Quote

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.

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
Sink
Soul
Firsts
Witch
First
Began
Brooded
Like
Lips
Heady
Deep
Brew
Bits
Witches
Rich
Drowning
Lost

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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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Forgive everyone for your own sins and be sure to tell them you love them which you do.
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don't stop to think of the words when you do stop, just stop to think of the picture better-and let your mind off yourself in this work.
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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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We tiptoed around each other like heartbreaking new friends.
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...do you think God made the world to amuse himself because he was bored? Because if so he would have to be mean.
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equally empty, equally to be loved, equally a coming Buddha
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And the Hippos were boiled in their tanks!
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Prison is where you promise yourself the right to live.
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And then we’ll all go off to sweet life, ‘cause now is the time and we all know time!
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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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I came to a point where I needed solitude and just stop the machine of ‘thinking’ and ‘enjoying’ what they call ‘living’, I just wanted to lie in the grass and look at the clouds.
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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.
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beautiful insane in the rain
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One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.
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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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I'll go to the south of Sicily in the winter, and paint memories of Arles – I'll buy a piano and Mozart me that – I'll write long sad tales about people in the legend of my life – This part is my part of the movie, let's hear yours
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Who knows, my God, but that the universe is not one vast sea of compassion actually, the veritable holy honey, beneath all this show of personality and cruelty?
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There was nothing to talk about anymore. The only thing to do was go.
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Soon it got dusk, a grapy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon fields the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgandy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries.
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