Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg (58 page)

DIAMONDSHATTERING BULLSHIT

Jack

 

 

Jack Kerouac [Brownsville, Texas] to
Allen Ginsberg [Venice, Italy]

August 9, 1957

 

Dear Allen:

This is by way of being a letter to Bill also, to tell him that Bill Garver is dead, buried somewhere in Mexico City with Joan [Burroughs], died last month or so. That was the first catastrophe, then I went to Esperanza's hotel, she's disappeared, then that night the earthquake which made me tremble and hide under the bed in this hotel room with a twenty foot ceiling (woke up from deep sleep to what I wordlessly thought was the natural end of the world, then I said “It's a giant earthquake!” and waited as the bed heaved up and down, the ceiling creaked deeply, the loose dresser doors moansqueaked back and forth, the deep rumble and SILENCE of it in my Eternity Room). One horror after another as usual in Doom Mexico. Now, a few days later, I walk and see the building that used to say “Burroughs” on it is divided in two, all the windows broken and only “Burrou” left of the name in front. Anyway I wrote the article they want, EXPLAINING THE BEAT GENERATION, all about our visions, yours, mine, Bill's, Philip Lamantia's, Gregory. Visions of “devils and celestial heralds,” Joan's, Hunkey's, Gary's, Phil's—even Alene's and the Times Square kid of the Second Coming. I hope they publish the article, in it I show that “beat” is the Second Religiousness of Western Civilization as prophesied by Spengler. I also mention Neal's religiousness and Lucien's attempt to gain asylum in a church, which is really the most Gothic mad event of all. Also, I'm writing new scenes for
Doctor Sax
but I've decided to showdown with Cowley by inserting a clause in the contract against removal of (Gothic) fantasy and in fact against extensive editorial fucking-up. I have $17 left, however, and am waiting to be saved. Will start back September 15 and go to New York in October. Joyce [Glassman] wanted join me here.

I keep thinking of Bill Garver . . . and of November when we were all together here. Have no typewriter and thinking of looking up old painter Alfonso for one, or Donald Demarest of the
Mexico City News
who mentioned you and Denise Levertov last Sunday in a review about a painter's autobiography (the painter, Lester Epstein, is an “aficionado” of you and Henry Miller, it says). I asked Viking to send you copy of
On the Road
. O what a loney room I have, twenty foot ceiling, whorehouse mirrors, no windows, right downtown. Except for writing-work, I haven't got a single reason in the world to be here, especially since Catastrophe No. 3 was my visit to Panama Street. The whores have been driven off the streets
completely
apparently by spreading cancer of Americanism. And I'm without my holy weed too! Write to me in Florida, am leaving.

Jack

 

Latest latest news—I got Asiatic flu and going home.

 

 

Allen Ginsberg [Venice, Italy] to
Jack Kerouac [n.p., Orlando, Florida?]

August 13-September 5, 1957

August 13, 1957
American Express
Venice, Italy

 

Dear Jack:

Got your letter today, of Garver's death, and the other letters before, and answering with big long letter now, I've been putting off, it's such a big terrible letter, telling all about Europe, I'm sorry I waited so long, but thought every day and couldn't sit at typewriter for fear of not writing something beautiful. But Bill is only in Copenhagen, after London, after Spain, waiting what to do, we (me and Peter) in Venice with Alan Ansen, Gregory (we hear from oftener) in Paris still (with big apartment someone loaned him and broke and hungry we sent him five dollars but he ate with Genet and met Brandos), and now we are all ready to take off it costs only twenty and go to Greece and further Istanbul, before even seeing Paris—but all our plans are not fixed, so when you are ready in October after NY where else is there to go, come join us in Istanbul or Paris or live free at Ansen's (pay for your own food rent free and lots free liquor) in Venice—we been here month and half now.

