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I was suddenly left with nothing in my hands but a handful of crazy stars.

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
Handful
Suddenly
Crazy
Stars
Left
Hands
Nothing

More quotes by Jack Kerouac

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I swore I'd be in Chicago tomorrow, and made sure of that, taking a bus to Chicago, spending most of my money, and didn't give a damn, just as long as I'd be in Chicago tomorrow.
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And when the fog's over and the stars and the moon come out at night it'll be a beautiful sight.
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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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Practice kindness all day to everybody and you will realize you're already in heaven now.
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No man should go through life without once experiencing healthy, even bored solitude in the wilderness, finding himself depending solely on himself and thereby learning his true and hidden strength
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Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind.
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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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And there in the blue air I saw for the first time, far off, the great snowy tops of the Rocky Mountains. I had to get to Denver at once.
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What does it mean that I am in this endless universe, thinking that I'm a man sitting under the stars on the terrace of the earth, but actually empty and awake throughout the emptiness and awakedness of everything? It means that I'm empty and awake, that I know I'm empty and awake, and that there's no difference between me and anything else.
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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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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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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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I'd better be a poet Or lay down dead.
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I was amazed by the fact that I was not the only writer living, not the only young man with a locomotive in his chest, and that's a fact, not the only youth with a million hungers and not one of them appeasable, not the only one who is lonely among multitudes, and does not know why.
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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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All of life is a foreign country.
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I saw that my life was a vast glowing empty page and I could do anything I wanted.
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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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It all ends in tears anyway.
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