by Jack Kerouac
Dear Jack:
Wrote you last month, no answer, are you mad at me? Write honey, I’m full of snow right now, strange interesting rich acquaintances here, one a young Rothschild junior Burroughs, he and Bill will go to India someday together, I’ll—somebody, another blonde young millionaire just brought up some old suits, Bill now smoking Green all drest in distinguished Averill Harriman black worsted flannel, thin, graying temples: he brought me my first suit in years, fine English grey wool, last a thousand winters—but later—Alas Alas Jack I got final word from LaVigne today, long letter, Neal is in jail, LaVigne not seen him, talked to Carolyn on phone to find out for me and wrote me—he’s in San Bruno County jail, waiting trial, “Two facts are 1) that he was arrested selling to Narco agents, has been tied (mistakenly) into series of other arrests as source of supply (since he comes up in trains from south), there is a long list of charges against him (tho Carolyn didn’t enumerate them), 2) that he is discovered as Dean M. of On the Road by the fuzz.” That’s what LaVigne says Carolyn says, though I doubt the latter means anything, maybe just her paranoia. Tho I hear scene in SF is very bad, saw a girl from there who showed me evil Herb Caen column innuendos about marijuana smoke stronger than garlic these days on North Beach, anyone can pick up Columbus and Bway, fuzz is all over on account of all the publicity, city officials cracking down, The Place raided, and its balcony use forbidden and only thirty-five people at time allowed in LaVigne was having a show there and they ordered him off balcony—some guy name Paul Hansen fall off a building last Sunday, and finally skull struck again, Connie Sublette137 was strangled last “Tuesday AM by a spade seaman who confessed that PM.”—I met someone here two months ago that knew her said she had a codeine habit and was slightly crazy, calling cops to arrest people, I don’t know what—long saga of drunken week following her around feuding with some evil tea heads or something, I don’t know. Haven’t heard anything of [Al] Sublette, I guess he’s ok—in jail I had heard for a burglary. . . . everything I hear from there sounds evil . . . except letters from Gary [Snyder] who’s in hospital for ball operation, and [John] Wieners who’s living at the [Hotel] Wentley with LaVigne, they’re friends now, I guess I think even making it . . . but what to do about Neal—I wanted to write Carolyn, don’t any longer have address on Bancroft, got letter back—LaVigne forgot to send it—you have it? I’ll try write him in jail. Carolyn added that she thought he’d get two to five years maybe—god knows what he’s thinking. I had a shuddery premonition, thought he was committing suicide, yesterday when hi, suddenly thought of him maybe in jail, then got this letter today. But little doomed Connie is sad.
I’m coming back to New York in a few weeks, hope to leave here, have to get up the fare but that’ll come, or else family said they’d send it if no other way. Gregory and I interviewed by Buchwald, Art, silly interview, he tried to be sympathetic but we were drunk and kookie, but next night I sent him big serious prophetic godly letter, said maybe he’d publish that, and Gregory will send him another Luciferian sweet one—but at end of article he said we were trying to raise fare, I was, for return, maybe someone send it. [ . . . ]
But is there anything we can do about Neal? Character witnesses—he’ll be all alone only haggard Carolyn probably angry at him, Gary’s in hospital can’t find out anything, he’s wise enough to know if anything to do, no one to write to there who could help—thought maybe Ruth Witt Diamant or Rexroth, just some letters that he’s a writer or something, say—he being crucified, evil laws on T, trapped by decoy cops, all nothing for him to suffer for—and probably big mistaken spider web paranoias by cops—though I guess maybe he’s having some peace and have plenty time to meditate and stay way from horses and RR and T and Carolyn and house and his life, forced vacation, maybe blessing in disguise and he grim and peaceful in jail, or writing prayers to Saturn, maybe he write again, die, I’ll stay in NY-Paterson-Long Island Eugene’s, wherever, a year, maybe Peter get Veterans apartment in Bronx—have endless notes, poems, to type, finish “Fall of America” poem, maybe, Bible Jeremiah book, China have billion people by 2000, we’ll see it, be industrialized as much as England in fourteen years I read, must call for Holy America make it on beat angel soul promote Walt [Whitman] comrade to Budh ambassador—otherwise maybe paranoia machine sink down on us from new Asia—we may be visionary island America after all—still interested in Democratic Vistas, he says if we don’t produce bards and spiritual America and if materialism greed takes over we be “the fabled damned among nations”—can see it happening from year and half in Europe, from Europe,—yes I see the vast virtues but family Sunday house with eternal TV like T&C [The Town and the City] solidity strength—even that and spume in history waves—white race too small—smooth metallic faced chinamen in space suits maybe go to Mars. Burroughs horrified by all tales of communist dullness, we hear here in Paris from travelers, shot all hop smokers in China etc. etc.