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Lying mouth to mouth, kiss to kiss in the pillow dark, loin to loin in unbelievable surrendering sweetness so distant from all our mental fearful abstractions it makes you wonder why men have termed God antisexual somehow (p. 148)

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
Makes
Mouth
Abstractions
Men
Somehow
Pillow
Kissing
Abstraction
Mouths
Sweetness
Mental
Unbelievable
Wonder
Distant
Loin
Dark
Fearful
Termed
Lying
Kiss
Surrendering

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As I grew older I became a drunk. Why? Because I like ecstasy of the mind.
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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.
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but that's alright because now everything'll be alright & we'll soothe the forever boys & girls & before we're thru we'll find a name for this Goddam Golden Eternity & tell a story too
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What difference does it make after all?--anonymity in the world of men is better than fame in heaven, for what’s heaven? what’s earth? All in the mind.
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Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind.
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The more ups and downs, the more joy I feel. The greater the fear, the greater the happiness I feel.
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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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They spent all week saving pennies and went out Saturdays to spend fifty bucks in three hours.
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He seems to me to be headed for his ideal fate, which is compulsive psychosis dashed with a jigger of psychopathic irresponsibility and violence
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The happiness consists in realizing that it is all a great strange dream.
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Man lowers his head and lunges into civilization, forgetting the days of his infancy when he sought truth in a snowflake or a stick. Man forgets the wisdom of the child.
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My eyes were glued on life and they were full of tears.
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Practice kindness all day to everybody and you will realize you're already in heaven now.
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You don't realize what a strain it is on the nerves to write or think-of-writing all day long, and to sleep full of nervous dreams, and to wake up not knowing who one is: this all stems from anxiety about finishing the book, about time 'growing short', etc., and the perpetual strain of invention.
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Night is longer than day for those who dream & day is longer than night for those who make their dreams comes true.
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His friends said, Why do you have that ugly thing hanging there? and Bull said, I like it because it's ugly. All his life was in that line.
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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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Details are the Life of Prose.
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The Beat Generation, that was a vision that we had, John Clellon Holmes and I, and Allen Ginsberg in an even wilder way, in the late forties, of a generation of crazy, illuminated hipsters suddenly rising and roaming America, serious, bumming and hitchhiking everywhere, ragged, beatific, beautiful in an ugly graceful new way.
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