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I'll go to the south of Sicily in the winter, and paint memories of Arles – I'll buy a piano and Mozart me that – I'll write long sad tales about people in the legend of my life – This part is my part of the movie, let's hear yours

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
Hear
Legend
Movie
Legends
Write
Tales
Part
Piano
Writing
Winter
Long
Paint
Life
South
Sicily
People
Memories
Mozart

More quotes by Jack Kerouac

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My whole wretched life swam before my weary eyes, and I realized no matter what you do it's bound to be a waste of time in the end so you might as well go mad.
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I see as much as doors'll allow, open or shut.
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I don't wanta hear all your word descriptions of words words words you made up all winter, man I wanta be enlightened by actions.
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The air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great, that I thought I was in a dream.
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There was nothing to talk about anymore. The only thing to do was go.
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I'm writing this book because we're all going to die.
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February dawn -- frost on the path Where I paced all winter.
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The unspeakable visions of the individual.
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Things are so hard to figure out when you live from day to day in this feverish and silly world.
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Lying mouth to mouth, kiss to kiss in the pillow dark, loin to loin in unbelievable surrendering sweetness so distant from all our mental fearful abstractions it makes you wonder why men have termed God antisexual somehow (p. 148)
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I swore I'd be in Chicago tomorrow, and made sure of that, taking a bus to Chicago, spending most of my money, and didn't give a damn, just as long as I'd be in Chicago tomorrow.
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Who doesn't feel studious when he doesn't have a girl with a Riviera suntan?
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The empty blue sky of space says 'All this comes back to me, then goes again, and comes back again, then goes again, and I don't care, it still belongs to me
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Pretty girls make graves
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I felt free and therefore I was free.
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I wished I could explain it to those I loved, my mother, to Japhy, but there just weren't any words to describe the nothingness and purity of it. Is there a certain and definite teaching to be given to all living creatures? was the question probably asked to beetle browed snowy Dipankara, and his answer was the roaring silence of the diamond.
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Pain or love or danger makes you real again.
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The beauty of things must be that they end.
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LA is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities NY gets god-awful cold in the winter but there's a feeling of wacky comradeship somewhere in some streets. LA is a jungle.
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And the story of love is a long sad tale ending in graves.
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