—now T is banned (legally and slightly enforced) in Tangiers (Arabs have to hide their pipes under table in cafes now)—so America got to be peaceful wiseman among nations, and survive—maybe take vow of poverty and give away Empire State Building possessions to India. I dunno, just a gleam. [ . . . ] (Door just knocked, I got it locked so I can keep private 3 AM feed of coke and write you letter.) You ever get a coke letter before? Dear Jack, you love me still, I love you, don’t be mad I make long remark last time and about mother—that why you no answer? [ . . . ]
Well, yesterday Art Buchwald, we were looped, I see not much gets across in interview that way, tho he was simpatico, I wrote him serious prose poem letter last nite for his column. I see what you had to go through, wish I’d been there, I feel now too tired tongue stricken to blow, afresh, when I get home, my virgin kicks and energy and sense of mission like I had with Gary in Northwest, or earlier in SF, seems gone—nothing new to say, repeat poetry novelties—wonder how I’ll do in NY and if I’ll have to do anything wild—don’t even feel like reading, Howl, can’t even make ecstatic tape in soundproof French Vogue studio room, tho I’ve been paid $50 advance on it, can’t make it right now, maybe in Newman’s studio in NY can get drunk—make last weep record. Help me. What you do—I heard your record (records?) out—Steve Allen? Tho not heard anything about it. Enclosed find letter from Terry Southern, friend of Mason [Hoffenberg], wrote pointless tho hip N. West book published by your Deutsch in England—perhaps you can answer him—I’ll write him that queer sections, some libel characters, and whole scroll long syntax of On Road was tampered with by Viking—they take out any tea? I seem to remember they broke up prose a lot to shorter sentences often and disturbed the benny flow. He (Southern) seems well meaning and interested in prose and took trouble to write and investigate and so I feel like answering informationally. You seen review of Road from England Times and Observer? One (John Wain) quoted both of us at length attacking etc.
Buchwald said he’d introduce us (and Bill especially) to John Huston who’s here, making picture. Bill has idea for Tangiers panorama film (episodes seen thru eyes of bill-junky looking for drugstore sick on Ramadan holiday, street boy looking for a score from fag, effeminate tourist with mother), town seen thru different Burroughs eyes, juxtaposed. Or maybe Greg [Corso] and I make travel loot in bit-parts—or maybe just watch Huston Burroughs talk.
Lentil soup and Bayonne hambone on stove, blue dawn rainy cloudy sky all week, coke descending, been grinding my teeth all night, cat’s on bed washing his breast, grey calm cat Bill no longer torments at all, why don’t you write me love letter, you ashamed of me I don’t write enough or not sufficiently entered void ready for death? Ah Jack, are you tired—you have been writing long solitudenous halo for Sax? I’ll be home in NY see you within a month, let’s meet like angels and be innocent, what are you brooding about in Long Island, hold my hand, I want to see Lucien again and shade of Rubenstein and London Towers and 43, 1943, our walk by 119th St. to Theological Seminary when I told you about saying farewell to Lucien’s and my door on 7th floor and adieu prayer t
o stairway there, is not Sebastian [Sampas] faithful to the end? Saw [Seymour] Wyse in London a month ago grinning over counter of his Chelsea record shop, indifferent, serious, no change in his face looks same as once, not even fat now. Write me a note, I’m coming home, write Neal, what’s new, how’s hicks, snow’s melted, now I’ll sleep.
Goodnight,
Allen
Editors’ Note: Kerouac had difficulty dealing with the pressure that fame imposed on him. He began to withdraw even more from the world of the Beat Generation, a world which Ginsberg would continue to enthusiastically embrace in the years to come. The following letter illustrates the growing distance between the two writers.