Peter and I left Alan and Bill in Tangiers and took off on our own with knapsacks into Spain [ . . . ]
¹²⁶

Sept. 5. Never finished this—Leaving for Paris day after tomorrow and cleaning up desk—will pick up from there and tell you everything else we've done so you don't miss nothing of Europe. I got fare to Venice a few days after writing you last—write us c/o American Express—are you in N.Y.C.?

Love

Allen

 

Ferlinghetti sent me check for $100 royalties (unexpected) for
Howl
, all sold out printing a 4th printing. Probably more loot coming in a few months—helps solve money problems which is a lot better now. Will file for Guggenheim soon—if you get chance ask Cowley if he'll write for one for me. Should he? Have Viking send me a
Road
in Paris if they haven't already.

 

 

Allen Ginsberg [Amsterdam, The Netherlands] to
Jack Kerouac [New York, New York]

Sept 28, 1957

 

Dear Jack:

Passed thru Vienna, Munich, week in Paris, then up here to Amsterdam, sleeping on Gregory's floor here. Mad scenes in Holland—it is a great town—everybody speaks English, they have hip poet's bars, bop bars, surrealist magazines that publish Gregory's poetry and will review
Howl
and
Road
, and Burroughs get pieces published here. Canals, quiet streets with weeping willows and psychiatrists offices, no housing shortage, cheap food, 12 cent big rare roast beef sandwiches, beer and cheese, magnificent museums with Rembrandt and Vermeer—and a museum with fifty-five Van Gogh paintings—another one twenty miles away with ninety-five Van Goghs—and the whore streets—huge red lite district neat and clean and quiet—girls sit like mannequins in windows, like Dutch dolls in dollhouses, on ground floor, windows bright and clean, they sit in chair and cross legs and knit quietly waiting for customers on quiet streets—whole blocks and blocks of girls in bright ground floor windows—like a heaven—and they don't yell at you or grab your arm—just go on with knitting. Neal would go mad. And lovely canals on side streets. Peter's shaved his beard and moustache. I spent all nite awake wandering round Les Halles (market) butcher district till 7 AM writing huge poem about carts full of lungs and horns still sticking out of naked goat's head—in Paris—we went up Eiffel Tower, beautiful dream machine in sky—greater than I imagined—and hitch hiked to Belgium—saw Rotterdam and went to museums there. Tobacco cheap here too—friends here and girls nice—sweet town—we almost go on to Sweden.

Bill is in Tangier writing, he's OK will perhaps join me in Paris when Peter leaves for NY.

We saw
Times
September 5 review,
¹²⁷
I almost cried, so fine and true—well now you don't have to worry about existing only in my dedication and I will have to weep in your great shadow. What is happening in NY? Are you being pursued? Is there a great mad wave of fame crashing over our ears? What does Lucien say about
Road
review? I thought his father-in-law must have arranged that extra space and picture.

I am writing a short intro. to Gregory's book
Gasoline
, why don't you also write a page of intro—send it to Ferl to use with mine—we unite and give him send off—for he is sure to be generally put down unless people are made to dig him—everybody in S.F. according to Ferlinghetti puts him down as a “showman” and for that reason Ferlinghetti won't even publish “Power”. Tell Don Allen about “Power” too.

Will return to Paris room with gas stove Oct. 15 and settle there. Write soon, what's news. Love to Lucien—you seeing him?

Allen

 

 

Jack Kerouac [New York, New York] to
Allen Ginsberg [Amsterdam, The Netherlands]

October 1, 1957

New York Oct. 1

 

Dear Allen:

