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and I shudder sometimes to think of all that stellar mystery of how she IS going to get me in a future lifetime, wow - And I seriously do believe that will be my salvation, too. A long way to go.

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
Thinking
Mystery
Future
Sometimes
Stellar
Going
Shudder
Long
Wow
Believe
Seriously
Way
Salvation
Think
Lifetime

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The smog was heavy, my eyes were weeping from it, the sun was hot, the air stank, a regular hell is L.A.
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And still the Void is still and'll never move - But I will be the Void, moving without having moved.
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and the stars were icicles of mockery
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It all ends in tears anyway.
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Maybe that's what life is... a wink of the eye and winking stars.
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Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind.
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Great things are not accomplished by those who yield to trends and fads and popular opinion.
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You are the equal of the idol who has given you your inspiration
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equally empty, equally to be loved, equally a coming Buddha
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It seemed like a matter of minutes when we began rolling in the foothills before Oakland and suddenly reached a height and saw stretched out ahead of us the fabulous white city of San Francisco on her eleven mystic hills with the blue Pacific and its advancing wall of potato-patch fog beyond, and smoke and goldenness in the late afternoon of time.
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You'd be surprised how little I knew even up to yesterday
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I was suddenly left with nothing in my hands but a handful of crazy stars.
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I'm Catholic and I can't commit suicide, but I plan to drink myself to death.
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What difference does it make after all?--anonymity in the world of men is better than fame in heaven, for what’s heaven? what’s earth? All in the mind.
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Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind.
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And the story of love is a long sad tale ending in graves.
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Nothing ever happened - Not even this
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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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When the railroad trains moaned, and river-winds blew, bringing echoes through the vale, it was as if a wild hum of voices, the dear voices of everybody he had known, were crying: Peter, Peter! Where are you going, Peter? And a big soft gust of rain came down. He put up the collar of his jacket, and bowed his head, and hurried along.
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So therefore I dedicate myself, to my art, my sleep, my dreams, my labors, my suffrances, my loneliness, my unique madness, my endless absorption and hunger because I cannot dedicate myself to any fellow being.
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