by Jack Kerouac
The only way to detach yourself from all this frantic non-literary activity is go away, to Greece join Gregory write golden poems under fig trees of Crete. If you work like your father keeps yapping in Paterson you could fritter away in office desk—travel! That $100 you spent last week was half fare to Greece. When my On the Road deal is set, if ever, I’ll give or lend you the money for any trip you want. We’ll try to make a trip with Lucien to mountains this October, okay?
Big Table sold 7000 copies of that mag., made enough money to pay me my measly $50 for “Old Angel”, haven’t done it, in fact have the nerve to write nasty notes to Sterling who’s only doing his job, and then on top of all that hold back my Ferlinghetti deal, just a bunch of greedy sneaky shits and you can shove them up your ass, and on top of that they use MY title. Start a magazine of your own—why fiddle around with Paul Carroll149—who is dying to put not only me down, but poor McClure and Whalen and Lamantia, like a virago—who cares about him anyway? What has he done to command your attention?—and what’s so great about the magazine? LeRoi [Jones] is starting Kulchur and you have Yugen and Beatitude, all those lil things will grow into big Dials in time.
Okay for mescal, be in soon, but waiting for you and Pete come out here like you said to pick up clothes and dig basement . . . altho, wait, then, I’ll come out myself soon and bring the clothes a neat package. Everything mixed up, in fact—movie men coming this afternoon, silly telegram just came, I can’t even write letters, bulletins everywhere.
[ . . . ] Virus gone now, except big cough like I had remember in January 1957 at the Helens’ when we all had coughs from Mexico trip in car. Yes I remember Spencer . . . I don’t have the Dutchman’s address—why don’t I do that in your kitchen, on white sheet. That’s nice the nice things you write about me. In next anthology I will try to match that.
Just wrote the finger sutra, in my yard, t’other night, pod. silly, I guess. am kinda bored. Enclosed is a seminar where they lump beatniks with delinquents and drag what’s left of the segment of America that’s artistic into the criminal muck. Thought you might want to throw a bomb at them. This is the good work of Alfred Zugsmith emerging, like last night a parody on me on TV “Jack Crackerjack” I leap up (hair pasted on brow) and start screaming “I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by naked hysteria . . . Kill for the sake of killing!” (Louis Nye the actor) ugh.
Jack
Allen Ginsberg [New York, New York] to
Jack Kerouac [n.p., Northport, New York?]
October 16, 1959
Oct. 1959
Dear Jack:
Got your letter, and had sent one yesterday answering some questions, yes, I’m working, and been to see the material at Avon as said and did not bother Payne—in any case he’d asked me to come up independent of that material and suggest some other books to him (collected Melville poems, Dickinson, Lindsay, etc.).
I sent that piece back to Schleifer as I said. The magazine Kulchur will be edited by him—he wants some kind of satire magazine which will be mostly Village Voice sociology like his Mickey Mouse routine, that’s his deal, it’s not really a literary magazine unless people send him poems, which I will.
Yes I’m happy about working on the Avon, finish up a few pet projects. All we’ll have to do is spend a day assembling everything.
I don’t want to tell my story, easy poems is enough, I don’t like work, life is too short. I worked too much in Bickfords,150 I refuse to write prose till it comes out without work like a dream like poetry.
Good thing to get tougher on Avon book, yes let’s be serious.
Have a nice trip thru west on train—try and stop and see Grand Canyon. I’ll watch you on TV. I go make a tape with Casper Citron [at] WBAI next Monday morn, I don’t know when it’ll be broadcast.
Lucien’ll get in touch with you about mountains.
