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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.

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
Thought
Alley
Great
Alleys
Every
Soft
Air
Promise
Fine
Stars
Dream
Cobbled

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My eyes were glued on life and they were full of tears.
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Your Buddhism has made you mean Ray and makes you even afraid to take your clothes off for a simple healthy orgy
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Always pull back-and see how silly we must look to God.
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What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? - it's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-by. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.
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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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Ah, life is a gate, a way, a path to Paradise anyway, why not live for fun and joy and love or some sort of girl by a fireside, why not go to your desire and LAUGH.
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Something that you feel will find its own form.
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Ah, if I could realize, if I could forget myself and devote my meditations to the freeing, the awakening and the blessedness of all living creatures everywhere I'd realize what there is, is ecstasy.
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I felt like lying down by the side of the trail and remembering it all
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beautiful insane in the rain
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Nothing ever happened - Not even this
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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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No man should go through life without once experiencing healthy, even bored solitude in the wilderness, finding himself depending solely on himself and thereby learning his true and hidden strength
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Genius gives birth, talent delivers. What Rembrandt or Van Gogh saw in the night can never be seen again.
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What a horror it would have been if the world was real, because if the world was real, it would be immortal.
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I realized that I had died and been reborn numberless times but just didn't remember because the transitions from life to death and back are so ghostly easy, a magical action for naught, like falling asleep and waking up again a million times, the utter casualness and deep ignorance of it.
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I just won't sleep, I decided. There were so many other interesting things to do.
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If you own a rug you own too much.
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What does it mean that I am in this endless universe, thinking that I'm a man sitting under the stars on the terrace of the earth, but actually empty and awake throughout the emptiness and awakedness of everything? It means that I'm empty and awake, that I know I'm empty and awake, and that there's no difference between me and anything else.
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