All the way down the raging coast! So that when later I heard people say “Oh Big Sur must be beautiful!” I gulp to wonder why it has the reputation of being beautiful above and beyond its fearfulness, its Blakean groaning roughrock Creation throes, those vistas when you drive the coast highway on a sunny day opening up the eye for miles of horrible washing sawing.
Practice charity without holding in mind any conceptions about charity, for charity after all is just a word.
He’s filling empty space with the substance of our lives, confessions of his bellybottom strain, remembrance of ideas, rehashes of old blowing.
We got off the bus at Main Street, which was no different from where you get off a bus in Kansas City or Chicago or Boston – red brick, dirty, characters drifting by, trolleys grating in the hopeless dawn, the whorey smell of a big city.
He began to learn “Yes!” to everything, just like Dean at this time, and hasn’t stopped since.
Everything’ll be all right, desolation is desolation everywhere and desolation is all we got and desolation aint so bad.
He said we were a band of Arabs coming in to blow up New York.
We live to long, so long I will, and jounce down that mountain highest perfect knowing or no highest perfect knowing full of glorious ignorant looking to sparkle elsewhere-.
I made love to her in the sweetness of the weary morning.
Diamo e prendiamo e penetriamo in dolcezze incredibilmente complicate andando a zig zag da qualsiasi parte.
I first met Dean not long after my wife and I split up. I had just gotten over a serious illness that I won’t bother to talk about, except it had something to do with the miserably weary split-up and my feeling that everything was dead.
All I hope, Dean, is someday we’ll be able to live on the same street with our families and get to be a couple of oldtimers together.
Things come but to go, all things made have to be unmade, and they’ll have to be unmade simply because they were made!
Beat doesn’t mean tired or bushed, so much as it means beato, the Italian for beatific: to be in a state of beatitude, like St. Francis, trying to love all life, trying to be utterly sincere with everyone, practicing endurance, kindness, cultivating joy of heart. How can this be done in our mad modern world of multiplicities and millions? By practicing a little solitude, going off by yourself once in a while to store up that most precious of goals: the vibrations of sincerity.
I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn’t know who I was – I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I’d never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn’t know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds.
As I was hiking down the mountain woth my pack I turned and I knelt on the trail and said “Thank you, Shack”. The I added “Blah” with a little grin, because I knew that shack and that mountain would know what that meant, and turned and went on down the trail back to this world.
All I know is that I’m a helpless hunk of helpful horse manure looking in your eye saying Help me.
I think of Dean Moriarty.
I have never met such weird yet serious and earnest people.
Have some more wine, Smith, you’re not making sense.