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Writing at least is a silent meditation even though you’re going a hundred miles an hour.

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
Least
Though
Hours
Writing
Miles
Even
Hour
Going
Silent
Meditation
Hundred

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It is possible for the human spirit to win after all.
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Pain or love or danger makes you real again.
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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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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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We tiptoed around each other like heartbreaking new friends.
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I mean, why on earth (outside sickness and hangovers) aren't people continually drunk? I want ecstasy of the mind all the time.
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Life must be rich and full of loving--it's no good otherwise, no good at all, for anyone.
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I realized that I had died and been reborn numberless times but just didn't remember because the transitions from life to death and back are so ghostly easy, a magical action for naught, like falling asleep and waking up again a million times, the utter casualness and deep ignorance of it.
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and never really thought I'd amount to anything. It was precisely what I wanted the whole world to think then I could sneak in, if that's what they wanted, and sneak out again, which I did.
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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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The empty blue sky of space says 'All this comes back to me, then goes again, and comes back again, then goes again, and I don't care, it still belongs to me
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Pretty girls make graves
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Genius gives birth, talent delivers.
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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)
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The happiness consists in realizing that it is all a great strange dream.
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So I rushed past the pretty girls, and the prettiest girls in the world live in Des Moines.
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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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If you dont [sic] say what you want, what's the sense of writing?
Jack Kerouac
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And with joy you realize for the first time Thinking's just like not thinking — So I don't have to think any more.
Jack Kerouac
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stick at it like a benni addict
Jack Kerouac