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Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind.

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
Exists
Flow
Already
Struggle
Writing
Mind
Intact
Sketch

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The taste of rain -- Why kneel?
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Better to sleep in an uncomfortable bed free, than sleep in a comfortable bed unfree.
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If you dont [sic] say what you want, what's the sense of writing?
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A scene should be selected by the writer for haunted-ness-of-mind interest. If you're not haunted by something, as by a dream, a vision, or a memory, which are involuntary, you're not interested or even involved.
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No time for poetry but exactly what is.
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But I remember seeing a mess of leaves suddenly go skittering in the wind and into the creek, then floating rapidly down the creek towards the sea, making me feel a nameless horror even then of 'Oh my God, we're all being swept away to sea no matter what we know or say or do
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and don't you know that God is Pooh Bear?
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Rest and be kind, you don't have to prove anything
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Somewhere along the line, the pearl would be handed to me.
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You'd be surprised how little I knew even up to yesterday
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As I grew older I became a drunk. Why? Because I like ecstasy of the mind.
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We were on the roof of America and all we could do was yell
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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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A pain stabbed my heart as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world.
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What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? - it's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-by. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.
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Nothing ever happened - Not even this
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It was the work of the quiet mountains, this torrent of purity at my feet.
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I feel guilty for being a member of the human race.
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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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At night I closed my eyes and saw my bones threading the mud of my grave.
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