die soon, or young, such emancipation, such universal sweetness. Joan was so sweet, paid attention to me, scoffed a little at my Buddha (I had big manila envelope ready for Tomb Incarceration, including Buddhist Bible of Goddard, my own typed-up PRAJNA selections from Public Library sources, and my new novel the long night of life and notebooks with Chinese inscriptions which I showed her but didn’t look.) She said she didn’t want money from me if I didn’t have it; had reformed (as helpless woman) and decided to take bull by the horns and move to NY with dotter and work and eventually run day nursery etc. Love of children. Girl’s name is Janet Michele Kerouac, born Feb. 1952. Blue eyes. Said my Buddhism, was my “little game” fitting in with my personality. “You play your little game and I’ll play mine”—real hip coming on. Sweet glances. In fact Eugene said she was nice to me and seemed to like me. Gene interested. Gene cutting out to talk to lawyer, setting up case, calling my doctor, etc., at one point standing surveying entire hall of Negro beat misfathers and wives and kiddies with big glasses digging life. So at noon we all go into judge chambers and judge so weary from case before ours, which is long, he just says “If this man is disabled, then we’ll set the case aside.” So now nothing will happen unless Joan gets mad or I get rich and famous, etc. and I smoothed waters by telling her if I am left alone I will not demand paternity test but give her money instead (for test). So case is suspended (Gene says for a year I guess) and Joan and my woman probation officer real buddy buddy shaking hands and woman saying “I told you, it’s better to do things yourself ” and big women philosophies but Gene leaning in listening to them digging women. So instead of going to jail I come home, memorize the heart of the Great Dharani of the Lord Buddha’s Crown Samadhi, on knees recite it, drink wine and take benny and read your letter, and tape up legs. So now I see Gene Friday for shot of movies we took and maybe bring him a little money my mother says he deserves. My mother not home yet to hear great news. And Joan told me write and I will. Now I’m all set for desert, soon as I go down to south and clear the country lot my folks bought for house, cutting trees and burning stumps and cutting grass and sowing garden when able. Have nicotine habit, dammit, must break it again.
SECOND REGRETFUL PART. Your long letter about the sad love. If like me you renounce love and the world, you will suffer the sorrows of renunciation, which come in the form of ennui and “what to do, what to dream?” dig. But if you grasp at sadlove, ergo, you suffer from sadlove. I dug whole letter and loved the Dostoevsky and bare Neal bumping in[to] Hinkle in hall (like the time the three of us bumped in Watsonville and had big poker game with brakemen)—Peter O. sounds very great and I know that whatever happens, you will know how to reassure the sad heart therein. Be sure to do that, before too late, before disappears. Reassure Canuck painter too. Cut out. Or if not cut, out, for how can I know any more than Burroughs deal . . . at least never recriminate, never sadden others, always be kind and forgive and suffer. I suffer from loneliness, long afternoons after dhyana, or rather really before, what’s there to do? The letter beautiful, I read it line by line in morning, savoring every bit of it, how I love letters from you my fine sweet Allen. And don’t ever worry about me getting mad at you again—I swear off of that for the last last time, every time I get mad at you it later turns out imaginary reasons of dust. bah. Never again will you get a scowl, or a bad word, from me, and I dig you as a saint already and a real saint. I understand your concerns taking the form of big discussions of “X” as being solely due to long rational philosophical scholastic hip-poet grounding. Faith you
need. What do I mean by faith? Supposing Buddha says that when you become enwrapped in highest samadhis all the innumerable invisible bodhisattvas come from all quarters of universe and lay their hand in a radiant wheel on your brow?—and my answerin in faith, is, WHY NOT? (since they’re invisible, inscrutable, inconceivable.) So as to sadlove, sadlove equals sadlove and as to the Tao surface of reality, I see several mistakes in your phrasing concerning “reality.” . . . your words: “ABSOLUTE ILLUSION OF ABSOLUTE REALITY” and this is the crux of your misunderstanding due to lack of learning which now you begin to get. (Incidentally by abandoning Catullus and meter for study of the basis of poetry you certainly don’t shirk scholastic-self-study requirements, there can be no poetry with any basis other than Buddhist that will have no holes. Later on I criticize Dylan Thomas for you on this ground, to show you childish innocence of his thought.) Phenomena is the illusion, reality is the reality. Phenomena is your Chinese surface, that you also mention saying “when visions are real it’s like haven—heaven”—in other words, say, the body—the body isn’t real, the vision is—so the vision of nothingness is at least as real as the vision of body—but the vision of nothingness is, right?, the vision of vision, mind essence. Now let me give you this: on the subway yesterday, as I read the Diamond Sutra, not that, the Surangama Sutra, I realize that everybody in the subway and all their thoughts and interests and the subway itself and their poor shoes and gloves etc. and the cellophane paper on the floor and the poor dust in the corners was all of one suchness and essence. I thought. “Mind essence is like a little child, it makes no discriminations at all.” And I thought, “Mind essence loves everything, because it knows why everything is.” And I saw that these people, and myself to lesser extent, all were buried in selfhood which we took to be real . . . but the only real is the One, the One Essence that all’s made of, and so we also took our limited and perturbed and contaminated minds (hanking after appointments, worries, sorrows, love) to be our own True Mind, but I saw True Mind itself, Universal and One, entertains no arbitrary ideas about these different seeming self-divisions and suchness, is unlimited, unperturbed, uncontaminated by suffering self-hangs on form, mind is IT itself, the IT . . . The cellophane, when I looked at it, was like my little brother, I really loved it . . . so saw that if I sat with the True Mind and forgot myself and its limited mind and imagined and set-up sufferings (that as you know vanish at death) (like Melville’s loomings on street 100 years ago in dark America with ice and snow on sidewalk that if he didn’t have Body he’d a fallen through endless space) (no sidewalk even) (all empty, hallucination of forms) if I sit with True Mind and like Chinese sit with Tao and not with self but by no-self submission with arms hanging to let the karma work itself out, I will gain enlightenment by seeing the world as a poor dream.