Book of Sketches - Jack Kerouac [30]
tenements)
The first thing that strikes
me about Dostoevsky in beginning
any of his books is
the nervous anguish that
seems to have preceded the
first page — the hero is
always the same, comes
to the first page out of
eternities of introspection,
anguish, gloom — just
as I do every day.
Hmm.
The morning of me
liberation — Oct. 4, 1952
— I go live alone in
a 3rd St. room, leaving
Neal’s — for the 1st
time since 1942 —
(in Hartford) — All
set to write On the
Road, the big one
with Michael Levesque
— the only one —
have renounced everyone,
& myself dedicate to
sorrow, work, silence,
solitude, deep joys of
the early mist —
Train 3-419 is waiting
outside Oakland yards
— it’s 7 30 AM —
fog — great clutter of
bedsprings & screens &
rusty fenders for walls
make a house of
ferruginous barrels loaded
with iron mucks — I
see whole interiors of
hotplates, grates of
old stoves, the arms
of antique washing machines,
tubes, buckets,
— two bos just
passed it, found an
interest in a piece on the
ground — Strange
bird flies overhead —
Saw 1000 ducks Milpitas —
Next to junk crib
is concrete blockhouse hut
with protruderant pole
with climbing ladder &
iron pipe — a smaller,
sloperoofed concrete house
with no meaning (hides
a dynamo?) — little
window — in chalk
“Nixon is broke” —
Armour & Co. loading
platform has yesterday’s
debris — a Filipino
fishes in blue barrel —
October & the railyards
again, & the great novel
in America —
The Cook is Grooking —
Jacky Robinson’s at
bat again —
OCT 4
Saturday morning in a Frisco
bar, October, it’s the
World Series as in 1947
when Michael LeVesque
was in Selma Calif.
& the old railroad clerk
spoke to him in the
long dust of an
afternoon of sorrowful
farewell, when Mike’d
turned for one last goodbye
at Teresa in the
long grape row —
I’m getting my kicks in
typical Jack Kerouac
way, refilling a tokay
25¢ shotglass from
my poorboy pocket bottle
in railroad-grime jacket
& writing & watching
W. S. while Negro &
Filipino cats sit in
bar watching game
without buying or
drinking anything at
all — Mike Levesque
is like that, the
Pilgrim of the Fellaheen
is a simple & joyful
fellow & no “innocent
boy” camper like Peter
Martin — but no
more words, now for
the scenes —
(She was born in Montreal
a simple-intentioned pure
heart, & remained so for
a lifetime thru histories, paranoias
& grief)
You’ve got to put a
superstructure of love
on yr. life or you’ll
just be a skeleton in
the grave of yr.
mortal days, shuddering
naked against the main
nerve of yr. being,
unclothed for the
Raiment Halls of
Will, Severity of Purpose,
— God is a superaddition
to the frame of Man,
like the flesh & eyes —
Therefore unravel the
drama of yr. soul before
yr. eyes, be strong &
thoughtful, be not naked scared
The personal legend of
Duluoz is for communication
on a later level —
When I walked in 20th Century Fox
office in 1949 I knew the
corruption of certain types &
the City; but now I see the
corruption of all America
& its broken head on an iron wheel
Ah what’s happening in
the world! —
I woke up — 2 flies
were fucking on my forehead
It’s hypocrisy makes
these hills grim —
The pue of the sad Malley —
listen to the sad Malley —
the phew of the sad Malley —
song of the sad Malley —
(Mallet locomotive)
You have an inordinary
nack to inult me
every nime
This is the end of
the handball game
TO CARL SOLOBONE
SKETCH . . . .
Watsonville, valley — the
sun is setting in a mysterious
orange flameball over the
flat green lettuce fields
interlined with brown dirt
rows & roads & rails — beyond
the milky haze of this
dusk is the sea, unseen, the
Pacific to the Land of the
Rising Sun — the grass is
like hay, full of ants
that go to sleep at sundown,
dry shrubs, dry cottonwoods,
weeds, tart spice ferns of
Spring are now fuel for
Autumn Seres, — little
weedflowers close their
blossoms as the dusk birdsongs
titter — a farm in the
dreaming vale below,