Quote

I'd rather hop freights around the country and cook my food out of tin cans over wood fires, than be rich and have a home or work.

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
Fire
Tin
Rich
Fires
Rather
Wood
Around
Hops
Home
Cook
Country
Cooks
Work
Woods
Food
Cans

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Jumping from boulder to boulder and never falling, with a heavy pack, is easier than it sounds you just can't fall when you get into the rhythm of the dance.
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Things are so hard to figure out when you live from day to day in this feverish and silly world.
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And I said, 'That last thing is what you can't get, Carlo. Nobody can get to that last thing. We keep on living in hopes of catching it once and for all.
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Pain or love or danger makes you real again.
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My shoes are clean from walking in the rain.
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equally empty, equally to be loved, equally a coming Buddha
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Believe that the world is an ethereal flower, and ye live.
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I'm right there, swimming the river of hardships but I know how to swim.
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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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The more ups and downs, the more joy I feel. The greater the fear, the greater the happiness I feel.
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It was my dream that screwed up, the stupid hearthside idea that it would be wonderful to follow one great red line across America instead of trying various roads and routes.
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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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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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But, outside of being a sweet little girl, she was awfully dumb and capable of doing horrible things.
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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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Some's bastards, some's ain't. That's the score.
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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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Everything is ecstasy inside. We just don't know it because of our thinking-minds. But in our true blissful essence of mind [it] is known that everything is alright forever and forever and forever.
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It all ends in tears anyway.
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Details are the Life of Prose.
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