Of course now in a position to send you your $225 sometime this Fall. Did you see Gregory in Amsterdam? I writing to him separately. First, you must tell Peter that I wrote him a long beautiful letter about the Russian Soul but mailed it c/o Orlovsky instead of c/o Ansen, Venice, so it's probably still there and he must send for that letter for sure . . . it was to you too . . . important you should read it. Everything's been happening here, including this last satori week-end with Lucien and Cessa and kids and Joyce [Glassman] at his upstate country haunted New England house with birds peeking in the holy windows, a big blurred Dostoevskyan party with socialites where I was The Idiot, etc. so mad in fact I could write a novel about just this last weekend, Lucien and I went mad in moonlight haunted house yelling coyote cries and gibbering and seriously insane sitting in our shorts in the old parlor as girls tried to sleep. Then when all sleep I played four hours massive musical suck-out of everything in pump-organ incredibly long sonatas, thundering oratories, shoulda heard. A guy called Leon Garen (who you better meet, twenty, hepcat) will produce a play about Neal if I write it, offers me a weekend in Taft Hotel in room overlooking Broadway with free sandwiches and typewriter if I knock it off, which I might (big play about Neal, horses, the night of the Bishop, etc., with you and Peter in it). But another guy called Joe Lustig backed by money also wants a play about Neal. Meanwhile Hollywood somewhat active on
Road
, Marlon Brando's manager (his Dad) I heard was interested. Italian publishers bought
Road
. Grove Press bought
Subterraneans
on new hard cover big-time basis.
Esquire
bought casual baseball story for $400 (all spent now).
Pageant
bought article on Beat for $300. I wrote intro to a book of photos by Robert Frank, to be translated in French for the English edition (Delpire publishers). Ferlinghetti getting my
Blues
by mail. Letter from Robert Olson saying I am a poet, he says, from reading Ontario stuff and “Three Stooges” (by the way, I sent you a copy of the “Three Stooges” New Edition to Venice, did you get it?) Bob Donlin was in NY (with evil Hittleman) got photographed by
Playboy
with me kissing me on street, after photo I feed him hand to mouth in Cedar bar Creeley artists madbar. Donlin and I fell on sidewalk in Bowery, I also fell on Bowery with Stanley Gould. Unbelievable number of events almost impossible to remember, including earlier big Viking Press hotel room with thousands of screaming i nterviewers and
Road
roll original hundred mile manuscript rolled out on carpet, bottles of Old Granddad, big articles in
Saturday Review
, in
World Telly
, everyfuckingwhere, everybody mad, Brooklyn collidge wanted me to lecture to eager students and big geek questions to answer. Of course I was on television, big interview bit, John Wingate show, mad night, I answered angelic to evil questions, big letters poured in saying I was beloved, finally a phonecall from Little Jack Melody. I had nervous breakdowns, two, now I got piles and I lay up read
The Idiot
and rest mind. I had final evil flips of evil spirits and most insane dreams of all time where I end up in leading big parades of screaming laughing children (wearing my white headband) down Victory Street Lowell and finally into Asia (parade is intended to cover me up from cops, when they look kids surround me hide me singing, finally cops join parade happy and it ends big blur of robes in Asia). I been preaching Peterism, on TV too, about love, preaching Nealism, everything, I have just made big final preachment in America that would flip you if you knew details . . . big roaring parties finally where I see old enemies in a blur shouting round me—(Bill Fox, etc.) . . . new that Norman Mailer pleased with me, telegram from Nelson Algren praising me, etc. etc. in short we don't need press agents any more (I told Sterling to leave minor details of our poetry and Burroughs to us, he is busy with contracts and $$$ and bewildered by your innocent demands, you being poet do not realize the madness of NY). You will when you get back. Now listen Viking wants to publish
Howl
and your others and also Grove they racing to reach you first take your choice I think
Howl
needs distribution it has not even begun to be read.

