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The smog was heavy, my eyes were weeping from it, the sun was hot, the air stank, a regular hell is L.A.
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
Eye
Weeping
Regular
Hot
Heavy
Sun
Air
Hell
Stank
Eyes
Smog
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At night I closed my eyes and saw my bones threading the mud of my grave.
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Soon it got dusk, a grapy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon fields the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgandy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries.
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Genius gives birth, talent delivers. What Rembrandt or Van Gogh saw in the night can never be seen again.
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My eyes were glued on life and they were full of tears.
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They spent all week saving pennies and went out Saturdays to spend fifty bucks in three hours.
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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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I was having a wonderful time and the whole world opened up before me because I had no dreams.
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For the first time in my life the weather was not something that touched me, that caressed me, froze or sweated me, but became me.
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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 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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The cowboy music twanged in the roadhouse and carried across the fields, all sadness. It was all right with me. I kissed my baby and we put out the lights.
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The air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great, that I thought I was in a dream.
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There was nothing to talk about anymore. The only thing to do was go.
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I'm going to marry my novels and have little short stories for children.
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The Beat Generation, that was a vision that we had, John Clellon Holmes and I, and Allen Ginsberg in an even wilder way, in the late forties, of a generation of crazy, illuminated hipsters suddenly rising and roaming America, serious, bumming and hitchhiking everywhere, ragged, beatific, beautiful in an ugly graceful new way.
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