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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.

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
Kind
Gets
Way
Novel
Joy
Incubator
Wonder
Psychotic
Written
Wonders
Happiness
Madness
Born
Sorrow
Fear
Ignorance

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It was a rainy night. It was the myth of the rainy night.
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The taste of rain -- Why kneel?
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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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I have all the time in the world from life to life to do what is to do, to do what is done, to do the timeless doing.
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Writing at least is a silent meditation even though you’re going a hundred miles an hour.
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I'm Catholic and I can't commit suicide, but I plan to drink myself to death.
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..and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didnt know who I was
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Because anybody can write, but not everybody invents new forms of writing. Gertrude Stein invented a new form of writing and her imitators are just talents.
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What's in store for me in the direction I don't take?
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Ray, what you got to do is go climb a mountain.
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But, outside of being a sweet little girl, she was awfully dumb and capable of doing horrible things.
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I was having a wonderful time and the whole world opened up before me because I had no dreams.
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It was my dream that screwed up, the stupid hearthside idea that it would be wonderful to follow one great red line across America instead of trying various roads and routes.
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Down in Denver, all I did was die.
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Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.
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We were on the roof of America and all we could do was yell
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The happiness consists in realizing that it is all a great strange dream.
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I hope it is true that a man can die and yet not only live in others but give them life, and not only life, but that great consciousness of life.
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So therefore I dedicate myself, to my art, my sleep, my dreams, my labors, my suffrances, my loneliness, my unique madness, my endless absorption and hunger because I cannot dedicate myself to any fellow being.
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Mainly I've been back to my books and writings and being nice and quiet and lazy. As I'm writing this, the radio says there's a foot of snow falling on Long Island. I really love snow and wish I could take a long walk in it right now.
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