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The taste of rain -- Why kneel?

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
Kneel
Rain
Taste

More quotes by Jack Kerouac

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The page is long, blank, and full of truth. When I am through with it, it shall probably be long, full, and empty with words.
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For the first time in my life the weather was not something that touched me, that caressed me, froze or sweated me, but became me.
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It is not my fault that certain so-called bohemian elements have found in my writings something to hang their peculiar beatnik theories on.
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I am young now and can look upon my body and soul with pride. But it will be mangled soon, and later it will begin to disintegrate, and then I shall die, and die conclusively. How can we face such a fact, and not live in fear?
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Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind.
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Man lowers his head and lunges into civilization, forgetting the days of his infancy when he sought truth in a snowflake or a stick. Man forgets the wisdom of the child.
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It is possible for the human spirit to win after all.
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She brooded and bit her rich lips: my soul began its first sink into her, deep, heady, lost like drowning in a witches' brew, Keltic, sorcerous, starlike.
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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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Isn't it true that you start your life a sweet child believing in everything under your father's roof? Then comes the day of the Laodiceans, when you know you are wretched and miserable and poor and blind and naked, and with the visage of a gruesome grieving ghost you go shuddering through nightmare life.
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Something that you feel will find its own form.
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Let the mind beware, that though the flesh be bugged, the circumstances of existence are pretty glorious.
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Dean's California--wild, sweaty, important, the land of lonely and exiled and eccentric lovers come to forgather like birds, and the land where everybody somehow looked like broken-down, handsome, decadent movie actors.
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It was the work of the quiet mountains, this torrent of purity at my feet.
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Nothing ever happened - Not even this
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Swinging on delicate hinges the autumn leaf almost off the stem.
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My aunt once said that the world would never find peace until men fell at their women's feet and asked for forgiveness.
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the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.
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What's your road, man? - holyboy road, madman road, rainbow road, guppy road, any road. It's an anywhere road for anybody anyhow. Where body how?
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So I rushed past the pretty girls, and the prettiest girls in the world live in Des Moines.
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