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And when the fog's over and the stars and the moon come out at night it'll be a beautiful sight.
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
Night
Beautiful
Come
Fog
Sight
Moon
Stars
More quotes by Jack Kerouac
It was the work of the quiet mountains, this torrent of purity at my feet.
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Life is life, and kind is kind
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And the Hippos were boiled in their tanks!
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It's good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies
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I saw that my life was a vast glowing empty page and I could do anything I wanted.
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Some's bastards, some's ain't. That's the score.
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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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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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The road must eventually lead to the whole world.
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Pain or love or danger makes you real again.
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And I will die, and you will die, and we all will die, and even the stars will fade out one after another in time.
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equally empty, equally to be loved, equally a coming Buddha
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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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In those days he really didn't know what he was talking about that is to say, he was a young jailkid all hung-up on the wonderful possibilities of becoming a real intellectual, and he liked to talk in the tone and using the words, but in a jumbled way, that he had heard from 'real intellectuals.
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I don't know, I don't care, and it doesn't make any difference.
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There was nothing to talk about anymore. The only thing to do was go.
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Vanity of vanities… all is vanity.’ You kill yourself to get to the grave. Especially you kill yourself to get to the grave before you die and the name of the grave is ‘success’, the name of that grave is hullabullo boom boom horseshit.
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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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It’s not that I can’t fall in love. It’s really that I can’t help falling in love with too many things all at once. So, you must understand why I can’t distinguish between what’s platonic and what isn’t, because it’s all too much and not enough at the same time.
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Mind is the Maker, for no reason at all, for all this creation, created to fall.
Jack Kerouac