Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg (25 page)

I have therefore put all aside, including my shipping, to type up my poems and yak at Carl. Also he's taken
Junk
back by Bill and is trying to get them to read it and they're too dreamy to see yet but will inside of three weeks I think.

So this was to say for Neal that it is important to the future of America that he work fast—Denver is lonesome for her heroes, she waits with tears in her dreams like Billie Holiday and work as he wants not as Carl says—because the final thing is what interests Neal, You, which is great or anything.

It is us that is important—(not so much our juvenile egos but) our hearts our true hearts of our own—that is the end—whatever way we see it. Tee hee.

Love

Pope Ginsberg

 

 

Allen Ginsberg [New York, New York] to
Jack Kerouac [San Francisco, California]

ca
. late March 1952

 

Dear Jack:

I got your letters, got first note through John. You're the only one who's really understood the poetry—[William Carlos] Williams knows a lot but hasn't got the whole naked junkyard in the moonlight of his intelligence like you. I don't think—so far he's been acting like W.C. Fields—country doctor a little; keeps talking about “invenshun” of pure speech and knows whereat it lies—but certain things of our generation or mutual understanding escape him—however he's been perfect so far, no bitches, no egos, just amazing cooperation—said in fact he'd write an introduction, said to leave thoughts unfinished if I wanted—“like Cézanne left his canvasses unfinished” if he didn't figger what to do with a corner of the canvas.

We went out in Paterson, but got a little drunk in expensive downtown restaurant, talking about friend of his I met in Mexico, about Genet (who he likes), about Pound and Moore—I pointed him out antlers heads and silly signs in restaurant. Then we went to look at old swimming hole in middle of coteries, rode around in car on street, stopped and picked up a handful of trash at river-bank and made a poem then and there about its contents under the light of a riverside advertising signboard (piece of old concrete, sliver of tin, pin from a loom, 200 yr. old dogturd.) I wanted to take him to bars but he was old and wanted to go home, we went into one and vaguely dug the people, broken down white orchestra with accordion, then rode me home; sat in car. He said, “What's it all for?” I said, “Why?” He said, “I'm getting old—two years more and I'll be seventy.” I said, “Are you afraid of death?” He and I looked into the asphalt suburban street road and he said, “Yes, I think that's it.” So we talked for a minute about the asphalt pavement (what is there in it?) as if it were the walls of the universe. Saw him later at his house, went upstairs to his writing room, looked over book I left with him, discussed arrangement of poems and how hard it will be to publish. Read me a letter from Robert Lowell in Amsterdam (“it's like a grey Midwestern city”). Lowell is called Cal—or Caligula for short, on account of some old school class apocalypse years ago when they were talking about Rome—and Lowell leaned out of the hotel window in Chicago a few years ago and screamed “I AM JESUS CHRIST” before Alan Tate, eminent critic, pulled him back in and called doctors. Just like Cannastra and R. Gene Pippin combined. But nowhere I think. Will show Williams your letter.

But your specific understanding of certain things is my salvation: Lucien, for instance, liked poems, but said that the best ones were the “amusing ones.” Hollander around Columbia liked them but worried about arrangement and Greek titles for them so they'd look like poems; Kingsland liked recherché ones about Marlene Dietrich. Dusty liked (eek!) the metaphysical ones best. But thoughts “ored up unplanned from dark mind” is the only true level. Thank you for specific comments, they matched my own ideas completely—despite all you did “talk seriously” about work; more incisively than anyone else knew. I guess that's the test now. So much for generalizations.

“Long Live the Spiderweb” is experimental poem; some seed of it was spontaneous, but it was only one consciously worked and re-worked for half rhymes, rhythms, arrangement of lines on the page, and structure of image (spider, web, flies, etc. etc.) I tried then to write a poem that looked “moderne” like in
Poetry
magazine. Lucien and Dusty like it, so Hollander. But I thought it was too arty and formal, sort of, though perhaps (what Lu thought, it contained horror-seed). Do you think this type is worth doing, or is as good or fresh as rest? I noticed you noticed it and asked if it was like others or “re-worked”) (what sensitivity of you!)—what did you think—it was pretentious—I thought so a little, but am not sure. Would like your opinion—need only half sentence or two words answer on this—just as I'm not sure what to do—method—in future. Cockroach-rooming house poem Williams likes as part of whole too, that gets kept in.

