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Believe that the world is an ethereal flower, and ye live.
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
Ethereal
Flower
Live
Believe
World
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If you own a rug you own too much.
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Sure baby, mañana. It was always mañana. For the next few weeks that was all I heard––mañana a lovely word and one that probably means heaven.
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My eyes were glued on life and they were full of tears.
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I am young now and can look upon my body and soul with pride. But it will be mangled soon, and later it will begin to disintegrate, and then I shall die, and die conclusively. How can we face such a fact, and not live in fear?
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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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Are we fallen angels who didn't want to believe that nothing is nothing and so were born to lose our loved ones and dear friends one by one and finally our own life, to see it proved?
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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 wished I could explain it to those I loved, my mother, to Japhy, but there just weren't any words to describe the nothingness and purity of it. Is there a certain and definite teaching to be given to all living creatures? was the question probably asked to beetle browed snowy Dipankara, and his answer was the roaring silence of the diamond.
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If you dont [sic] say what you want, what's the sense of writing?
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I like it because its ugly
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I felt like lying down by the side of the trail and remembering it all
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all I wanted to do was sneak out into the night and disappear somewhere, and go and find out what everybody was doing all over the country.
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Who doesn't feel studious when he doesn't have a girl with a Riviera suntan?
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the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.
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Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.
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Down in Denver, all I did was die.
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I was suddenly left with nothing in my hands but a handful of crazy stars.
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All of life is a foreign country.
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It was the work of the quiet mountains, this torrent of purity at my feet.
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