Nature
Just because you shit fruit
Don't think you're the Kingpin of the World
Dreaming: the phantom of self-illusion emanating visions that change every night
Living: the phantom of universal self-illusion emanating the huge vision of the world that takes millenniums to change
We just think that we're being born, when we're born; (headfirst crying out of the smile of the womb, if we'd only known that it was all the same before getting involved in Samsara---saving motion and nervousness, not forsaking peace---I remember being forced out---to the discriminatory prickles and thorns of the world)--- We're still the same old substance, High Hearable Essence Light---(whatever it really is,
Jack KerouacThe most fantastic parking-lot attendant in the world, he can back a car forty miles an hour into a tight squeeze and stop at the wall, jump out, race among fenders, leap into another car, circle it fifty miles an hour in a narrow space, back swiftly into tight spot, hump, snap the car with the emergency so that you see it bounce as he flies out; then clear to the ticket shack, sprinting like a track star, hand a ticket, leap into a newly arrived car before the owner’s half out, leap literally under him as he steps out, start the car with the door flapping, and roar off to the next available spot, arc, pop in, brake, out, run; working like that without pause eight hours a night, evening rush hours and after-theater rush hours, in greasy wino pants with a frayed fur-lined jacket and beat shoes that flap.
Jack KerouacThe Grim Reaper isn't grim at all; he's a life-saver. He isn't grim because he isn't anything. . . . he is nothing. And nothing is a hell of a lot better than anything. So long, boys.
Jack KerouacTag: autobiography beat memoir prose short-stories prose-poetry jack-kerouac atop-an-underwood
Camminavo nella sera piena di lillà con tutti i muscoli indolenziti in mezzo alle luci della 27a Strada nella Welton nel quartiere negro di Denver, desiderando di essere un negro, sentendo che quanto di meglio il mondo di bianchi ci aveva offerto non conteneva abbastanza estasi per me, e neppure abbastanza vita, gioia, entusiasmo, oscurità, musica, né notte sufficiente. Mi fermai a una piccola baracca dove un uomo vendeva peperoni rossi caldi in cartocci di carta; ne comprai un po’ e li mangiai, passeggiando per le buie strade misteriose. Desiderai di essere un messicano di Denver, o persino un povero giapponese stremato dal lavoro, tutto fuorché quel che così tristemente ero, un ‘uomo bianco’ disilluso.
Jack KerouacTag: jack-kerouac sulla-strada
I have nothing to do but do what I want and be kind and remain nevertheless uninfluenced by imaginary judgments and pray for the light.
Jack KerouacEle não ficou satisfeito com a ideia de Arada de um 'eu' sendo limpo e purificado para o céu. Ele não viu 'eu' na matéria. Nada a ser purificado. E viu a cobiça pelo céu como nada além de atividade em um sonho. Ele soube que, quando observadas do ponto de vista da mente verdadeira, todas as coisas eram como castelos mágicos no ar.
Jack KerouacWork from your own side of literature/
Jack KerouacTag: writing literature
Whatever anyone does,/ anyone says, in the/ past, now, everything, let/ it bounce off the rock/ of yr gladness (yr mirror)
Jack KerouacTag: advice to-drive-out-angry-thoughts
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