The printing bills on BT [Big Table] I & II are just about being done paid off by now, I unnerstand, but there’s no money to give printer for next issue, which is where they have financial problems. They did not have enough money to finance SF poets trip, they weren’t putting down the poets. In fact Podell the business manager arranged for Playboy to finance the trip for a TV shot, so BT will sponsor a reading, to split dividends and help raise money for next issue. Paul Carroll has lost his job at Loyola because of scandal of involve with BT and is himself broke and paying for mag out of his own pocket, but now has no job. They are not holding back Ferlinghetti deal, he is not I mean, Ferl himself wants to wait till post office OK’s “Midnight”; the matter of selling out Big Table I is a consideration but not a primary one. Big Table would not offer objections to Ferl going ahead I don’t think. If you want Ferlinghetti to publish it now, write him and tell him you want him to despite the fact that he doesn’t have clearance from P.O. Is not that big a problem and if you would really like the book out right now soon I’m sure he would be agreeable.
I mean I refuse to get mad and het up about Carroll who’s a horses ass as far as that goes and a mild virago but is working within his limitations as best he can and is not a total loss. In any case I refuse to get mad at anything now because beauty is the great murderer. I would like to see BT continue if it can because I already put time and effort into it, it first published Burroughs and Carroll is still fighting that in courts, it did first print “Old Angel Midnight” which the Harvard people refused to do, and it’s a lot of trouble to start a new one, besides we have a new one in Avon already, but not a Little Magazine which can have criticism if any and book reviews of Gasolines and Mexcity Blues, and Kaddishes, and Kulchur is not going to swing with Poesy, and Yugen is only Poesy, and Beatitude is run by the SF Bread and Wine Mission now but is half for the purpose of publishing local teenage poesy around North Beach, which it should be. Not that BT is that necessary. But Evergreen’s already gone to French pot. So while it’s alive I don’t want to discourage it worse than Carroll’s done already and maybe help him get himself straight. Meanwhile for next issue he has Peter poems, “Laugh Gas”, a Selby prose, an article by Creeley on Olson’s prosody, etc. so maybe it not be totally dead.
In fact I sent Carroll that essay on your prose, get it out faster than Al Leslie. No need to get excited about him—but I must say Carroll does manage to bug more people faster than I dreamed possible—even Irving [Rosenthal] won’t write him at the moment, insulted. What a—I mean it’s a big Buster Keaton comedy not serious as Oatmeal. It’s all a bunch of shit, nothing to get excited over. Carroll has temporarily (maybe permanently) lost his mind, because he’s always had money, and nice jobs, now he’s in debt and involved with life and is hysterical. Maybe recover.
I went out to Paterson last weekend and sat with Uncle Abe.
I’ll send a note to the seminar.
OK—As ever
Allen
When you be in? Don’t answer with big letters unless you’re bugged with everything else. I’ll see you in town soon. Everything fine here, new postcard from Gregory with Greek Charioteers. I’ll be in India next year there’s time enuf then for solitudes.
The general public image of beatniks built up from movies, Time, TV, Daily News, Post etc. is among the hep a fake and among the mass evil and among the liberal intellectuals a mess—but that is weirdly good I dig, that we are still so purely obscure to philistines that it’s inevitable that it be misunderstood—since how can a whole nation perceive the illusion of life in one year? and since we wind up upholders of comradeship and satori, how can that be expected to be massly understood in warworlds? Mockery is inevitable compliment. Look what happened to poor Christ, he got crucified.
[ . . . ]
Love,
Allen
Jack Kerouac [Northport, New York] to
Allen Ginsberg [New York, New York]
November 2, 1959
Allen:
Here is Herbert [Huncke]’s check. He asked for $25 on the phone but this is a huge sum, I’m not Frank Sinatra. I would appreciate if he wo
uld pay it back when Playboy takes his story. Send “Hermaphrodite,” they won’t take “A Sea Voyage” because of queer scenes. Huncke’s “Sea Voyage” shows that he is a perfect writer. (Also send “Cuba” to Playboy).
The amphetamine was the cause of Lois’ [Sorrells] flip and my own when I got home, exhausted and to the point of madness. So I’m glad I didn’t bring it. Don’t anybody use it.
When I got home there were thirty letters and telegrams each one insanely demanding something. I see now clearly that I have to quit the whole scene for good. I don’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone, I want to go back into my own mind. It’s murder pure and simple.
