Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg (14 page)

I called Claude [Lucien Carr] up once, the Friday nite that you left. He said nobody had asked him any questions. He was O.K. Said “I'm in your corner, kid; keep your chin up.” How strangely true I felt his seriousness was.

I had, before the madhouse, intended to settle down in Paterson for good, as you suggested—I discovered myself that I had to do it. But no. How ironic, that I should not finally return home, but should have another fate open (perhaps a good one?) yet. All my doors are open, I feel that more and more. I let people take enormous liberties. How madly they rush past me, rocking to and fro in the business of the world! My lawyer tells me I am crazy, that I have subjectivized my sexual
ideas
, even; so I believe him. He talks on until I realize that he is so innocent he does not know that women also blow men, and that that happens in America naturally—I tell him about the Kinsey Report; he tells me I am exaggerating my own delusions. Ah me. But no! I
will
believe everybody! Just like Van Doren told me to choose between criminals (Huncke) and society (my lawyer). I asked for a middle choice, but he said that this was The Choice. How frightened I was; and I chose Society. He (Van Doren) told me that I had exaggerated and romanticized Clem out of his class, while he was just a common hoodlum; and my lawyer describes him as a “filthy stinking mess—one look at him and you can tell he's no good.” But I believe them, too! The thing is, Jack, that I have been intimidated into believing everybody because I don't know what I myself believe, and now I am so confused I can't even write poems, hardly. But (
Ah!
)
they will all be judged
, thank god. My judgment (I feel) is now, during this life. They may never get judged till their deaths; but they will burn for every thoughtless word, every [unclean?] wound, every dead-eyed evil done, every insult and indignity! They'll burn! He! He! He! I am burning already, I can afford to laugh. I have put it to rhyme

(Ah!
Si je me venjece! Les damnes!
)

Write me about Denver and Birds.

This is a complaint of praise to all destroying time. I am not sure whether the bones represent the core of self which is the last to be given up; or whether I'm telling everybody they can do what they want as long as they leave the god-bone alone.

I am reading a lot and writing as usual, on and off. I will write you next time more coherently; the truth is, I would have, today, but I had to
deal
with all of that rainy weather in
your
letter, so I put up my umbrella and walked out into the storm.

I am beginning to think, aesthetically, in terms of images of dreams (like the green face) and to weave (I hope to) these images into poems now, instead of using abstractions and wit-rimes. I am writing a ballad around the ditty I dreamed up a few months ago (remember)?

It is essentially an
image
, a beautiful white-visaged youth, walking around at night dead. From now on, also, I shall stop trying so hard to gather metaphysical implications into the image as I used to try to do (as sun through a magnifying glass?)—for to try to force all levels to meet intellectually is impossible; but it is just possible for them to come together on their own in a self-born image. (That is the secret of Dr. Sax?) So I have a
method
.

I would like to go to Haldon [Chase] to see him but am afraid to. I wish he would etc. . . . I think (or thought last month) about him a lot. Oh, well, maybe someday will get together. I am in no condition to now.

Next time I write I will send you facts and sobriety.

Do you think I am right or wrong. sane/crazy?

Allen

 

I mean, the above, what do
you
think? You know. I'm really quite perplexed by a very confused situation, right now. I sometimes wonder if I could really get out of it (West to the sun) even if I wanted to, at this point. [ . . . ]

Jack Kerouac [Denver, Colorado] to
Allen Ginsberg [Paterson, New Jersey]

June 10, 1949

 

Dear Gillette:

Your big letter occupied my mind for a whole day here in what was then my hermitage. In answer to your question about what I think about you, I'd say you were always trying to justify your ma's madness as against the logical, sober but hateful sanity. This is really harmless and even loyal. I can't say much about it, after all what do I know? I only want you to be happy and to do your best toward that end. As Bill says, the human race will become extinct if it doesn't stop doing what it don't want to do. As for me, I think you are a great young poet and already a great man (even tho you get sick of my evasive goldenness.) (For which there are dross-ish reasons, you know; and you know.)

I'm no better off than you are with respect to doing what I want. I have to work on a construction job now and can't stay up all night dreaming up the mouthings of the Lamb. (But there is something else in this business of Forest-of-Ardening around people, all day, at work.)

If you ask me, Clem [Herbert Huncke] really dances when he says “Mother I can't dance.”

The Rubens I meant was not the White Arms Over the Void Horizontal Dance, but the other one of fowls beneath the church-steps and a great Netherlander field . . . but what does it matter now? No, my life is not that dance either.

Reading over your Holier Than Thou poem last night (or “Lines Writ in Rockefeller Center” [“Stanzas: Written at Night in Radio City”]), I saw something weird, in comparison to my own lines. For instance, let's start with my recent “crazy” poem, then yours.

