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Holy flowers floating in the air, were all these tired faces in the dawn of Jazz America.
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
Jazz
Tired
Air
Flower
Holy
Faces
Floating
America
Dawn
Flowers
More quotes by Jack Kerouac
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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And when the fog's over and the stars and the moon come out at night it'll be a beautiful sight.
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Maybe that's what life is... a wink of the eye and winking stars.
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We were on the roof of America and all we could do was yell
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My shoes are clean from walking in the rain.
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While looking for the light, you may suddenly be devoured by the darkness and find the true light
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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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If you own a rug you own too much.
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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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When the railroad trains moaned, and river-winds blew, bringing echoes through the vale, it was as if a wild hum of voices, the dear voices of everybody he had known, were crying: Peter, Peter! Where are you going, Peter? And a big soft gust of rain came down. He put up the collar of his jacket, and bowed his head, and hurried along.
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What do you want out of life? I asked, and I used to ask that all the time of girls.
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Mind is the Maker, for no reason at all, for all this creation, created to fall.
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Bee, why are you staring at me? I am not a flower??
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I felt free and therefore I was free.
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Burroughs is the greatest satirical writer since Jonathan Swift.
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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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It was the work of the quiet mountains, this torrent of purity at my feet.
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Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind.
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And I realize the unbearable anguish of insanity: how uninformed people can be thinking insane people are happy, O God, in fact it was Irwin Garden once warned me not to think the madhouses are full of happy nuts. (p. 200)
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Are we fallen angels who didn't want to believe that nothing is nothing and so were born to lose our loved ones and dear friends one by one and finally our own life, to see it proved?
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