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Paris is a woman but London is an independent man puffing his pipe in a pub.

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
Pipe
Paris
London
Independent
Woman
Men
Puffing
Pubs

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The road must eventually lead to the whole world.
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Bee, why are you staring at me? I am not a flower??
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I have fallen in love with you, God. Take care of us all, one way or the other.
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If you dont [sic] say what you want, what's the sense of writing?
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Things are so hard to figure out when you live from day to day in this feverish and silly world.
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All of life is a foreign country.
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You are the equal of the idol who has given you your inspiration
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all I wanted to do was sneak out into the night and disappear somewhere, and go and find out what everybody was doing all over the country.
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When you start separating people from their rivers, what have you got? Bureaucracy!
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My shoes are clean from walking in the rain.
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Details are the Life of Prose.
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At night in this part of the West the stars, as I had seen them in Wyoming, were as big as Roman Candles and as lonely as the Prince who's lost his ancestral home and journeys across the spaces trying to find it again, and knows he never will.
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Besides, all my New York friends were in the negative, nightmare position of putting down society and giving their tired bookish or political or psychoanalytical reasons, but Dean just raced in society, eager for bread and love.
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Practice kindness all day to everybody and you will realize you're already in heaven now.
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The only truth is music.
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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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Dean's California--wild, sweaty, important, the land of lonely and exiled and eccentric lovers come to forgather like birds, and the land where everybody somehow looked like broken-down, handsome, decadent movie actors.
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Vanity of vanities… all is vanity.’ You kill yourself to get to the grave. Especially you kill yourself to get to the grave before you die and the name of the grave is ‘success’, the name of that grave is hullabullo boom boom horseshit.
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And the story of love is a long sad tale ending in graves.
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I feel guilty for being a member of the human race.
Jack Kerouac