by Jack Kerouac
Love All
Allen
You can transmit loot easiest by personal check. If no one around has checks, send cash, my father does, it arrives.
Jack Kerouac [Orlando, Florida] to
Allen Ginsberg [Paris, France]
January 16, 1958
Dear Allen:
Alas, you’d a got this money three days earlier but for an ankle that prevented me from walking to the bank, some kind of swollen rheumatism, and no one to drive me. I hope now you’ll have a great time, next three months. Please don’t blow your substance on fools and parasites, but try to enjoy Paris nice now. Take long walks with Bill. I just got paid by Vanguard nightclub thus this loot. Germany advance just came in, this is what I’m sending. I will be in Paris this summer unless Hollywood calls me to go work on the script if they take the book which looks extremely likely now, I just got big letter from producer Jerry Wald at 20th Century, he wants to make big melodramatic changes in format but his ideas aren’t too bad and besides I want to get rich so I can make my own movies with Robert Frank later. BMR [Black Mountain Review] is out with Bill’s Yage in it, looks great. Your “America”, what is this kind of addition to America you pasted on? . . . Anyway I only told Hollywood one rule: no brutality in my movie. I really told them sumptin. “The secret of the beat generation, you wouldn’t kill anybody even if you were ordered to (by a commander or sumptin.)” I know I wouldn’t. Jerry Wald seems to see On the Road like a kind of Wild Ones brutal bit. But it ain’t as bad as I make it sound. I want to dig Hollywood (as scenarist, and sitting next to directors on set) so I can write big final Hollywood novel of all time. Otherwise, if things go slow, I will be in Paris this summer. Is Bill with you yet? Is Peter really coming NY? Did Grego run away to Frankfurt because of those bad checks? I’m going to order Gasoline from Ferling and read it. This is big year of Zen on Madison Avenue, Alan Watts the big hero (the wisdom of insecurity, his new book, big hit among executives of security) . . . so we also come in now . . . but in my Dharma Bums new novel I do make the distinction between “Zen” and original Mahayana Buddhism. Well, many things to say and do, write me when you can, please notify me if you got money okay, and I write back big letters answering all your questions (ask some, I probably answer em all)
Jean Louis
Jack Kerouac [Orlando, Florida] to
Allen Ginsberg [Paris, France]
January 21, 1958
Dear Allen:
Your writing is not fucked up, never was, I mean technically, technically you’re probably the best writer in the world . . . it’s only your depressing ideas, when I feel happy and pure from weeks of studying sutras and praying suddenly I open one of your letters (sometimes) and feel a nameless depression, as tho black scum over my lucid bowl. Well you know you ARE a black blob so sorrow . . . but no, don’t forget I love you, but I’m afraid of you now, and for you, such depression. Why, for instance, well it’s none of my business, but why don’t you ignore war, ignore politics, ignore samsara injust fuckups, they’re endless . . . why is Chiang Kai Shek worse than Mao? and why shouldn’t a saint walk thru the white house someday? Why are you so depressed, angel? so what, rhinestone autos from Detroit, there are rhinestone buyers and blueberry spies. Chaplin was just as bugged with “America” as U.S. with him, a double hatred . . . and when the universe disappears no movie can stick in God’s throat because God is nothing (thank God, go ahead, thank God for that!) Money is money, why shriek at money (especially now that I’m going to be rich.) Allen, cool it. Rid thee of thy wrath, go lamby, isn’t it a better thing to do in eternity to leave everybody alone good and evil alike and just pile along glad? Aha, our old 1946 argument.
Just got this note from Ferlinghetti: “Thanx for sending Burroughs sample. Would like to read more and will write Don Allen for it tho I doubt there will be much left for me by the time Grove and ND are thru wid it . . . Where is Allen? no word.”
Marlon Brando doesn’t want me or Sterling to sell Road without giving him a chance to bid, that’s the news on movie.
In two weeks I going to NY put down payment on a house and be near city for all this sixnix. Way out in L.I. [Long Island], like fifty miles or more. Lucien go with me drive around . . . looks like I’ll be able to go to Paris see you and Bill this summer, if movie is sold and I have my trust fund established, we can all travel on that money, free money (interest). I’d like to repay Bill a little for his many kindnesses in the past including that last importuning steak in Tangiers the night I should av ordered spaghetti. Trust fund will be in my mother’s name and she mail me loot. This is wiser than you think (considering Donlins and Neals).