But I don't understand politics, if this would fuck up Ferlinghetti don't do it. I'm just telling you the news . . . they sense you will make money with
Howl. Howl
nowhere Whalen says in Grove recording because cut while [James] Broughton drones on and on, Whalen very mad. A million more things happened, I only wished you and Peter and Greg be here, not to mention Burroughs and Ansen, it was too too much, especially TV which killed me, big camera coming close, “Do you ever smoke dope?” “What you think of suicide?” final big question “What you seeking?” “I am waiting for God to show his face.” (which I meant, having thought of it just a week previous lying on sickbed in sad south). I flipt and had to cancel further publicity with Tex and Jix, Barry Gray, etc. on and on, Look, and finally tho I did manage two radio shows etc. etc. getting all involved with sexfiend radio man who finally made big drunken tape of me and him and Leo Garen explaining young cunts of Organo Street and that sexfiend reformed drunk rushes to Lucien to bring him into AA which is Lou's I don't want to hear it about dept. in fact a perfect raving scream of furiously funny events rivaling anything in Dostoevsky. Joyce and I in fact leave phone off hook all day till four because it was ringing every mad five minutes. Ed Stringham keep rushing up with mad “hipsters like Neal” who insist on driving me 110 miles an hour down Fifth Avenue, one of them Howard Schulman, poet, who took me to Lafcadio and we knocked on a evil door and somebody inside yelled at us to go away, two men, not Laff . . . don't know where Laff is, except rumor he was in Fifth St. bookshop making speech (I think about us). Schulman like Ronnie Cherney if he don't watch out but might be good. Incidentally I got roar drunk with John Wingate the TV interviewer after the show, we had to be dragt away from each other . . . so there . . . I mean, he wasn't so evil, but an evil business TV. His girl interviewer wanted to know if I thought sex was “messy,” I said “Who said that?” she said “James Gould Cozzens” I said “No it's gateway to Paradise.” “O I don't think so” “Close the door and let's do it!” I say softly, she turns color, “DID YOU FEEL IT?” I yell . . . big Zen. Saw Anton [Rosenberg] who had book covered with plain white paper, on one side, writ in ink, “ZEN” on other side “HOO”. He tried to drag me away from Don Allen to go get hi with him and Burnett. Anton being very friendly, calls me Playboy of “our” generation he said, and tried to sell me a car worth $20,000 as if I had that . . . “You haven't got it yet” he shouted, in shop. Even Thurston Wallace I saw, pounced on me in a bar, gad I felt like Burroughs . . . didn't even go to Columbia, of course, where West End Bar full of young kids reading
Road
. . . piles of fan letters, some from sixteen year old girls who saw me TV love me . . . what an opportunity for a Great Lover, which I'm not . . . I being quiet Sam Lunatic, actually quiet dreamy Hinayana coward . . . or, Hinayana of Avalokitesvsrs. Ralph Gleason of Frisco had better review of me than Rexroth! Best review of all was written inside Michigan State prison where all convicts dug Neal of course. Best review of all from Mississippi where a reviewer signed “O I wish I was young again”. Everybody talking about you . . . you must go to town now in Paris and get things done . . . money coming your way. Tomorrow I'm sposed to get
Life
spread of my own, but am getting so bugged I may finally get bugged and flip and tell
Life
fuck. Already had one hundred fifty color shots taken of me squatting on Sheridan Sq., talking, screaming to bums drunk in Bleecker St., etc. . . . also pictures in
Harpers Bazaar
followed by interview with intelligent middleclass lady who got drunk in my arms practically. I been getting fan mail from middleclass ladies and like, Cessa's mother mad about book. My big satori was when Cessa screamed at me “Shut your big mouth” when I was being idiot at party upstate, a doctor wanted to give flu shots to her babies and I yelled, “Don't torture your children” and doctor everybody shocked finally everybody drunk on the floor. Lucien and I were insane, I drove car myself thru the woods crashing thru little trees and over dumps . . . never loved Lucien mo . . . and he kept singing “Getting to know you”. And I thought (thru all this) of Burroughs all the while. I delivered manuscript to [Donald] Allen, separated
Word
from rest of manuscript for him to start on. I made big friends with Mr. Von Hartz.
¹²⁸
Lemme know about Paris as soon as shock wears off and you quiet somewhere, for sure if movies buy I go see you this winter rather spring, May, then you could wait confidently there for my temp. support. Write. Many more things happed but I save it for next time.