Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg (54 page)

“. . America cry was embarrassing . . . but so was Novalis and Wackenroder. And Kleist had the Amazon eat her lover raw right on the stage the German poets are the end. Read
Howl
and thought why when Rimbaud put us all down by 19ing himself. You are old. I am old. Our cries sound more like cracked wheezes than GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRS. And love. We are too old to say what love is. Easily enough we can call it Zen Polemic Boycock. If you didn't write and live a great poem before your 30th year give up. I told that to [Archibald] MacLeish, and he sent me away from Cambridge. Goodbye, Gregory Corso.”

And he included a play, first art, crazy play called “Way Out” which is written all in style of his poem on Bird, in poetic hip talk, and is very beautiful too.

[ . . . ]

Letter also from Burroughs and Ansen in Venice where they're having a ball in “Mohammedan paradise with boys” and Auden is joining them maybe in the fall. Bill left London cursing London and Seymour Wyse too who he complains kept standing him up.

Finally came up against a sea full of ice floes and sailed around in that for two days, banged hull against one and cracked the fantail and flooded one of the rooms, that's all fixed, I watched divers all day the other day swimming in Mars suits underwater, and took a ride around Barrow waters under the huge hulls of ships in a small landing craft, delivering papers. Work's easy, lots of time off. Have not masturbated since leaving Seattle and so last week finally a flood of sexy daydreams and night dreams which came up like typhoon and I started writing a long poem of them, and finally it all stopped and left me more or less peaceful and undrowned. It's all in the mind. It went away.

Work here is finished (it's now the 18th August) and probably will leave here for S.F. today or tomorrow. I have weekend off to finish Bible if can.

Got a copy of
Howl
from City Lights, looks all right sort of sloppy and a few typographical errors and they left out Joan Dream poem I wanted in, and put in a few I didn't care about. Next time will take my time and not be so eager to finish a book.

Wrote Gregory to stay put in S.F. perhaps City Lights will do a book for him.

Have so far $850 in the bank in N.Y.C. from this trip plus my mother's money
¹¹⁵
(as of end of this month August). Will be in S.F. Hope to hear from you—when you get back?—earlier if possible—and make plans for soon return via knapsack thru New Mexico Grand Canyon and Chicago hitchhike, will buy sleeping bag, maybe stop off in Mexico? Anyway I should be in S.F. in two weeks if ship doesn't change plans. Mail service is irregular I don't know if this note will get to you before I leave here or be held on ship till S.F.

You must be lonely or strange in all that solitude on mountain if you don't get mail.

I've written journals and notes and a few psalms and the long sex poem, so far about Haldon [Chase] and Neal.

I wrote Hal also and sent him the clipping and your sympathies. Short note, said I might pass thru Denver and would look him up if he's there.

Saw [Bob] Merims also before leaving S.F. for half hour, he on way to Japan, gave him Gary's [Snyder] address. Heard from Whalen, Marthe Rexroth back in S.F. Whalen
is
a pillar of strength like you said.

Picture of Walt Whitman—I just finished last month also a huge biography. Notice ever that guarded look in his eye? Nothing like the poetry. I finally understood it when I quit masturbating for the trip—he's hiding his queerness and tenderness, fear and shame. So the blank guarded lidded look, he put himself down. His journal note, poor Whitman, “his emotions are complete in himself (indifferent) of whether his love, friendship etc. are returned or not.” That's why Whitman never made great lovely saintly photos of himself entreating the world of boys. Remarkable thing is the complete openness of the writing.

[ . . . ]

But after all the reading of Bible and thinking I am more confused as usual about the holy life to come. Sooner or later I guess I'll have to start out totally poor and give up altogether. I guess when I finish taking care of Bill if I do so and return from Europe, it'll be hard to live and get job and I'll be too old for fucking with boys so I'll be thrown into the outside and go friendless and not know what I'm doing anymore at all. We'll see. Let me know where you are and will be September.

Love as ever.

Allen

 

Jack Kerouac [Mexico City, Mexico] to
Allen Ginsberg [San Francisco, California]

Sept. 26 1956
(Love to Peter)

 

Dear Allen:

Well here I am—Just (in my rooftop cell) wrote (by candlelight) first sad serious chapter of “The Angels In The World” which is about our most recent season in San Fran and which I'll hold on to for three, four years while I publish other things, for it will be intensely wild and personal—All about you, me, Peter, Gregory, Lafcadio, Neal, etc., angels, etc. with invisible wings that don't help—(and my vision of the silver crosses I saw).