If Peter is still there, give him my warmest love and I mean it. Your description of Gregory going to Germany is amazing! I know what, Allen, you must write prose masterpiece now and make a million: write a big VISIONS OF GREGORY, call it something else, Joyce Glassman is going to write a big VISIONS OF ELISE just for me (then publish it later as is, tho she doesn’t believe it) . . . Give my love to Joy [Ungerer], tell her I want to kiss her everywhere soon’s I see her, tell her I’m free. In NY somehow somewhere somebody stole my copy of Gregory’s use use use use poem, tho I may find it later* (*Could Lamantia do that? for secret kicks?—or did I just misplace it? Tell Greg—) . . . But if you write prose you can make living, like me, and don’t tell me you can’t, your prose letters are the best I’ve ever seen, so come on. We’ll, I’ll definitely get a tape recorder, and you tell me long stories of everything that happened. I’ll find some way to get you loot. But don’t get hungup on bitter thoughts, and don’t ever get mad at me permanent. Carl Solomon was out with someone in a bar in NY three weeks ago, I hear . . . all I know. Secret fellow in shadows of vanguard who dug me was, yes, Lucien . . . but also others, like a young kid wrote big poems about it, and many others. I can’t understand SRL [Saturday Review of Literature] saying I “lost friends” during that reading . . . I really can’t understand all this bitterness and malice sweeping around lately. I myself, like Whalen, feel “indefinitely happy” (he says) . . . What am I doing today? typing up Dharma Bums, all day, every day, while people ball in bars (it’s Saturday night) I toil and toil on my typewriter and get bored and so revert to letters like these . . . what a scribbler I am now. I have to complete a story about desolation peak for Holiday mag., etc., have to figure out a movie for Robert Frank, have to write big 5000 word letters to Hollywood producer giving ideas, etc., it’s getting out of hand . . . have to complete typing of Dharma Bums and at same time they’re starting to tear down house around me and I’m racing against time. Ah, how I’ll relax and do nothin when I get to Paris (I hope sometime soon). You shouldn’t have got that $25 room for nothing, supposing Bill arrives in March? That’s what I meant by don’t spend your money I sent you, foolishly . . . that wasn’t practical . . . but if Bill does arrive soon then its okay. Holmes is in England, not yet in Paris, he wrote big article about the beat in Esquire, about me mostly, at behest of that fine young editor there who wants you too, Rust Hills Jr., nice kid . . . don’t despair, everybody wants you. Don’t start screaming at robot America with its secret hidden Lafcadios in the night etc. its millions of Lafcadios, all Americans with birth certificates, etc. America is not going to take a Fall . . . there’s your France with its “ideal” setup and shit, France is dull. America’s flaws go with her immense virtues, don’t you see that . . . France has no flaws, really, and therefore no virtues. Glad you’re reading Caesar Birotteau, great novel, you know the greatest of all Balzac’s novels is Cousin Bette. All the Orlovskys sleep a lot, and so do I, so did Joe Louis world heavyweight champ . . . it’s the custom of the champs . . . sleep a lot alla time . . . then you store up vibrations . . . turn them on in shining life. Of monster scenery in NY Lou said, anyway, said, “I admire you for putting up with it, K.” or something like that, meaning, my nightly appearances among sneers. But I had a big ball alla time reading and yakking with new friends, I don’t understand what Village Voice i
s putting down, recent most terrible attack I haven’t seen yet is said to gloat at our downfall (you and me) at last! this I gotta see, with Subterraneans coming out in two weeks, and movie of On the Road almost sure bet and with big company too (20th Century) and the completion of a new novel just as good (salable, readable) as Road, and a thousand other things, not to mention, via your side, your new poems. Yes, Spengler says Russia next, but he said it would be long time yet, America ain’t reached its Faustian ripe moment yet and won’t for long time, will blow, in fact may not fade at all actually since history being bypassed now by nature-laws (of science). I’d say, Africa will then absorb Russia that follows. But meanwhile Asia will have joined with West, so finally big worldwide daisychain . . . just as you wished . . . because everything, Allen, you ever ever wished for, will come true in TIME, don’t you know what that means?
