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When you start separating people from their rivers, what have you got? Bureaucracy!

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
Bureaucracy
Rivers
Start
People
Separating

More quotes by Jack Kerouac

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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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I see as much as doors'll allow, open or shut.
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One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.
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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 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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It's good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies
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I rather like the idea of having all my hours to myself: eating a Fudge Sundae, watching a movie, sleeping on my couch, singing in the bathroom, studying the woods, kidding around with a girl, playing cards lazily - all kinds of stuff that American brands 'shiftless.'
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Mainly I've been back to my books and writings and being nice and quiet and lazy. As I'm writing this, the radio says there's a foot of snow falling on Long Island. I really love snow and wish I could take a long walk in it right now.
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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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We tiptoed around each other like heartbreaking new friends.
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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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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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Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind.
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It all ends in tears anyway.
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The air was so sweet in New Orleans it seemed to come in soft bandannas and you could smell the river and really smell the people, and mud, and molasses, and every kind of tropical exhalation, with your nose suddenly removed from the dry ices of a Northern winter.
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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 only alternative to sleeping out, hopping freights, and doing what I wanted, I saw in a vision would be to just sit with a hundred other patients in front of a nice television set in a madhouse, where we could be supervised.
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and never really thought I'd amount to anything. It was precisely what I wanted the whole world to think then I could sneak in, if that's what they wanted, and sneak out again, which I did.
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I looked up at the dark sky and prayed to God for a better break in life and a better chance to do something for the little people I loved.
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Everything is perfect on the street again, the world is permeated with roses of happiness all the time, but none of us know it. The happiness consists in realizing that it is all a great strange dream.
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