One was a telegram from William Morris demanding I read at the monster poetry rally. The list would kill you. Demands for free prose and poetry, for me to phone at once, for me to attend receptions and Halloween parties, for me to write the publicity for MGM’s Subterranean movie, for me to answer obscure literary points in England, for me to appear in public, for me to write columns I never planned, for me to send books to all parts of the world, for me me me in my one trembling body . . . so I’m cutting out. After [Steve] Allen show in H’wood I’m going to Mexico and won’t be back till my birthday March 12. Give my love to Huncke, Petey, Lucien. This is awful. I’m going OUT. There’s nothing personal. I feel I need Gary’s Way now. For a while, a long while. This is serious. I’m mad. There’s no hope. Eugene Burdick was right when he said “bemused spectators crowding around have suffocated the beat vision.” I know you have fun spending mornings answering letters but my prose work takes more energy. I have last part of Tristessa all set to do the Lucien story and if he changes his mind I’ll hide it okay. There is a dream of cold mountain ranges on a gray day with clouds that open silent window. Cities and poets are repetitious. It’s time for the world to change. Nobody believes in enlightenment, i.e., kind tranquility, kind silence. I know you and Petey are trying hard without phone etc. but get thee to that finca. Anyway, love as always and see you.
Jack
I’m not a Messiah, I’m an artist.
Allen Ginsberg [New York, New York] to
Jack Kerouac [n.p., Northport, New York?]
November 5, 1959
Yes, glad you forgot the amphetamine—can only be used one day rarely, by me, for writing—then I leave off for half a year. Can’t be used consecutively.
Decision to cut out is a good idea. You are “outnumbered” and too many things to do, drive reality from the mind. Lay what you think need be done on me, or on Sterling—make him handle all requests, I’ll not send any to you henceforth—all literary requests—but give him orders to not be too worried about money, I’d say. If you want to quit anthology hassles which also could be done lay it on me and I’ll arrange with Payne, compile the second and arrange to add some Burroughs and more Huncke to the first. then you be done with that responsibility. Keep your name on as editor of second book if that be advisable from any point. Perhaps also stop writing sidepieces, let Lord select from the multitude of manuscript he has already, no need dribble your time doing that secretarial and primarily agent-type work. He has typists there. Well anyway have a weird good time, I’ll miss you.
I went to Lucien’s last night, he talked with me at length after he phoned you—mad at me for hovering over and clapping hands and enjoying his telling you to write about him if necessary. He doesn’t really want you to, is serious, and I am to blame for urging you on all this time. He scared me. Encountered something in him I had not felt before, or realized, apparently he been ill since that drunken night, not eating much, having nightmares—keyed off by this situation. Communicated some of the chill dread to me. It’s more than I can bear, I’m sorry I intruded at all, Lucien feels I have tried to harm him, makes me feel it is so. Said he spoke to you on the phone and you were not going to write it, that’s good. Because it really pains him that much, and seems a life and death matter to him. He has lost weight suddenly and seems changed and naked, or I am mad, or both, it scares me. He loves us, reassure him better than I can. (And I accede to his wishes and feelings here).
I guess I won’t see you for while til March. I’ll be here til then, and if go to Chile will stop over in Mexcity see you if you let me know where you are. Write if you can, postcard, if not don’t worry I be OK. Silence for me later if at all, in India—McClure and Whalen arriving here this weekend, I’ll take care of them, in fact am undisturbed—not as much pressure on me, and Kaddish getting finished and be ready soon. Tho disturbed by Lucien last night, upset.
Let me know what to do with Avon, or maybe best lay off it entirely whatever you want it’s your cherub.
Peter typing poems and Huncke in bed with hemorrhoids, say hello to silence.
Love, As ever
Allen
Jack Kerouac [Northport, New York] to
Allen Ginsberg [New York, New York]
December 24, 1959
Cher Alain:
Just concluded an amiable wrangle over Tristessa and am going to have it published just as it is (no additions) just like Lucien and Cessa said it should.
Seduction after all, doesn’t make a book sexy, or dithyrambs.
It is such a short book that I myself gaze with amazement at the few words she spoke (you never read the whole thing tied up with the second year of composing so you don’t know what I means).
