Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg (74 page)

Meanwhile, at Big Sur, I sat by sea every day, sometimes in dismal foggy roaring dark of cliffs and huge waves, and wrote Sea, first part, SEA: the Pacific Ocean at Big Sur California. All sound of waves, like James Joyce was going to do. Wrote mostly with eyes closed, as if blind Homer. Read it to gang by oil lamp. McClure, etc. Neal etc. all listened but it's just like Old Angel only more wave-plop kerplosh sounds, the sea don't talk in sentences but comes in pieces, as like this:

(barnacle d be), rather, with the “d” all alone. Anyway this, and what Logia Jesus said about astonishment of paradise, seems to me much more on the right tracks of world peace and joy than all the recent communist (and general political) hysteria rioting and false screaming. Cuba Shmuba—I will come New York, open your lock with key you gave me, wait if you not there, am buying rucksack etc., will see Lucien etc. so see you and Petey soon. Okay.

Will come around the 28th—meanwhile please drop another line and enclose
Mescaline Notes
and
Gregory Letters
for the Cream File.

Jean

 

 

 

Allen Ginsberg [New York, New York] to
Jack Kerouac [n.p., Northport, New York?]

 

ca
. October 13, 1960

 

Dear Jack:

Just finished hamburger sandwich. Pete and Laf on 14th St. helping LeRoi Jones paint new huge apartment. I didn't mean to sadden you leaving you in taxi alone speeding away uptown. Here's a poem. You OK? Your book [
Lonesome Traveler
] is very good, I sat down and read it yesterday at one reading and laughed aloud tickled by sentences lots times, aloud. I don't know what Lucien was screaming about except he thought you shouldn't have been so nice to McGraw Hill filling out their form. However saw Cessa last nite to watch Nixon Kennedy debate, and later found, what upset her and Lucien, you drunk started telling her kid brother Lucien saga 1943 she said and were talking to Lucien about writing book on him. I heard that part in passing but hadn't known it was the center of the evening for him. You ought to go there non-drunk some time and just have a nice quiet evening chatting with him and makem happy. The biography of him is just an open nerve if you throw it at him, particularly when drunk.

I also read Leadbelly's poems (songs) this afternoon. He's great poet. Also reread
Happy Birthday of Death
, Gregory is even better than I thought. I hadn't read anything of his or thought about him for a month and read this and it made so much ethical sense, especially his poem about Clown.

Anyway two days ago I finished my book [
Kaddish and Other Poems
] and sent it off airmail special complete to Ferlinghetti. I have one more big raving politics poem to add in if I finish it ever.

Saw the debate. Nixon is saying we should war against China for Matsu and Quemoy [Islands]. Kennedy is saying, no, which is a mistake to say tactically. But Nixon is taking advantage of this and talking hypocritically about U.S. not “giving an inch” to the communists. He is very evil, like that. I registered I'll vote for Kennedy. Both are phony and both are outright warmongers, the communists are right on that. Both want to START physical war on Cuba—have said so. But at least Kennedy's hypocrisies on this seem to mask some desire to withdraw from the whole U.S. aggression shot, and Nixon seems like he really wants war, like the
Daily News
.
The Daily News
really is asking for war, I read it. Or at least Nixon seems the more loudmouth super-patriot demagogue of the two. I don't see why you've switched your judgment back to favoring him. Obviously Kennedy is more liberal and for more foreign wheat aid type and less tied up with phony military patriotic grandeur and less an FBI type, in intention. Not that it makes much difference America is sunk either way because it's just plain selfish. The more extremely nasty we get the worse the communists get and anybody who doesn't want to give a shit gets caught in the middle.

Like it occurred to me today we already have a planned economy but all the planning of most of our government huge budgets is military. So we're already socialist so what's all the shouting about why don't we be hip planned socialists and make food and power instead of gas bombs, to defend ourselves against socialism. You don't think anybody's starving in the world. Nobody in America thinks so. This country is evil and Whitman and I now spit on it and tell it to be nice or die, because that's what's coming. I HATE AMERICA! Ugh, and Nixon and Kennedy combine all that's most obnoxious. But Nixon does take the cake.

I suppose all this hate is unpatriotic to eternity but fuckit I'm going to die anyway.