Jack Kerouac [Northport, New York] to
Allen Ginsberg [Paris, France]
July 2, 1958
Dear Allen:
By now you must have gotten my mother’s letter to you, which she wrote and mailed before telling me and thus only put a 6 cent stamp on it? did you get it? anyway, whether or not, it’s nothing new from 1945 Ozone Park hangups only now I more agree with her not because what she says, but I have withdrawn (as you saw me begin to withdraw in Tangiers and Peter objected, recall) and want to live my own kind of simple Ti Jean (whatever you may think of it) life, like in overalls all day, no going out, no weeping mobs of Asia under my midnight Buddha pine, no “horde of silver helmets” (that alright for great historian and poet Corso who is a Romantic like Shelley)—I am just a Buddhist-Catholic and want no more shit nonsense and roses. What does this mean? O by the way I wasn’t angry by your earlier letter, I’ve just been pondering what to say to you, it has nothing to do with that or with anything you’ve done since you never change, it’s ME that’s changing. Outside of a few calm visits with you in NY or preferably Paterson at your father’s house I don’t want no more frantic nights, association with hepcats and queers and Village types, far less mad trips to unholy Frisco, I just wanta stay home and write and figure things out by myself, in my own Child mind. This means of course I wouldn’t dream of interfering with Julius [Orlovsky] shitmouth or Neal’s fall, how many times have I in fact you told him to cool it, it was no longer feasible in California or anywhere in USA and on top of that he goes and pushes for the sake probably of saving a dollar for extry breakfast, poor N always did save a penny to spend dollars. He may write The First Third now, by the way, I think—what else do? as long as it ain’t a Dostoevsky-Siberian term in hard labor snow. Carolyn may be wrong about the fuzz knowing Dean but in any case what’s the real connection? in fiction, as it says on jacket, and Dean never pushed. I read all about the Frisco horror suicides and murders and Lucien came over and had me bat out a UPI interview to disassociate me from such shit. I agree with my mother on the point of your not using my name in any activities of yours (other than pure poetry and prose) such as politics, sex, etc. “action” etc. etc. I’m retired from the world now and going into my mountain shack later and eventually just disappear in woods as far as it can be done these days. That’s why I’ve made no effort to see poor Peter or even Joyce [Glassman] anymore, Lamantia bugged the shit out of me in the spring using me to publicize his poetry readings rushing into Joyce’s with screaming Howard Hart (was fun for awhile) then vanishing as tho nothing happened anyway, he really a con man. Very beautiful about Bill’s great new Proustian sick-in-bed aesthetic millionaire genius, hope they do something together like India, because where can Bill go now? He said Portuguese East Africa last time. Does Gregory know that he was mentioned in Dantono Walker’s column (NY Daily News) saying “While Beat Generation writers are raking it in in night club readings, Gregory Corso, who originated the idea years ago, starves quietly in Paris.” Also Robert Frank the great photographer thinks he’s the greatest poet. Also there’s a girl I know (twenty, rich) who’s in love with him already. Yes, I’m beyond the idea of falls and orients and masses, the world is big enough to right itself, Sax said the universe disposes of its own evil, and so does history. You underestimate the compassion of Uncle Sam, look at the record. I know it will all come raining down in our paranoiac minds but maybe not in nature. As for a peaceful wiseman America I think you got that now. I just believe it, I have no facts to back it up, like Einstein don’t have no facts to back up what Buddha knew in full (electromagnetic-gravitational ecstasy). Well Burroughs, okay, Great Teacher, the universe is exactly two billion years old—as for the 2,999 other Great Chilicosms guess. Don’t get mad, Allen. I’m not screaming at you. I’m just like Lucien now, a quiet family man, of T&C solidities again, and not rolling in dough at all. No money from movies yet, and royalty monies gone in house . . . but I wanta figure it out by myself from now on in . . . I tired of outside influences. I’m getting at something in solitude halo. Besides I’m only interested in Heaven, which is evidently our reward for all this screaming and suffering going on. When you come back we’ll discuss in detail all the publishing items for you and Bill and Greg . . . Be careful of NY this time, you know I got beat up almost killed when drunk by Henri Cru’s enemies and people write on walls of Village shithouses “Kerouac Go Home” . . . that don’t leave me much stomach for the same old shit of past years, man. Me for midnight silence, and morning freshness, and afternoon clouds, and my own kind of Lowell boy life. As for the Freudian implications, or Marxian, or Reichian, or Spenglerian, I’ll buy Beethoven.
O why don’t I shut up, always showing off? Your letter very great and I’m sorry and yet glad that now we’ll have new quiet Van Doren type relationship. Lucien by the way approves of you altogether, says I’m nuts, and says all women afraid of manly queers who put shoulders to wheel but ain’t afraid of swishies. My own reason is: Peace. And the Dove. In my ceiling crack, the dove. George Martin dying in the kitchen. Baseball games. Memory Babe my new book big RR Earth run on Lowell memories. I’ll see you around September, won’t leave house till then, according to June vow, for work reasons.
