Quote

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.

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
Heavy
Boulder
Dance
Boulders
Easier
Pack
Sound
Packs
Fall
Jumping
Never
Falling
Rhythm
Sounds

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My whole wretched life swam before my weary eyes, and I realized no matter what you do it's bound to be a waste of time in the end so you might as well go mad.
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Everything I wrote was true because I believed what I saw.
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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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Genius gives birth, talent delivers. What Rembrandt or Van Gogh saw in the night can never be seen again.
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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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What's in store for me in the direction I don't take?
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The road must eventually lead to the whole world.
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equally empty, equally to be loved, equally a coming Buddha
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I don't know, I don't care, and it doesn't make any difference.
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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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Pain or love or danger makes you real again.
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Holy flowers floating in the air, were all these tired faces in the dawn of Jazz America.
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I hope it is true that a man can die and yet not only live in others but give them life, and not only life, but that great consciousness of 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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It ain't whatcha write, it's the way atcha write it.
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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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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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And the Hippos were boiled in their tanks!
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