Jean-Louis
Allen Ginsberg [Paris, France] to
Jack Kerouac [n.p.]
ca. February 26, 1958
9 Rue Git Le Coeur Paris 6, France
Dear Jack:
Got letter from Peter, your notes—I wrote you awhile back to Fla [Florida]—so thought I had been waiting to hear from you since. Wrote Peter five pages the other day including two page Lion poem [“The Lion For Real”], and been writing letters, to Phil, LaVigne, Gary today, Climax, Yugen, etc. etc. have to write Lucien still. Well, just sitting here in Paris, in my room. Bill today and Gregory talking about sword swallowers and juvenile gangs in NY. I been moping and gloomy, write desultory, my bowl unlucid. Tho six hours staring at ceiling and reading a pack of Whalen manuscript wound up happy again. [ . . . ] You got your house yet, what’s it like and where’s it be—maybe near my brother’s out in Plainview—Huntsville? That’s near Whitman birthplace cottage too. Also near Peter’s family. And Dharma Bums sold? You know we still haven’t got a copy of On the Road here I haven’t seen it tho received Subterraneans—can’t you get Cowley or Lord to (airmail?) us a copy? It’s not on sale here that I’ve seen. Herb Gold was here, as I wrote Peter, I was very paranoid about him. Bill thought too much so, but finally settled down he came by often, dug Bill, I read him County Clerk, explained what I could about your actual method of writing, perhaps he be more sympathetic. First nite I screamed at him but then cooled it. He’s just another race or something. Depressing. How you taking NYC? I’m afraid to come back and face all them aroused evil forces for fear I’ll close up and try making sense and then really sound horrible. About reading, I have record to make for Fantasy records, and have been to studio here twice and tried but I can’t do it when I know it’s for real, money, contract that I can’t re-record it for five years, etc. I just daze over and can’t read with any feeling and don’t know what I do want to sound like and get self-conscious. But when I was in England I went to BBC studio got drunk a little with Parkinson and blew into Blake’s secret soul weeping, tremendous recording—they played about seven minutes of it and it got great rave staid review in the Listener, demanded the rest. But I can’t record or read under formal auspices, only accidentally. Like I find I can’t write when I’m expected to write, something to cap Howl. It’s bothered me all along. It’s fortunate in a way, keeps me from getting to be a sort of pro—it also leaves me wild and free when I do uncork and blow—but couldn’t read steadily by schedule, too shy or ambitious to really do well—so when I get back I’ll give mad readings but accidental ones and won’t be able to make any real loot on it—I think. I don’t know. Anyway shouldn’t come back for that. I’d like to give one classical drunk blowout in NY and disappear. I’ll stay here four months more and be alone, more or less till I straighten out more, meanwhile want to dig Berlin, Warsaw and maybe short Moscow trip if can get invited, that’s the only way I could go anyway. Money is ok Bill has some and City Lights owes royalties this month maybe 200 so I’m fine. Gregory is back from Venice, he wrote some great long poems there and sent them to Don Allen especially “Army Army Army” a great weird war cry about Nebuchadnezzar. Card from Gary, I wrote him today. What’s up in NY? Is Lafcadio weirder like Peter says? How’s Peter seem? Bill sends love. Saw few reviews yet of Subterraneans tho Peter writes it’s already sold 12,000. How’s On Road? You’re right tho should get Sax out before they try to type you with Beat scene—it was in Pogo I saw, I guess you’re permanently in History—Wow! I’ll write Lucien in a day or so too, so will Bill.
