All life is but a skull-bone and A rack of ribs through which we keep passing food & fuel - just so’s we can burn so furious beautiful.
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The Sea Is My Brother: The Lost Novel
In the spring of 1943, during a stint in the Merchant Marine, twenty-one-year old Jack Kerouac set out to write his first novel. Working diligently day and night to complete it by hand, he titled it The Sea Is My Brother. Now, nearly seventy y
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Art was the revolt of the free.
I still doubt if they know what’s good: they only know what’s wrong, like me. Their dreams are beautiful, but insufficient, improbable, and most of all short of the mark.
I love life’s casual beauty - I fear its awful strength.
And so I measure things in the light of their imperfection , or wrong ; on that basis , I can say what is not good, but I refuse to dawdle about what is supposed good.
What wrong was there in treating his own life, within the bounds of moral conscience, as he chose and as he freely wished?
They laughed raucously and proceeded on down the street. From then on, Wesley was aware of only three things: that he drank two more enormous draughts from the bottle; that he was in New York at night, because they were walking in a steep canyon between tall corniced buildings that leaned crazily, a…
[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.
Dreams were so irrational, so gray with a nameless terror — and yet, too, so haunting and beautiful.