by Jack Kerouac
But, no, there was no rain. The heavens were swept by large gray clouds, with an even grayer background. The streets did not glisten, but were damp and steaming. Everything was damp and steaming.
Richard walked past the city library and looked at its moist granite-blocked structure, a looming castle of books, as dreary and joyless as the day. But inside, Richard could picture the reading room, strewn with tables and chairs and busts. And in one particular corner, where the bookshelves seemed thickest and most forbidding, Richard’s own nook.
All the way up the street, he could see the familiar shamble and lean of objects which you have been looking at all your life: storefronts, telephone poles, filling station pumps, bakeries, trees rising from cement sidewalks, extinct trolley tracks, fences plastered with posters, barber shop poles whose limitless energies had fascinated his stare since childhood. And above all this hovered a gloomy, tasteless sky.
A man may be walking up the street like this, completely wrapped up within himself, and satisfied in his solitary observations. And in such a state of mind was Richard as he strode up the street, his wet soles making an irritating crunch as they ground into the sand on the cement. A man may be doing just this, and in such a case, be truthful and completely himself, with no quarter to ask and no desire to tyrannize anyone. He is just walking on a street in America. But suddenly he is accosted by an acquaintance, and immediately this man is no longer truthful and philosophic and meditative; he has to apply himself to the other individual in such a way that he becomes partly submerged within the other’s ego-universe, and in so doing, loses his own private dignity.
“Hello Richard,” is the greeting.
Richard whirls, looks at the accoster, recognizes the features, thinks for a brief second, and then finally says: “Oh hello Walt!”
“How you doin’?” asks Walt, not really wanting to know.
“Swell.”
“Still goin’ to school?” asks Walt, the accoster.
“Yeah. I’m a Post Graduate in High this year.”
“What are you studyin’?” is the next query.
“Accounting and shorthand. I’m going to Galloway Commercial College next year.” Richard answers these questions politely and in a friendly manner, although he has no real desire to be friendly. But way down deep within him, he feels the necessity of making the other fellow feel good.
“Good!” ejaculates the other. “Good goin’.”
“What are you doing, working?” asks Richard, knowing that the half-way mark of the conversation has arrived, and knowing that this question is as inevitable and necessary in social contact for him as death, taxes, and war seem to be inevitable and necessary for mankind.
“Yeah. I’m workin’ in the Nostrand,” is the answer.
The Nostrand is a by-word in Galloway; it is a large cotton mill.
“Day-shift?” asks Richard kindly, showing by his expression that he hopes it so.
“Yeah.”
“Good!” says Richard. “Good thing you’re not on the night shift.”
“You said it, Dick,” agrees the accoster.
And now comes the pause. Both sides have given short accounts of their contemporary progress. Life, at this very moment, is hinging on jobs, day-shifts and night-shifts, school, how one is doing, and studies. Life, that rich adventure, is narrowed down to a few terse sentences and obliging smiles; it has lost its grand luster, it has become nothing but a sidewalk conversation, looking into a mill-hand’s fretful eyes, smelling the smoke of his cigarette, noticing his oil-stained overalls, and being open for the outpouring of the mill-hand ego-universe—a universe of the terror and death of early morning, of walking to the mill in the cold morning drawing from a cigarette butt, of the tin lunch-box, of the terrible maw of the mill with its full-faced heat and aromatic dyes, of walking home in the sunset, of a supper tasting cotton, of standing on the corner and discussing the Red Sox, of going to bed because you have to get up early to go to work.
The pause is just long enough, and to the experienced mind of Richard, it means the end.
“Well,” smiles Walt, the millworker. “I’ll be seein’ you Dick. So long!”
“So long!” smiles Richard, turning up the street to resume his walk. “Take it easy.”
And now life broadens suddenly and swiftly. Life is no longer the ego-universe of the millworker. It is the ego-universe of Richard Vesque, and consequently, so much better and greater and more appropriate. The ego-universe of Richard Vesque is the greatest ego-universe of all time.