The subliminal suggestions I receive reading the papers are horrid. I don't see why you like Nixon already, yet. AGHHHHHhhh! I gotta go uptown see my father for supper he goes to a play tonight I have supper. Forgive my rant.

Love,

Allen

 

 

Jack Kerouac [Northport, New York] to
Allen Ginsberg [New York, New York]

October 18, 1960

No, I was kidding about 1943 biog.—also about Nixon—making old argumentative scenes on couch, see—tell them. I not goin vote but would for Kennedy—everybody should simply make a vow of kindness and let it go at that, try to stay sober too—start new party Vow of Kindness party. Yes, starvation in world, because too many new babies everywhere, so no need for vow of poverty. Make vow of kindness. All hate unpatriotic to eternity after all—people forgetting that lately, even you, me, s'why world blooing. I gotta stay outa NY now, no more go there now—if Greg come you come him Petey you we talk in Mrs. O's big pad. Me no drink no more—me crazy now—me see hoodoo voodoo—is your chimu turtle voodoed? I can't answer you questions bout politics because it is all bloody impossible discrimination of riots and yelling horror on account don't blame em for fear of bombs, I pray for world and pray it works, I feel awful today, can't write later.

J

Jack Kerouac [Northport, New York] to
Allen Ginsberg [Paris, France]

April 14, 1961

 

Dear Allen:

Just read narrative section of
Kaddish
, which has impact of Dostoevskyan novel. The whole package, with later visionary poems, makes one explosive book. No reviews yet, as tho they just wanted to wish you out of existence, the big Wilburs and Hollanders weeping in their pillows—no reviews either of course of
Book of Dreams
. Time for us to quit the literary scene and talk to none of them any more, I say. Things okay here, Gene doing good, we move soon, me free soon—me prayed also to cut lush, prayers answered so far. When have time give me rundown on latest Gregory soul-mind. Your early prevision of police-cabaret-beatnik troubles coming true—big political out-in-the-open battle now with John Mitchell coming on like Mayor. I studying Kant, Schopenhauer, Spinoza etc. all great minds agreed with Buddha—Lucien and Harry Smith called me high on phone. Why Bill “fled”?—Infinite Swarming Light—Bill's Hassan Sabbah says there is no Time and no Thing in Space—Well? he no agree in 1957. Oh Hum, vanity is a bore. Brand new world a-coming—Hello.

Jean-Louis

 

 

Jack Kerouac [Northport, New York] to
Allen Ginsberg [Kyoto, Japan]

 

Dear Allen: (June 29, 1963)