Love
Allen
Jack Kerouac [New York, New York] to
Allen Ginsberg [Paris, France]
April 8, 1958
Dear Allen:
My mother didn’t forward your letter from Fla in keeping with her feeling you’re bad influence on me but please don’t get bug’d but as of yore we will be friends in our own milieu. I’ve quieted down completely now after the other night stumbling helplessly drunk set upon by faggot ex-boxer and his two fairies who held me outside San Remo knocked me out twice and cut me with ring finger, Stanley Gould ran away also new poet Steve Tropp ran away more or less, in the Dorothy Kilgallen column it said I was “knifed” . . . went to hospital, taken by kind Lamantia and Joyce [Glassman] and Leroy MacLucas friend of LeRoi Jones, got fixt finally by good doc, gave me pills stop drinking, feel fine, a little bored but that’s because in two days now I go driving south with photographer Robert Frank in his station wagon go get my mother, cats, typewriter etc. and bring back to new house in Northport L.I. where I am going to live very quiet secluded monastic life actually, announce to eager Northport author-lovers I am there to work and won’t have no social life except when I come into NY to see Joyce, Lucien, Sterling, Peter, you, et al. House is old Victorian type with banister to slide down from bedrooms, and cellar, attic, etc., big yard with grape arbor and rock garden and PINES to meditate under in dark of night, everything will be fine I think after this nightmare beating-up . . . cause of fight I cannot tell, don’t know, think Stanley Gould said something loud about “faggots” and they took for me. Your new G.J. hepcat sounds like repetition of same old horseshit, let’s change, besides who could ever blow like Neal did at his peak, tell this G.J. he don’t begin to realize how much Neal really did swing. Herbert Gold is a nowhere nothing as a writer, why don’t he leave you and me alone, we have suffered in the Hell of Poetry, been busted, fucked up, lost, starved, ask him how much he’s suffered for his dinky little craft. I have policy now of completely ignoring all Golds and suchlike they really dying for a rebuttal, like the other night a big discussion by Young Socialist’s League called “The Kerouac Craze,” one of my spies reports that the chairman tried to put me down but a big funny sixty-five year old Russian leaped up and with Russian accent said my whore house scene in Mexico (in Road) spoke for itself and he kept yelling about revolution and everybody cheered, revolution of novel, etc. Trilling’s friends also writing about me, Subterraneans has finally (because of obvious intellectual content) flushed out intellectuals of Partisan and Kenyon etc. Dharma Bums is sold, getting advance . . . coming out October, will be big number of Fall for Viking, you in it as Alvah Goldbook . . . they made me change your Howl (by Goldbook) to Wail. Yes the scene in NY aroused with evil forces but you can howl them down easy, don’t worry. You can make much money if you want now, reading, and touring country, like [Jay] Landesman St. Louis,135 etc. New Orleans, etc. Lamantia ran away to Mexico today, he also was mugged and robbed of a buck and says the great purgation is coming in NY . . . all you gotta do is stay sober. I will never get drunk again now. Pills for five weeks then will power like Lucien. Lucien not drinking and feeling fine and being sweet beyond words . . . Can’t you offer your BBC reading tape as an album for Fantasy? I made an album with Steve Allen, drunk, and three with Norman Granz, drunk, and they great, in fact so way out I wonder if they’ll release them, sooner you come home the better, Rexroth opening in Five Spot136 next week at good pay, I don’t go see him, he insult me in Subterranean review saying I don’t know nothin about jazz and negroes, how silly, and him don’t let negroes into h
is house even ever. Lafcadio is same, he said to me “You’re gettin old, Jack” and told Peter “Don’t be a poet”. Peter I never see but twice so far, he a great angel nurse far as I can see and handling everything well . . . he’s shy of me I think. Road also still selling, two hundred a week, sometimes four hundred. What did it say in Pogo, I didn’t see that? I got lead review in New Yorker for Subs, very snotty, by Donald Malcolm my dear, who doubts my virility . . . I will move into new house (Life mag assignment on trip down) furnish it, tape recorder and all, furniture, etc. and settle down quiet and write big tearbook about Lowell boyhood which will fit around Sax like halo. Only trip I really contemplate is this Fall to Gary [Snyder] for Dharma Bumming hike to Sierras and up Oregon way etc. and maybe not even that, I inward . . . France some day. I did TV show too, to question what is a Mainliner I sang “Skyliner” melody with words “Mainliner,” very Zen, even Giroux dug. Fuck it all, tho, this fame, these punches, I be lamb and people call me a vicious lion [ . . . ]
Jackiboo X
Is Bill coming back with you this summer?
I can’t send On the Road without enormous hassle, you read it anyway once—tho I wish Bill and Gregory could see. People keep stealing my own copies. I’m sick of poetry and going back to “no-time-for-poetry” prose of old. But you and Greg and Lamantia are [?]
Allen Ginsberg [Paris, France] to
Jack Kerouac [n.p., Northport, New York?]
9 Rue Git Le Coeur Paris 6, France
June 26, 1958