Walking home from school, it seems to Richard Vesque that he must hurry. There is no reason for it, because it is two o’clock in the afternoon and there is no one home, but nevertheless Richard walks swiftly and eats up the distance eagerly. Something prods him to hasten; he knows there is nothing at home but the kitchen with food in it for him to eat, and an empty, silent house. Yet he hurries as if he had an appointment with someone that he must keep. And, as a result, he suddenly finds himself at the foot of the staircase leading up three flights to the flat. He opens the mailbox, locks, and slams it. He starts to climb the stairs. At each floor, he turns wearily with hand on the banister post, and begins another ascension. Finally, he stands before his door. He is heaving and panting, and there is a clammy sweat on his face. The banister itself is clammy. The gray light outdoors finds its way into this hallway and renders it dark-gray, sad, and dimly sullen. Richard sees this, and unlocks the door leading to his home. He walks across the threshold and closes the door, and then crosses the flat to his room where he literally tears off his clothing and flops onto his bed, almost nude, with a tremendous sigh. At this gray moment in life, Richard thinks that he cannot make it; that he is not equal to life, and will soon have to give up; it is too hot, too humid, his hair is too often in his face, he is too skinny, it is too gray and gloomy and discouraging outside, there is no great symphony of conquest ringing through the corridors of his world, only a long series of dull days. Life is too funereal, too painful, and has no rewards.
Richard lies there on his back, wearing only a small pair of trunks, and stares at the cracks in the ceiling, noticing how they resolve themselves into shapes of mountains. It is two o’clock in the afternoon, the house is empty, and life drags on.
There is a copy of William Saroyan’s short stories on the bed. Richard picks it up, reads a few lines, and drops it again. His eyes are too heavy and his mind too despondent; he couldn’t read a page if he had to, even Bill Saroyan. Richard closes his eyes and feels his nude body begin to cool, until finally his body begins to be coldly clammy. It clamors for the need of warmth. Richard moves his tired bones, slithers in bed, and then stays limp.
“I can’t make it,” he says out loud. “I’m going to die like this, freezing in a cold, empty house, at two o’clock in the afternoon on a gray day.”
Five minutes of staring at the ceiling and thinking of nothing, and then Richard finally rolls over and over to the edge of the bed, and then swings his legs down. With a crazy little cry, Richard begins to dance around the room, and then with a mad whimsy, takes a swan dive back onto the bed where he lies with his face submerged in the pillow. He yelps into the pillow, and then he makes ominous dragon growls. Then he rolls over and over until he again swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He stares at the floor, sighing through his teeth and making crazy sounds come out of his throat.
“I’m crazy,” he concludes, beginning to dress.
Dressed, he goes to the kitchen and opens the pantry door. He finds a box of crackers, takes it down. He finds some peanut butter, and some cold milk in the ice box. With a knife, he butters the crackers; he pours the foaming milk into a glass, and seats himself at the table, putting a newspaper under his meal. It is the funny page, and as he eats and drinks, he studies the comics carefully. Even the funnies are gray and colorless, but although their world does not cry with color and dazzling light, their deeds are romantic. Richard turns on the radio to an all-day recording prog
ram, and listens to the announcer making his commercial with a trained, enthusiastic, precise voice. And then the music comes on, and the empty house is filled with music, but it’s only from the radio. Life is still gray; the music is joyful, but it is a sad joy that does not go beyond the radio, and fails to penetrate the invincible gray wall of life. It is a music that is thwarted, yet goes on self-sufficient and self-satisfied.
Richard goes to the window and looks down the street. A yellow bus goes by and a man comes down the street on a bicycle. A newspaper boy is untying his pile of papers, his wagon ready. Somebody is coming out of the barber shop, yelling back into it and laughing as he goes across the street to the Club. Inside the Club, Richard thinks, he will have a glass of beer to celebrate his new haircut. Richard presses his nose against the window pane and crosses his eyes. “What a screwy world this is!” he says out loud. “There’s nothing in it. Everything is gray, even my eyes.”
Richard gets up from the chair and goes to his room. He lies down on the bed and drowses off, saying: “To hell with it. I’m going to sleep it off.”
And he does.