Was hesitant to write to you care of damned India where letter might be lost but hope you gets this anyway—Just now had a flash of understanding what a gone friendship we've had really, not only all the wild letters we exchanged (I have all your letters neatly filed here in my new steel office file and you can browse anytime and use them etc.) and all the wild adventures together on Brooklyn Bridge, Columbia, Frisco, Mexico, etc. and elsewhere later, but all that bombed-out literature we started (bombed-out-of-mind) and all the swirls and levels, like just now I was sitting daydreaming of Burroughs and Huncke finally meeting again in your 7th Street kitchen tomorrow and you and I are wringing our hands with delight and winking at each other as Huncke says, “Well, well,” and Burroughs replies etc. Which is just another way of saying how much I respect you and value you, Poit. When you come to my new house in N'Port it will be perfect if you don't have that beard and long hair, who cares about that shit anyway? Let me see your cherubic haircut. Just saw Eugene [Brooks] who just came to my house and I really wanted to chat with him (have been conversing with Eugene a lot since you left and find him highly intelligent, as much as you in a way) but he brings a crazy Rabbi who wants me to rush around like Norman Mailer renting out Carnegie Hall and going to Stork Club and getting in Winchell because “great works of art” should be publicized etc., his name is Richard something-or-other, actually nice guy but I don't want to abandon my solitude and reading and quietude for just a lot of horseshit showing-off in public. Besides
On the Road
is finally contracted for a movie, I'll get five percent of the budget when shooting starts, five percent of the budget when picture released, and then five percent of the net profits of the company which will be headed by the guy who will turn
Road
into a scenario and also direct: name of Bob Ginnet . . . so I don't need to make money scenes, just enough for me anyway, since as you know I always collect my change when I leave a woman, and besides I hate the bitches now they're all such a bunch of whores and liars like Joan [Haverty] doubly ly lieing yet—Lies about me that hold
me
up to the world as a liar!
¹⁵²
—But to hell with that, I'm thinking of something else, it's just started raining: my new pad here is at 7 Judyann Court, off Dogwood Road, keep that address a secret and put it in your notebook under the name of The Wizard of Ozone Park, under “W”, and when you come to N'Port, there's the house, 7 Judyann Court, off Dogwood Road, instructions, etc.—Best house I ever had with big backyard with thrity-two trees all around and six foot tall wood fence of Alaskan cedar, basketweave style, nobody see me as I read in sun or goop among tomato plants and my mother feedeth the birds and they thrash in the birdbath and in my room is groovy new Telefunken FM (West German) set with big Bachs and Mozarts or jazz anytime, and full finished basement with den and FM music and records and later maybe a pooltable—Nothing fancy, just right—Only problem is too much local visitings from bores—No Lucien come yet, no Allen, just pain-in-the-ass visitors, as usual—One new friend rather nice, Adolf Rothman, schoolteacher and clamdigger, learned and quiet—Jewish Lenin face—But tonight, ugh, unavoidable visit from 2 teenagers who want me to go meet girls in dance bars, will not go but just play them music awhile—Please tell Gary [Snyder] when you see him, or write him, to excuse me for the enraged letter I wrote him drunk on a quart of Canadian Club whisky in which I excoriated women forever, tho I meant it, I didn't mean to be mean to Gary, who however didn't seem to mind and wrote back he was sending me a present. (Some dopey Jap cunt “psychoanalyzed”
Subterraneans
in school like a real square Vassar shot.) A “living woman” indeed, what do they want me to do, screw cadavers? All mixed up letter, this, I really ain't got my heart in it, had so much to say when I got on typewriter just now, well anyway this'll let you know I'm with you all the way, but I want you to know, no like writing letters any more, getting like Neal now, I dunno why, sure would like to see you instead. Having Giroux look at Whalen's new book of poems (very good), returned McClure's novel without comment (hated it, cheapskate beatniks with guns in their briefcases kicking girls and sitting around being dull on pot), am recording great library of classical and jazz tapes, saving letters, filing them, wrote letter defending
Subs
to Italian Judge in Milano where
Subs
being on trial for banning with bishops of Milano behind it with Montini was the bishop of Milano, my painting of Montini might be color photoed in
Time
or
Satevpost
[
Saturday Evening Post
], just sold a chapter from new novel to
Holiday
mag about “On the Road with Memere” (me and my mother in Juarez reroute Frisco 1957), and generally I being clam and readable tho had to quit local bars because a big blond fag wants to shoot me with gun because I called her a fag I guess, don't remember, cops watching me, local clamdiggers fucked up, my cousin Moon-cloud came to see me here to tell me his story was just a lot of shit (I still don't know), we went Lucien NY and girls and scenes, all a mad mixed up mess whenever I leave the house so I stay home and this summer I think be nice go to Quebec and write that for
Holiday
and then in the Fall, when
Visions of Gerard
is out, take off for Cologne Germany, London, Paris, Cornwall and Brittany although I don't know, don't care much, all's in my heart HERE IN MY HEART, Ami.

In any case we take big trip together somewhere, or do something, sometime, again, copain.