Williams incidentally said he never was actually in Paterson except as younger man, he used to wander around—the whole poem itself, of his is just a head imagination—wanted to look at River St. for an epilogue about actuality, after all play is over (like an epilogue in hell or outside of world).

Neal I think must have “Ode to Sunset” (formal) around in an old letter (if he keeps them around) look it up maybe, and compare. I guess informal might be better—but in hospital I worked for six months line by line composing formal ode—practically wrote only that one poem all that time. Understand one is naked thought. But so much mental work, time, patience, craft gone into other. Wish I could publish them side by side.

You can write Bill [Burroughs] at 210 Orizaba and warn him not to let Kell's wife know your address. He's still at 210 Orizaba. Got enclosed letter from Laughlin rejecting
Junk
. Still working on Wyn paperbound, may work out.

I know you love me but I am not traveling around and am tied down yet by ideal of doctors, and not on kicks with you in Frisco and Neal, and don't hold it against me. I felt like an outsider when I wrote you first (on yellow ruled lined paper) and tried to get back in club. Don't nobody laff at me or insult me behind my American hunchback. Great picture you sent, would have liked to be in it. Enclose wedding party photo of me and Lucien, folded up. I have quadruplicate of same photo so am messing it up to send. Neal looks older, Jewish, very serious and on powerful integrity drive. I have information from above that he has passed intact through his Hell of being damned and is now ascending purgatory, perhaps is out of it, and is in no longer any danger for his soul, in fact has recently been accorded grave, the worst is over for him and he has entered a new universe. I think that's why he has been so silent, and withdrawn, to all appearances, the last two years.

“Trembling of Veil”: written in journal two years after East Harlem, or a year. At time when trying consciously to regain mystical eyesight; that's what title was. Veil not totally rent, just trembled. The aspect of appearance of tree verging on total mystical presence that flooded sight of universe during East Harlem visions. Tried to describe instead of abstractly, a specific thing how it looks mystically. Entry in journal that day (in Paterson) substantially the same as poem; followed two sentences later by parallel notation and explanation of method of eyesight in words about imagined purposes in eternity. Both really same poem, same note in journal, perhaps will combine. That was what I was talking about alla time about visions. Except eyesight was clear and total for few moments on everything in universe at once for a few seconds—sixty perhaps—in bookstore and out of Durgin's window. I keep explaining this because I was trying to check up my own thought and find out if anyone did does same (off tea)—do these poems say same to you as I've already over explained, or have you understood it already? Have I made too much of a tsimmis over this one point? I mean did those poems present anything new to my explanation? Your own “Richmond Hill” seems to me on exactly the same kick—certainly should keep five lines in middle about ants in orchestras, its the same thing as rest, and makes things even clearer, its very clear. (“That has a sound (PKICK) which is lost unless there is a country stillness etc.”) Why'd you say phooey? Same reason I didn't realize value of own naked thoughts? It's very deceiving—I don't really know when I'm communicating myself, and when not—gives me a good feeling about realness of my own thoughts, that others understand them. Such a surprise, too—but few really understand. Those that do actually do though. The part about area breathes is important too. Can you write me a prefatory poem (you and Neal together or one each?) about similar subject—not about angels and shrouds so much as mysterious actual communications of very strange true thoughts that we have in common? Or anything you want anyway.

Actually didn't think till you write about strangeness of phrase arms of the trees. Thought green hairy protuberances was the neediest. That's why its confusing to me—I never noticed—can anyone—what's going on, in poem.

