Does kittykat know there's a pigeon on the clothes closet?
Jack KerouacStichwörter: 1960 beat-generation trembling-and-chaste
I want to be like him. He's never hung-up, he goes every direction, he lets it all out, he knows time, he has nothing to do but rock back and forth. Man, he's the end! You see, if you go like him all the time you'll finally get it.
Jack KerouacPerché per me l’unica gente possibile sono i pazzi, quelli che sono pazzi di vita, pazzi per parlare, pazzi per essere salvati, vogliosi di ogni cosa allo stesso tempo, quelli che mai sbadigliano o dicono un luogo comune, ma bruciano, bruciano, bruciano, come favolosi fuochi artificiali color giallo che esplodono come ragni attraverso le stelle e nel mezzo si vede la luce azzurra dello scoppio centrale e tutti fanno Oooohhh
Jack Kerouacand rain will fall on our eaves.
Jack KerouacStichwörter: lovers
Alzo gli occhi, ecco lì le stelle, sempre le stesse, desolazione, e sotto gli angeli che non sanno di essere angeli.
E Sarina morirà.
Ed io morirò, e voi morirete, e tutti moriremo e persino le stelle si spegneranno una dopo l’altra con l’andar del tempo
But anybody who's never had delirium tremens even in their early stages may not understand that it's not so much a physical pain but a mental anguish indescribable to those ignorant people who dont drink and accuse drinkers of irresponsibility.
Jack Kerouac...because in one sense the drinker learns wisdom, in the words of Goethe or Blake or whichever it was "The pathway to wisdom lies through excess
Jack KerouacStichwörter: paraphrased
a choleric, red-faced, pudgy hater of everything, who could turn on the warmest and most charming smile in the world when real life confronted him sweetly in the night.
Jack Kerouac...besides which Lucille would never understand me because I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop.
Jack KerouacTry the meditation of the trail, just walk along looking at the trail at your feet and don’t look about and just fall into a trance as the ground zips by. Trails are like that: you’re floating along in a Shakespearean Arden paradise and expect to see nymphs and fluteboys, then suddenly you’re struggling in a hot broiling sun of hell in dust and nettles and poison oak… just like life.
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