Am playing St. Matthew’s Passion as I write this, marveling at your taste when I came to your cottage in the western night in October 1955 from Mexico and nobody home I played your St. Matthew and waited for you hi on benny, remember?
Well, and I got big letter from Grove Press girl asking what I planned to do in Chile, I never GOT no invitation to go to Chile, did you intercept it for Peter’s use? If so your schemes mell with my rhyme because I don’t want to go away . . . am happy in my attic with the bat. The only explanation I can think of is that you bit your lip, tweaked your beard, and took my invitation and gave it to Peter, which is okay with me. Who wants to go south of north? But write to me from there and also find out why I didn’t get an invitation: am I too crude? Too crude to be a Mahatma? I, the ponsell dinker?
Drama ain’t nowhere without poetry (see Broadway), and poetry ain’t nowhere without drama . . . s’why I write what you call PROSE, novels, see? My model is Shakespeare. In the interests of which I advise you, really, to plan now a big Miltonesque dramatic poem for your next pook. Boog, I mean. Imagine you getting hungup on big modern Shakespearean city tragedies using long line, short line, prosody, ellipses, etc. see. I decided this when looking over my poetry and my “novels” which have better line in em.
Karl Paetel151 is giving Sterling [Lord] a bad time. What is he, a German con man? a sinister Burroughsian debt collector? a slinker? Sterling only claims that in every new anthology I should get “premium” payment because they can’t make it without my name . . . that’s all. I got with Sterling because I’ve had a long talk with Albert Saijo who reminded me that “money is poetic” (viz. Balzac, Shakespeare, etc.) and should not be put down per se by per se William. In fact, I intend to make a million and when I’m sixty I’ll give it away and walk away with rucksack, gray-haired, across the roads of America, everybody will be amazed. Imagine, like, if Hemingway did it tomorrow. No cops would arrest him. Everybody would listen. S’why Buddha was born a KING, a Maharajah. Only trouble is, I ain’t got no message.
Well sweetie, anyway, I’ll see you New Years Eve at Lucien’s or around Lucien’s orbit, me and Lucien never miss a New Years Eve.
I hope Peter out of doldrums. Saw Laff in the road, at night, stalking, looks happy. Anybody’d be happy with all that good star of solitude.
I’ll get you a copy of my new album when come to NY, you and me go together maybe to Hanover Records 57th St. and pick up four or five and hand them around. free. Money for Tristessa will be 7500 dollars and’s going right in bank. Won’t start spending till I have 50,000—like I mean on crazy things. Am still Canuck and smart. Never draw money out
of the bank unless I put MORE in. That way I can always write a check with confidence. Nothing to do with American ideas. Got Xmas card from Neal.
Only writing this to wish you big happy welcome holiday
Anyway writing it
Write me note
Ton Jean, Jean Louis
Allen Ginsberg [New York, New York] to
Jack Kerouac [n.p., Northport, New York?]
December 29, 1959
New Years
Dear Jack:
Lafcadio o’th’moonlight arrived here last nite with Peter, strange. Him and Peter now watching Chaplin and Harold Lloyd at Museum. I been sick, spent four days Xmas in Paterson on couch wrapped in blankets listening to the Messiah late at night in dark when house was asleep, drifting out of my body into the music, a new kind of Jewish Yoga. I’m reading about medieval Hebrew Mystics and Isaac the Blind, who said that the Nameless was “that which is not conceivable by thinking” as if he’d read the Diamond in Toledo. There is also an old Kabalistic formula explaining in 1300 that “God in Himself, as an absolute Being, and therefore by his very nature incapable of becoming the subject of a revelation to others, is not and cannot be meant in the documents of Revelation, in the canonical writings of the Bible, and in the rabbinical tradition. He is not the subject of these writings and therefore also has no documented name, since every word of the sacred writing refers after all to some aspect of His manifestation on the side of Creation,” rather than his perfect state as Nothing. In fact all the Rabbis always are talking about their meditations as trying to “make Something into Nothing,” and are always making big doctrines about “the Nothing” and praying to it.