[I Know I Am August]
Kerouac notes on this typescript dated 1940 that the first five lines are a version of Walt Whitman’s (from the long opening poem of the 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass, later titled “Song of Myself”) and the remainder of the poem is his writing. In a journal entry from June 4, 1941, Kerouac writes: “Again got up late. Read more Whitman—great man, regardless of what they say. True, he may be an old sensuous wolf, but his philosophy of individualism cannot be beat—although his democracy is inapplicable. [...] Here’s something from Whitman that is deathless: I know I am august
I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood,
I see that the elementary laws never apologize.
Also, about man: WHO GOES THERE? HANKERING, GROSS, MYSTICAL, NUDE . . . .
My next reading will be London & Wolfe.”
In 1950 Kerouac wrote to New England poet Rosaire Dion-Lévesque, who had published a French translation of Whitman’s Leaves of Grass: “Whitman was my first real influence; it was on the spur of reading Whitman that I decided to cross the country. ”
I know I am august
I never trouble my soul to vindicate itself;
I see that the elementary laws never apologize.
What is this blurt about vice and about virtue?
Evil and reform of evil propels me, I stand indifferent.
There is a great song ringing through the pavilions of life:
Is this a paradox or is [it] a fact?
I believe the former is so.
I am no judge of Life’s immutable whimsies,
But I do know that it is fraught with richness and with
death;
And so perhaps it is better that this be no Utopia,
For what a gray tale of nothingness we could unfold
To the progeny untold
That would follow to do the same in turn.
I am a Man;
You are a Man;
We are all Men.
Thus I stand, and thus you stand, the Lord and Master
Of the domain called the Universe.
It is in times like these that I feel like taking a swim.
Sincerity is the pole-star by which I steer;
I see it here and I see it everywhere—
Even in the spiritless eyes of tired laborers
I see a spark of it.
I accept sincerity because it tops all things;
I shall have no part of the mundane.
Gluttony?
I do not believe in the word:
I am as sensate as a gourmand king,
And perhaps more. I need with a will, and fill them
likewise.
My food is often that of books,
For in them I find the steak and the beef for my famished
brain;
And oftentimes, for dessert, I nibble at some sweet
Saroyan.
My pipe sends odors and aromas of delicate nicotine thru
my nose;
Thus, I never hesitate to light it in order to enjoy further
This heaven of fine sweet smoke.
They tell me that life will be shortened, and I listen
attentively;
But in a moment I desire my nicotine, and so I light my
pipe
Without any regard for their solemn warnings.
Radio Script: The Spirit of ‘14
In June 1940 Kerouac and six friends (George J. Apostolos, William W. Chandler, James F. Cuerden, Frances R. Hayward, Sebastian G. Sampas, and Raymond E. Walsh) organized the Variety Players Group, for which Kerouac wrote this script. The group was probably modeled on Orson Welles’s radio drama ensemble Mercury Theater on the Air. The announcer in the play explains that the author is Jack Kerouac of Columbia University, and although Kerouac did not start college until September 1940, the play may date from the summer before his freshman year. It is possible that he wrote it as late as the spring of 1941, several months before Japanese warplanes attacked U.S. forces at Pearl Harbor, on Oahu island of Hawaii, drawing America into the widening world war.
THEME
ANNOUNCER: This evening, the Variety Players present a short dramatization of the play called “The Spirit of’14,” written by Jack Kerouac of Columbia University, and directed by William Chandler, President of the Variety Players Group.
MUSIC: SOFT, WHILE ANNOUNCER SPEAKS IN A NARRATIVE TONE
ANNOUNCER: The scene is not an elaborate one. We find ourselves comfortably settled in a comfortably squalid barroom. Seated at a solitary table in the corner is a Legionnaire, sipping spasmodically from a glass of beer. He seems to be expecting someone. The bartender pays absolutely no attention to him, as if he weren’t in the room. But there is a noise outside (NOISE OF HALF-DOZEN VOICES FROM WITHOUT) and the doors of the barroom open violently (SOUND OF VOICES LOUDER ACCOMPANIED BY SOUND OF OPENING DOOR) allowing in a group of happy young people.