Neal saw me off with that muddy hashish of his and near scared me to death with his railroad anxieties (“Keep out of sight!” he whispers from passenger coach as freight engine turns corner and puts big light on me)—Otherwise I woulda hopped freight with a song. As it is, you see, I made it, and what does it matter anyway?

Allen I want you to know I'm sorry I mistrusted you a while, now I trust and love you completely, even
like
you, so don't worry—You are martyred type of pure goodness wearing mask of evil, for martyr-reasons. Go around tell these bums you have a good heart—I know you're lechering but aren't we all—(that is evil-seeming ulterior motives of sex-seekers but I do same to girls)—Just laid a fifteen year old gorgeous girl for 48 cents, tell Peter—Name is Rosa, I'll bring Peter right to her—If you come.
Are
you coming? What precisely is the plan for our going to Europe?

I think I'll go cause I don't like Mexico anymore, shoulda stayed in Frisco for
Life
magazine,
¹¹⁶
these Indians of Mu ain't got no vibrations—Esperanza flipped on goofballs and tried to beat me and Bill up—Bill himself flipped and pissed in my bed poor dog (I was mad)—Awful first days.

What shall we do? I am lost in the world night. I'd like to go to Europe, yes, but let's be careful of Tangiers, the Arabs will want to kill whites very soon. I may not go with you to rat hell hole. I'd like to eat bread and cheese in Paris garrets, visit museums and cathedrals, drink in sidewalk cafes.

I haven't heard a word from my mother and I'm worried. It's like being born into a new hateful world today, tonight, this week. I don't understand anything. I told Neal to love Gregory but he don't. I wrote Creeley and apologized for telling Duncan to stick the rose up his ass.

Let me know definite plans. Neal wants to drive you down, that would be best way and Neal needs a vacation I think (from Oral Roberts). I'll look up boat fares to France outa Vera Cruz. I'm sorry I'm not God—I wish I was God. I'd make everybody's wings appear and bring heaven on—why wait? What
is
this shit?

Your brother,

Jack

 

 

Allen Ginsberg [San Francisco, California] to
Jack Kerouac [Mexico City, Mexico]

October 1, 1956

5 Turner Terrace
SF Cal

 

Dear Jack:

Send poems or prose to Gregory for
I.E.
[
The Cambridge Review
]:—will publish Whalen, Snyder, me, you, etc.

Work ends here the 1st November I will hang around (I don't think I'll be shipped out again) till the 23rd or so for poetry reading with Gregory. Then leave for Mexico. All provided I don't firewheel get shipped dynamite out.

Beginning to get long admiring letters from starry-eyed Parkinson
¹¹⁷
and NY types about
Howl
. Did you see the
NY Times
September 2 article—I don't remember? Yes, you must have I guess. You left about two weeks ago. Agh! I'm sick of the whole thing, that's all I think about, famous authorhood, like a happy empty dream. W.C. Williams wrote he dug it and read it to “young artists” in NY and they were excited and “up their alley” and ordered five copies extra to pass around to the young. How beautiful, tho. I guess I really feel good about it. It's assuming proportions of an “it” in my life. I will be glad to regain organic contact with Burroughs.

Here enclosed a letter from Sweet Prince Creeley. He writes me, sending incomprehensible short clipped poems—I don't understand them, anyway usually.

I'll maybe drive down with Gui De Angulo,
¹¹⁸
Gregory and Peter—they'll come too—and Lamantia? Regards to Garver. Tell him I send a book to him, autographed.

Peter and I unable to sneak into
The Lark
(Joan of Arc) with Julie Harris left her a crazy note about not being able to pass the angels at the door and would she arrange for me and Peter to sneak in? So she sent back a letter via the manager giving us free tickets, and a $1.00 free program and invite to meet her after—we did—Peter will describe.

With Gui (she is sensitive she has shrunken freak red area sunken strange breasts—horrible—that's why so dignified and private, suffering, set off apart) will drive to Big Sur this weekend stay maybe at her family house and visit Henry Miller at the baths Sunday morning and dig eternity in the landscape.

See you in maybe a month. Gregory writing long crazy jailhouse howl.

Allen

 

 

Allen Ginsberg [Berkeley, California] to
Jack Kerouac [n.p., Mexico City, Mexico?]

1624 Milvia
Oct 10, 1956

 

Dear Jackie:

Sorry not answer sooner—been running around, hanging around SF allee time, waiting for Neal to decide, what and when. Just returned to Berkeley for settle down a few weeks before heading for Mexico.