Alas, Allen Goodnight
Jack Kerouac [Northport, New York] to
Allen Ginsberg [Paterson, New Jersey]
August 11, 1958
34 Gilbert St
Northport NY
Dear Allen:
As you can see, I sent you $5 check a while back but the address Peter gave me I mustav imperfectly remembered. Anyway here it is. I notice you haven’t written to me so you must be alas goodnighting too but that’s alright because for now and next months I be going to town on Memory Babe which is big Xmas weekend in Lowell climaxed by huge vision of Bethlehem star and Child. A great new poet has arisen out of Chicago, Stan Persky, who sent me his long poem “How The Night Came To Me” and I wrote back and (rightly) praised him as greatest new cat since Gregory (you’ll agree, this time) (I was lukewarm, after all, about [Jack] Micheline-Silver) and I wrote back and he wrote back saying: “Dear Mr Kerouac, And cried a hundred house in insane halls to read your message and the fruit upon the tree of Snaketown life is in season. I pray for you when I pray to God at night. And have just been inducted into the Navy and that day I got your card I stood around all day with naked multitudes and we gazed in embarrassment at each other with our mutual cocks and I thank you and thank you crazily in my young joytears and my name is Jewish and I come from hundreds of thousands and uncounted generations of brown shepherds in the wisdom of Kabala night.” Then in a Gregory-like burst, after saying how he reads your poetry to his hobo father “Overland Jackie” he says: “At what point in sad history will I be privileged to sit at your feet and watch you with my unabashed idolatry?” Ends, with, “Will meet you soon in neon mirages and night and desolate rivers.” How’s he sound? I told him to send poems to Don Allen. You should write to this kid because he’s the new great one, Stan Persky, 17, 27 N. Menard Ave., Chicago 44, Illinois.
I gave him your imperfect address so write to him, maybe, after all this is your meat. Poet meat.—Bill Burroughs wrote to my mother saying “I will not forward any more of your insane letters to Allen. Please stop bothering me.”—In the Fall I will come out of my writing
fog and come see everybody in town when the winds blow. Meanwhile I’m having trouble with Hollywood who refuse to pay for any of my material. I don’t know why. They all seem to want it free. I have just enuf money to furnish this house, pay it, and then no more money, so I better make Hollywood do some paying somehow. Gary [Snyder] gone to mountains Holmes wrote me, would like to see you at Saybrook Old. Don’t be afraid to write me if you want, like we planned. Have you seen Lucien? I’d like to go to his country house with you in Fall, since by then he’ll be drinking again and we can howl under Adirondack stars and crash his car through woods and go to big cocktail parties with Gov. Harrimans. Until then I write. Soon I buy oil paints and (for first time oils) start painting in my attic room. That’s why I’m not worried about Laff, I be greater painter maybe someday. Laff no talk to me on train. Quiet letter from Gregory in Stockholm, says he going to Lapland.
Well, okay, and give Peter some of this money I guess. See you in Ha He Her Had Hea Hero
Hok
Allen Ginsberg [New York, New York] to
Jack Kerouac [Northport, New York]
Tuesday Aug. 20, 1958
170 E 2 St Apt 16 NYC 9
Dear Jack:
Fast note, I have no comfortable table to type on yet. I’m living at 170 East 2nd Street, apartment 16, New York—that’s between Ave A and B—great Lower East Side neighborhood, I take long walks around Orchard Street—walked into Hebrew Funeral Home and saw a big display tombstone GINSBERG. We (Peter and me) got four rooms—front, overlooking all night rye bread bakery with noisy trucks, but that’s nice all night, the lights and tinkle of glass—we got no furniture yet, but an extra pallet in one room and some Indian rugs—have heat, great huge new stove, icebox, shower, hot water, etc etc. big solid family type apartment—$60 a month between us tho Peter’s paid it all so far. Comfortable boxlike square apartment square rooms, not too big, but big thick doors so lots of privacy from room to room—spent this week washing walls and cleaning up. You can stay here all you want if need NY refuge—new policy that nobody visits, it’s silent castle for sleeping, balling, cooking and writing. I see Peter off to work at 11 every night, then take tour of bars, visit Five Spot, nobody knows me except the waiter who lets me in free and gives me an occasional beer and gossip, I hear hours of anonymous Thelonius Monk. Then maybe I see Lucien at after midnite and watch the late show with him, we don’t drink, so we don’t yet have talked much, deeply. He goes to three week upstate vacation today. Saw Monacchio and Merims there yesterday, and Luce and Hudson there last week. So far Lou and I talk politics. Then I hit San Remo or Cedar Bar, see [Michael] Rumaker once, and Edward Marshall, great religious poet, often, he’s the best of the young poets—you saw his long mad poem in BMR?? [Black Mountain Review] I thought he’d be cranky strange pimpled schizo, but he’s stocky blond manly queer who reads Episcopal bibles theology and works fulltime Columbia Library, and writes long primitive original confessional poems. Also saw [Frank] O’Hara one night, just talked, and the girls (Joyce [Glassman] and Elise [Cowen] and Helen Eliot) one night, and Dusty [Moreland] another, and Walter Adams, I visit them all, sneak up like a ghost and spend all evening talking about what happened to them. Then I go home, I brought my books from Paterson, read the Iliad or whatever, lay and think, cook. Saw Don Allen also again—this week all week will be in Easthampton, Peter has five day vacation, we’ll go screw on rocks in sun, stay at Richard Howards and meet all the rich painters. So be back next Thursday.