JIM: Hah! We’ve found just the spot. C’mon kids! In we go!
VOICES: HUBBUB OF LAUGHTER, MERRIMENT, STAMPING OF FEET, SHOUTING.
JIM: Hey Bartender! We’re starting off with six beers—shoot ’em right up!
BARTENDER: (FROM DISTANCE) Righto!
ANNOUNCER: (WITH THEME PLAYED SOFTLY AND HUBBUB OF YOUNGSTERS AS BACKGROUND) Our solitary Legionnaire seems to have found the party he was waiting for. He sits up straight and watches the youngsters.
JACK: Margie, you play the piano! We’ll form a chorus and sing the Alma Mater! ...
SOUND: (AFTER SHORT PAUSE, WHICH IS FILLED BY HUBBUB) PIANO PLAYING TYPICAL COLLEGE ALMA MATER SONG
VOICES: ALL SING FURTIVELY AND JOYFULLY
ANNOUNCER: Our Legionnaire stands and stares at the group of singing school youngsters. He nods his head slowly.
JIM: Hey, pipe the Legionnaire, Jack. Let’s go over and talk to him, . . . . . he seems to be down in the dumps. Here, bring him a beer . . . .
JACK: Okay.
SOUND: HUBBUB AND SINGING GOES ON
ANNOUNCER: The two college students approach the solitary table, where sits the solitary Legionnaire...
JIM: (SHOUTS LIGHTLY) Buck up, soldier! Here’s an extra brew.
LEGIONNAIRE: Thanks.
JACK: I guess it was sorta peaceful before we got in here, huh? Cigarette?
LEGIONNAIRE: Thanks.
JIM: Here’s a light. How do you like our women—not bad hey, or are you allergic . . . . (LAUGHS)
LEGIONNAIRE: I like Kipling’s description of a female.
JIM: What did he call them?
JACK: “A rag, a bone, and a shock of hair . . .” or something like that . . .
LEGIONNAIRE: Just about . . .
JIM: C’mon Jack, let’s go back and throw some ice down Ann’s back. She’ll tear for sure!
JACK: Wait a minute, Jim. I want to find out something. Legionnaire, do you think
we’ll get in this war?
JIM: WAR? Oh man, how I’d like to get at one of those Nazis?
LEGIONNAIRE (SHARPLY): It would be an adventure, wouldn’t it.
JIM: I’ll say—it’d be one honey of a vacation from school.
LEGIONNAIRE: Yes. I can just picture it.
JIM (BOLDLY): Hah! I know what you’re thinking about, soldier. Well, listen, I’m not afraid of any Nazi nor any war....
LEGIONNAIRE: Neither was I.
JIM: There you are.
JACK: I dunno .... I worked pretty hard to get to college. I’d hate to leave now to go to war and fight.
LEGIONNAIRE: Fight whom?
JIM: Why, the Nazis.
LEGIONNAIRE: (LAUGHS LONG AND LOUD) Nazis! You won’t be fighting Nazis. You’ll be fighting the dregs of imperfect humanity. Did you ever hear of the perfect social system?
JACK (EAGERLY): In some of Wells’ Utopias . . . .
LEGIONNAIRE: Wells’ Utopias are Wells’ Utopias. That’s where you stop boy scout.
JACK: Oh no, I don’t stop there. I know they are pure fantasy . . . .
JIM: Cut it out! Both of you are breaking my heart. I’m going back to the party. C’mon Jack. He’s shell-shocked or something.
LEGIONNAIRE: (QUIETLY AND OMINOUSLY) No, I’m not shell-shocked. I’m just plain shocked.
JIM (SARCASTICALLY): Shocked at what—my “impertinence” (MIMICS SCHOOL TEACHER)
LEGIONNAIRE: No, kid. Not at you. Not at anyone. I’m just shocked at it all.
JIM: (FRANTICALLY): What all?
LEGIONNAIRE: Everything.
JIM: Oh a Communist, hey?
LEGIONNAIRE: Communists don’t get shocked by things . . . . they shock them.