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What a horror it would have been if the world was real, because if the world was real, it would be immortal.

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
Real
Would
World
Immortal
Horror

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Yeah, I said, but you're an artist. You don't believe in decency and honesty and gratitude. Where shall we eat?
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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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Something good will come out of all things yet — And it will be golden and eternal just like that.
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Will you love me in December as you do in May?
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What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? - it's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-by. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.
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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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Whenever spring comes to New York I can't stand the suggestion of the land that come blowing over the river from New Jersey and I've got to go. So I went.
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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's good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies
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What's in store for me in the direction I don't take?
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Believe that the world is an ethereal flower, and ye live.
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Ah Japhy you taught me the final lesson of them all, you can't fall off a mountain.
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I was a man of the earth, precisely as I had dreamed I would be.
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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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Who doesn't feel studious when he doesn't have a girl with a Riviera suntan?
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There is a blessedness surely to be believed, and that is that everything abides in eternal ecstasy, now and forever.
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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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It was a rainy night. It was the myth of the rainy night.
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Roaring dreams take place in a perfectly silent mind. Now that we know this, throw the raft away.
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Somewhere along the line, the pearl would be handed to me.
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