I find that your lines evoke yourself, and mine, myself . . . which is proper. “Not a poppy is the rose” has a strange lecherous sound; not only that, but “upin-the-attic-with-the-bats” and the line about the superfine poppy. Not that I want to go into that . . . but, poetically, the combination of sensual hint, wink-of-the-eye lechery, dirty ditty goes with your work. This is comparable to Herrick:

Picture Herrick's picture of the petticoat, etc.

Enuf of this. I live west of Denver, on the road to Central City.

When I can, I now read French poetry: De Malherbe, and Racine the French Shakespeare. But I have little time. Brierly gave me Capote to read. He winked at me today during a big luncheon at high school among teachers and labor leaders and tycoons.

As I run miserably around Denver I wonder what Pomery [Neal Cassady] would do.

I'll write a longer letter next time. It's always “next time” now with us . . . why? Because there's too much to say.

The family is here, the furniture is here, and cats, dogs, horses, rabbits, cows, chickens, and bats abound in the neighborhood. Last night I saw bats flapping about the Golden Dome of the State Capitol. If I were a bat I'd go and get gold. Up-at-the-dome with the goldy bats. There are so many beautiful girls around. I ache. A little girl has fallen in love with me . . . a pity. A crush for an older man, me. I gave her classical records and books, and am become a dancingmaster. Dancingmaster Wink.

I rode in a rodeo, bareback, this afternoon and almost fell off.

I decided someday to become a Thoreau of the Mountains. To live like Jesus and Thoreau, except for women. Like Nature Boy with his Nature Girl. I'll buy a saddlehorse mix for $30, an old saddle on Larimer St., a sleeping bag at Army surplus, frying pan, old tin can, bacon, coffee beans, sourdough, matches, etc.; and a rifle. And go away in the mountains forever. To Montana in the summers and Texas-Mexico in the winters. Drink my java from an old tin can while the moon is riding high. Also, I forgot to mention my chromatic harmonica . . . so I can have music. Thus—without shaving—I'll wander the wild, wild mountains and wait for Judgment Day. I believe there will be a Judgment Day, but not for men . . . for
society
. Society is a mistake. Tell Van Doren I don't believe at all in this society. It is evil. It will fall. Men have to do what they want. It has all got out of hand—began when fools left the covered wagons in 1848 and rode madly to California for gold, leaving their families behind. And of course, there ain't enough gold for all, even if gold were the thing. Jesus was right; Burroughs was right. Why did Pomeroy turn down Dancingmaster's help to go to high school? I saw their graduation exercises last night and the 18 year old valedictorian, using a false deep voice, spoke of the fight for freedom. I am going to the mountains, up in the eagle rainbow country, and wait for judgment day.

Crime is not what men want either. I have often thought of robbing stores and didn't want to do it finally. I didn't want to hurt nobody.

I want to be left alone. I want to sit in the grass. I want to ride my horse. I want to lay a woman naked in the grass on the mountainside. I want to think. I want to pray. I want to sleep. I want to look at the stars. I want what I want. I want to get and prepare my own food, with my own hands, and live that way. I want to roll my own. I want to smoke some deer meat and pack it in my saddlebag, and go away over the bluff. I want to read books. I want to write books. I'll write books in the woods. Thoreau was right; Jesus was right. It's all wrong and I denounce it and it can all go to hell. I don't believe in this society; but I believe in man, like Mann. So roll your own bones, I say.

I don't even believe in education any more . . . even high school. “Culture” (anthropologically) is the rigmarole surrounding what poor men have to do to eat, anywhere. History is people doing what their leaders tell them; and not doing what their prophets tell them. Life is that which gives you desires, but no rights for the fulfillment of desires. It is all pretty mean—but you still can do what you want, and what you want is right, when you want honestly. Wanting money is wanting the dishonesty of wanting a servant. Money hates us, like a servant; because it is false. Henry Miller was right; Burroughs was right. Roll your own, I say.

It will take me a long time to remember that I can roll my own, like our ancestors did. We'll see. This is what I think.

So leave my bones alone. I think that is a wonderful poem. Write me another. Write me that coherent long letter. All is well.

Go, go; go roll your own bones. Bone-bone. Roll-bone your own go-bone. etc.

Go, go; go roll your own bones.

Jack

 

 

 

Allen Ginsberg [Paterson, New Jersey] to
Jack Kerouac [Denver, Colorado]

June 13, 1949

June 13

 

Dear Jack:

No letter from you, and I forgot about you last 2 weeks, after writing. I am waiting to go to the clinic, and in the days I have been putting together my book, working from noon far into the hours after I put out the light and lie in bed dreaming up poems. Last night I dreamed more stanzas of our poem—

Then more purely in our own metrical and abstract image scheme. (read the first lines fast and see how it sounds)