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My shoes are clean from walking in the rain.

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
Walking
Shoes
Rain
Clean

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Will you love me in December as you do in May?
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As far as I'm concerned the only thing to do is sit in a room and get drunk
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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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Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition.
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I'd better be a poet Or lay down dead.
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Something good will come out of all things yet — And it will be golden and eternal just like that.
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I was suddenly left with nothing in my hands but a handful of crazy stars.
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I just won't sleep, I decided. There were so many other interesting things to do.
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My life is a vast inconsequential epic.
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The one thing that we yearn for in our living days, that makes us sigh and groan and undergo sweet nauseas of all kinds, is the remembrance of some lost bliss that was probably experienced in the womb and can only be reproduced (though we hate to admit it) in death. But who wants to die?
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You are the equal of the idol who has given you your inspiration
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You seek identity in the midst of indistinguishab le chaos, in sprawling nameless reality.
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The empty blue sky of space says 'All this comes back to me, then goes again, and comes back again, then goes again, and I don't care, it still belongs to me
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Return those shoes to the shoemaker Return this hand to my father This pillow to the pillowmaker Those slippers to the shop. That wainscot to the carpenter, But my mind my tranquil and eternal Mind Return it to whom?
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As I grew older I became a drunk. Why? Because I like ecstasy of the mind.
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Bee, why are you staring at me? I am not a flower??
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I mean, why on earth (outside sickness and hangovers) aren't people continually drunk? I want ecstasy of the mind all the time.
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And this is the way a novel gets written, in ignorance, fear, sorrow, madness, and a kind of psychotic happiness as an incubator for the wonders being born.
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The cowboy music twanged in the roadhouse and carried across the fields, all sadness. It was all right with me. I kissed my baby and we put out the lights.
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I'm writing this book because we're all going to die.
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