I recently had horrible visions of the too-muchness of the world which requires really too much of our attention, our mind essence is completely blasted by music, people, books, papers, movies, games, sex, talk, business, taxes, cars, asses, gasses yak ack etc. and I almost died chocking over this (choking)—Like, now I'm outs with Gregory almost, we had a big jubilant reunion in April or so and hallelujahed to write a big article for
Playboy
about Beat and so he'd have money for his wedding with Sally November who hates me I think and it all deteriorated with Gregory rewriting the whole thing behind my back and cursing me and Luce and everybody as creeps, and him a “pure lyric poet” which is what Lucien told him the day before and it went to his head—Mainly, I had the sensation that Gregory is insane, because he kept me up and down all the time with him, suddenly realizing he's crazy and doesn't want to be friends with anyone at all, maybe wants to be punished for this? The article we wrote together, dictating to girlfriends of mine etc., was ridiculous, not even an article but a drunken whisky chain poem meaning nothing whatever—I think H [heroin] is going to G[regory]'s head really—That Sally of his is sullen, I think—But maybe they'll have a baby and coo quietly together and it might turn out good for poor tortured Gregory Corso—But on these visits to NY, worse than ever, I come back with visions of horror as bad as the Ayahuasca vision on the Neanderthal million years in caves, the gruesomeness of life!—Yet all my future be bright, with
On the Road
gonna be a movie, a new novel in the Fall, two new novels not yet published (
Desolation Angels
and its sequel about you and me and Pete and Laf and Gwegowy in Mexico
Passing Through
) and I see nothing ahead for me but ease and joy and yet my mind is so dark, and so lonesome sometimes I could cry on your shoulder or Bill's or Neal's any minute. And what of poor Neal? Carolyn marrying another man, couldn't I be a millionaire and make Neal my chauffeur? Do I need a crazy teahead chauffeur with broads hiding in the trunk? And Bill, how come I don't ever get to see him anymore and if I journeyed to Paris via Air France or Lufthansa jet would he be kind to me when I rushed up to him? or laugh at me for being fat? or WHAT? Where's Peter, why did you leave Peter? Why did you and Peter leave Laf to such a fate? How could you carry Laf around the world on your shoulders anyway? It's hopeless. How's Gary? I guess he's alright. Whalen is very sad and neutral with big sad neutral blue eyes. Scares me sometimes. Lew Welch is spending his time in an isolated shack, naked, at Forks of Salmon Calif. and says he's going crazy like Han Shan. Did you see
Big Sur
novel which I had sent to you? and what you think of the ridiculous denouement in THAT? all too true. Ow. Meanwhile all these subsidiary bores keep hammering at ya, Aquinas monks denying my theology in long silly letters writtenlikethiswithJoycean arrangements, or bores around Los Gatos assuring me I WAS of some importance while America needed me and thanks,—nevertheless, Allen dear friend, I feel a strange ecstasy, right now, always in fact, always. Holmes has been bombarding me with huge questions for his non-fiction book which will be about everything: I spent three nights answering his questions in detail, on typewriter, he oughta be glad right now. Book will be about you, me, Mailer, Baldwin, etc., whole scene . . . But it's raining, great straight drops of sheet rain falling through glen dark tree glades . . . very pretty day. A day for getting drunk on whiskey, in fact, but dammit I did that yesterday. A lost day. Wonder what Joan Adams is thinking . . . Where's Huncke? How's Laf? What is Paul Bowles thinking, and where? And Ansen? And Walter Adams? How sad the garbage can! Anyway, when you get back here, I'll show you all the piled up papers relating to everything since you left, letters, poems of Gregory, etc. and let us hope that the great calm hearts of Melville, Whitman and Thoreau do sustain us in the coming hectic years of overcommunicating Americas and Telstars and other Galaxies . . . What have we accomplished? Good new poetry, that oughta be enough. “Charming bedraggled little princes” everywhere on accounta you . . . and sudden waves of intelligent teenage football players somehow. Somehow my ass. Incidentally I liked your “honking Eliot” dream and just now in fact was studying an old dream of yours in a letter from Chiapas, no San Jose, about Chiapas, a dream you had there of Burroughs being photographed in a Rome trolley, and a dream of me leading tourist millions wandering in endless Brooklyns . . . I just had drink dream that I was shitting all the time whether I was in the toilet or not, shit all over the floor, over my hands, shoes, over my face really, just shit all over, like balloons . . . Lucien Ah . . . He had a little fling with Lois [Sorrells Beckwith] but Cessa straightened that out . . . not a fling really, but lying around all day on the floor with her at Jacques' [Beckwith], as Jacques fumed—I just can't keep up with Jacques and all that, I wanta go back to my simple Lucien and Allen and Bill. Anyway my present job is to write
Vanity of Duluoz
novel about 1939 to 1946, won't be easy, football, war, Edie, etc. Bronx Jail, you, Columbia, etc. ouch.