Me, Peter, Gregory and possibly bearded Hubert [Hube the Cube], possibly Gui de Angulo, will all go to Mexico City November 1. Peter and I will bring Gregory. I'm buying his records (for my brother) for 100 dollars, so he'll have money to go anyway.

So much happened—first Neal—he went for his eye test, color blind, and he flunked, Dr. Strange rejected him—the same Dr. Strange that bugged me. He's still working, but may be fired from S.P. as brakeman this week. Still up in air, he has to go to S.P. Hospital for retest—they can't believe it. He doesn't know what will happen. I'll write further on this the end of the week. Era ending, Neal probably finished with SP unless he gets job in baggage room or otherwise. Also he says he wants to write again, maybe, on his post Cayce ideas. He has a new girl who loves him, a Bette from Chicago “No. 1 girl” in the rackets, bookies, gangsters, Mission Street, round eyes, mascara, slacks, cute little body, cool as cucumber, junkie, head, balls with spade chicks, blows Cowboy (trumpet) in alleys, thrice married, twenty-eight years, cars and babies and husbands back in Chicago, digs his body, doesn't want him to make her hustle for his racetrack money. “Baby I don't dig the horses but if you do I guess I got to now.” Gui gave her a pair of earrings. Peter, Greg and I made further friends with Gui, so we spend days and nites at her pad, Gregory yapping at her. She in hospital for operation, removed her female insides, no can have babies—nor has she breasts, Gregory one day saw by accident. Strange girl. Thinks about death and extinction, out of hospital, can't stay home when no one is there, we keep rushing down to North Beach where she's walking weak and twisted around a lamppost exhausted, bring her home. She was to drive us all to Mexico City—but she's too ill, from operation, to make strenuous trip, nor can her car probably, so she will follow if at all by train, or see us in NY Xmas.

Neal says he won't go, on account of job, and promises to Carolyn. But there is still some hope. You write him asking again maybe. He has to settle new job—nothing's happened yet, maybe nothing will—waiting on SP action, maybe they won't even take any.

Gregory wrote his great poem, a great great final poem called “Power.” Extremely funny—and it all means something, hangs together about eight pages so far long, still in making—read aloud (with tape) for first time two nites ago at Gui's house, Hubert, me, Pete, Lamantia, Gui there, all knocked out—good great poem, like
Howl
. And in town that week, Randall Jarrell, poet and in residence at Library of Congress, so I meet Jarrell and offend him at Witt-Diamant's house,
¹¹⁹
offend his wife mostly, by drunk arguing silly, then party several nites later at Parkinson's in Berkeley for Jarrell, which Whalen, Gregory, Hubert, Peter, and I crash, Temko is also there, we corner Jarrell, make him sit down on floor with us in the middle of the crowd of silent professors, Gregory begins yakketing, “are you really a fascist like Rexroth told me??” . . . Shelley . . . little Gregory . . . Jarrell gets all hung up with us, party half forgotten—after awhile he gets up to say goodnight to professors and Gregory sits down on couch with Jarrell's wife holding her hand, charming, I recite a poem of Gregory's to her as she goes to ladies room upstairs . . . goodnight . . . then Witt Diamant calls Gregory two days later, the Jarrells want to see him, take him out to dinner . . . he goes, with “Power” under his arm he declares himself a vegetarian, so he has to eat eggs and lettuce while they're swilling wine and crabs and lobster soon he's holding hands with them and skipping down the street from Fisherman's Wharf . . . they want to adopt him . . . Jarrell had read his book at Diamant's house, thought it was great . . . if he needs any money just write to them . . . Jarrell will review his book, better, write an introduction to the next one . . . he must visit them and stay with them in Washington . . . he is a great poet . . . if he wants to go to Europe, Jarrell will help him get a grant from Guggenheim . . . come to Washington and record for Library of Congress. The whole works. Insane. So now Gregory has finished this great “Power” poem, has publisher in Ferlinghetti, backing from Jarrell, promise of money, fame etc. Imagine, just like that, in days days. He hipped Jarrell to your work also, he'll look it up. He doesn't like
Howl
too much, alas, I guess I really bugged him, but that's alright, I got W.C.W. [William Carlos Williams] and I want to go back to anonymous anyway. But just think for little Gregory, what windfall of fortunate love. Too much. Even [Michael] McClure, sidled up to me at Duncan's reading (literary mystical I couldn't understand it) and asked where he could get in touch with Gregory. Ah, gold, honey, I haven't lost my way.