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And the story of love is a long sad tale ending in graves.

Jack Kerouac

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Jack Kerouac
Age: 47 †
Born: 1922
Born: March 13
Died: 1969
Died: October 21
Novelist
Poet
Screenwriter
Writer
East Chelmsford
Massachusetts
Jean-Louis Lebris de Kérouac
Jean-Louis Lebris de Kerouac
Kerouac
Jean-Louis Kerouac
Stories
Long
Love
Tale
Ending
Graves
Tales
Wisdom
Story

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In all this welter of women I still hadn't got one for myself, not that I was trying too hard, but sometimes I felt lonely to see everybody paired off and having a good time and all I did was curl up in my sleeping bag in the rosebushes and sigh and say bah. For me it was just red wine in my mouth and a pile of firewood
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Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition.
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My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them.
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Down in Denver, all I did was die.
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Because I cannot write my native language and have no native home anymore, and am amazed by that horrible homelessness of all French-Canadian s abroad in America.
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I felt like lying down by the side of the trail and remembering it all
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Sure baby, mañana. It was always mañana. For the next few weeks that was all I heard––mañana a lovely word and one that probably means heaven.
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Life must be rich and full of loving--it's no good otherwise, no good at all, for anyone.
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don't stop to think of the words when you do stop, just stop to think of the picture better-and let your mind off yourself in this work.
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I was having a wonderful time and the whole world opened up before me because I had no dreams.
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Dean and I both swayed to the rhythm and the IT of our final excited joy in talking and living to the blank traced end of all innumerable riotous angelic particulars that had been lurking in our souls all our lives.
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Paris is a woman but London is an independent man puffing his pipe in a pub.
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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.
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You seek identity in the midst of indistinguishab le chaos, in sprawling nameless reality.
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I was suddenly left with nothing in my hands but a handful of crazy stars.
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An awful realization that I have been fooling myself all my life thinking there was a next thing to do to keep the show going and actually I'm just a sick clown and so is everybody else
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Genius gives birth, talent delivers.
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Swinging on delicate hinges the autumn leaf almost off the stem.
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Thinking of the stars night after night I begin to realize 'The stars are words' and all the innumerable worlds in the Milky Way are words, and so is this world too. And I realize that no matter where I am, whether in a little room full of thought, or in this endless universe of stars and mountains, it’s all in my mind.
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The beauty of things must be that they end.
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