Didn't realize how seriously you were working in dreamy sentences and compound phrases in streams. Gets very good. Have just started reading Joyce's
Finnegan's Wake
, with skeleton key. Joyce is too hard—too much fooling around with verbal ideas and historical abstractions, so it's hard to understand him when he's referring to esoteric literary matters. But an American Joycean mode (bop inventions in lines, “shirtless, hatless, the moon leering over his shoulder” is great—think that's fine for you—gets the whole point of your personal myriad sense of enormousness of Neal-Bill-Huncke-me-tree across) would work and be read. Faulkner does it a little too, and understood. (I guess not too many shrouds and lots of particular moons, best.) Also coyote with dog grin, I noticed, in fact things of that paragraph I noticed were: Coyote, icon in tree didn't like wines of repentance on account of its like title of some middleclass novel (my Martha Gellhorn
⁸¹
Drapenport-Chicken-every-Golgotha); liked sentence bent over wheel, moon; liked fast shroud, but wondered about whole apex-shroud clause; liked old ford joint etc etc. Got to talk.

Whole sentence about “my daddy strutted” is on, including through vegetable bin.

Now second letter received on back of RR forms. Neal is working too hard on money problems, too bad he can't get some kind of peace for his own work. Don't he know he's forgiven and don't have to make up by crucifying self on practical exhaustion? anymore? Will have to think in a year when possible about getting him a subsidy.

You bastard I outright deny you made up phrase Shroudy Stranger, you'll hear from Brooks the lawyer tomorrow. I natcherly steal from you. But didn't you and I make it up together that day on York Avenue? Don't you go stealing my glory. Hole.

John [Clellon Holmes] wants to call his book “
GO
.” (so suggested his editor Burroughs Mitchell. Yes? How about
GO, MAN
. But maybe go. Better “
GO
!”

The two improvements you suggested are accepted, esp. focasle. Too bad I can't see you before book out, but probably will anyway. “River Street Blues” is other consciously worked poem, not finished yet—will be a long poem with real blues songs in it and more details about Paterson.

Mysteries—responsibilities was something I thought you said right out to me a long time ago.

The rhetoric of Song and our Hart Crane I don't know how or where to use so it will mean anything yet.

Paris? Would like to go but how should I know when? Williams says he will get me $1,000 Arts and Sciences grant after book out. Maybe on that?

What other side remarks did I have on crooked ass—poem? I forgot. You mention all up to expansion of curse (except the first) put them down and send them, I'll put it in.

If you hit NY you can live in my attic—I'm not there all the time, costs me only $4.50 per week to maintain.

I haven't been really laid for months either. Dusty ain't interested, have not been seeking anything out. Too tired, too unsuccessful. But got to get back to it, am losing touch with world without. But we can't be anywhere really while we're so hungup sexless and without relation with any females. Ask Caroline [Carolyn] for advice. Actually we're crazy, and that's no joke, that's why I don't want to go so much to Europe and play the Whitman character in front of well meaning admirers, who I'll vanity like take foolish. Why carry on in Europe, for me? Maybe I'll find love there, that's a reason, but everybody has empty Hemingway affairs in Europe or had. I don't want to go to Paris so I can write.

You know what I mean? It's such egotism to be a lonely writer in Europe, and I don't too much want to go there for that. However there will be maybe mad adventures. Kingsland met Genet in Paris, by the way. Kingsland had a great party (I wasn't there—he thought I was away) at which were Hohnsbean, Auden and his boys, [Chester] Kallman, etc.; famous harpsichordists and counts and patrons, and Marianne Moore, etc. Very amazing of Kingsland. He's living with an old queen, nice guy, on 57 St. Right around the corner from Marian Holmes, who is always drunk and John is not there (J. Holmes I mean) anymore.

Don't write me, don't send me eggsurps, I'll see them from Carl, don't waste time, but do write often short letters maybe with short facts about what's going on—don't take up your time. I have time to write, so I do and will.

I enclosed note to Neal, read his work and believe in it as much as I believe in mine for me and yours for you, and don't believe in Bill's
Junk
or John's
Go
. He [Neal] always reminded me of grim Julius Caesar on the trolley in Denver and iron bones of purity are emerging in his
First Third
. The end should be the most serious expression of serious soul ever seen, in these days in America if he goes on natcherally as he has done. He can afford to relax and let the perminess take over. The true gyzm (jizem, gyzem) of Cassady will roar o'er the pages like Niagara.