[He] seemed at home and content now they were sailing, as though leaving the port meant the cessation of all his worries, and heading out to sea a new era of peace and amenity.
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Jack Kerouac
Jack Kerouac (/ˈkɛruˌæk/ or /ˈkɛrəˌwæk/, born Jean-Louis Lebris de Kérouac; March 12, 1922 – October 21, 1969) was an American novelist and poet. He is considered a literary iconoclast and, alongside William S. Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg, a pioneer of the Beat Generation. Kerouac is recognized for his method of spontaneous prose. Thematically, his work covers topics such as Catholic spirituality, jazz, promiscuity, Buddhism, drugs, poverty, and travel. He became an underground celebrity and, with other beats, a progenitor of the hippie movement, although he remained antagonistic toward some of its politically radical elements. In 1969, aged 47, Kerouac died from internal bleeding due to long-term alcohol abuse. Since his death, Kerouac's literary prestige has grown, and several previously unseen works have been published. All of his books are in print today, including The Town and the City, On the Road, Doctor Sax, The Dharma Bums, Mexico City Blues, The Subterraneans, Desolation Angels, Visions of Cody, The Sea Is My Brother, and Big Sur. 2Biography 3Early life and adolescence Jack Kerouac was born on March 12, 1922 in Lowell, Massachusetts, to French Canadian parents, Léo-Alcide Kéroack (1899-1946) and Gabrielle-Ange Lévesque (1895-1973). There is some confusion surrounding his name, partly because of variations on the spelling of Kerouac, and because of Kerouac's own statement of his name as Jean-Louis Lebris de Keroua
Dreams were so irrational, so gray with a nameless terror — and yet, too, so haunting and beautiful.
The desk in the room, near the bed, with a good light, midnight till dawn, a drink when you get tired, preferably at home, but if you have no home, make a home out of your hotel room or motel room or pad: peace.
I had a ritual once of lighting a candle and writing by its light and blowing it out when I was done for the night … also kneeling and praying before starting (I got that from a French movie about George Frideric Handel) … but now I simply hate to write. My superstition? I’m beginning to suspect the…
There was nothing to talk about anymore. The only thing to do was go.
Do not haunt my soul; I have done well forgetting you.
Goddammit everybody in the world wants an explanation for your acts and for your very being.
There was nothing to talk about anymore. The only thing to do was go.
I hope you get where you’re going, and be happy when you do.
I looked up at the sky; the pure, wonderful stars were still there, burning.
We agreed to love each other madly.
I forgave everybody, I gave up, I got drunk.
I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.
I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.
There was nowhere to go, but everywhere…
A pain stabbed my heart, as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world.
I hope you get where you’re going, and be happy when you do.
I looked up at the sky; the pure, wonderful stars were still there, burning.