Tag Archives: Road

HIWAY AMERICA-IS THIS THE SCARIEST ROAD IN AMERICA? WEST MILFORD N.J.

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HIWAY AMERICA-IS THIS THE SCARIEST ROAD IN AMERICA?     WEST MILFORD N.J.

Is this the scariest road in America?

Is this the scariest road in America?

Ghost sightings, KKK meetings, Witches, and even Druidic ceremonies? Is this the scariest road in America?

Named for the now-vanished settlement of Clinton, Clinton Road in West Milford, Passaic County, New Jersey has scared the hell out of people for decades. Cut through a heavily wooded area with almost no houses, this road lets your creepy imagination run wild. You’ll have plenty of time to muster the courage to travel north on Clinton Road as the traffic light at Route 23 & Clinton Road also holds the record for being the longest light in America. Once onto Clinton Road, get ready to be freaked out.

The Ghost Boy Bridge

Is this the scariest road in America?

Near the Clinton Reservoir you’ll find a bridge and a sharp “dead man’s curve”. Legend says if you toss a coin into the water a boy will toss it back. That’s not terrifying at all. People claim they’ve also seen the boy’s reflection in the water. Other claim to have been pelted with coins.

The Iron Smelter/Druidic Temple

Is this the scariest road in America?

Ok, so it’s not really a Druidic Temple, but rather an iron smelter left over from the 18th century. The temple story stuck though, and today it’s fenced off to keep all you ghost hunters from getting hurt. Still, it’s little creepy at night and reports of oddballs having ceremonies around it are not uncommon.

Cross Castle

Is this the scariest road in America?

Although nothing but the foundation remains today, a three-story castle-like structure once stood in these eerie woods. When the stone walls still stood the place was a hotbed for the Satanic and the occult. Our guess is it still is, so maybe don’t go there after dark.

If the little boy throwing your change back at your face or the Satan worshipers dancing around the Cross Castle haven’t scared you off yet, let the Ku Klux Klan send you on your way. Clinton Road has long been known as a hangout for the Klan ever since the German American Bund held their little hate-camps in the area.

Is this the scariest road in America?

Lastly, don’t forget all the other creepy things people claim to have seen on this road. Mythical cross-bred creatures (supposedly the result of Jungle Habitat’s closing in the 1970s…), people dressed in strange outfits disappearing, and ghost vehicles chasing cars off the road… All in a lovely trip down Clinton Road.

Can you think of a creepier road?

(Black & White photos credit: Reely Bored Horror)

JACK KEROUAC QUOTES

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Jack KerouacJack Kerouac > Quotes

Jack Kerouac quotes (showing 1-30 of 757)

“the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”
― Jack KerouacOn the Road
“One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.”
― Jack KerouacThe Dharma Bums
“I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till i drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.”
― Jack Kerouac
“Live, travel, adventure, bless, and don’t be sorry.”
― Jack Kerouac
“The only truth is music.”
― Jack Kerouac
“There was nowhere to go but everywhere, so just keep on rolling under the stars.”
― Jack KerouacOn the Road: The Original Scroll
“Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.”
― Jack KerouacOn the Road
“My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them.”
― Jack Kerouac
“What is that feeling when you’re driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? – it’s the too-huge world vaulting us, and it’s good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.”
― Jack KerouacOn the Road
“A pain stabbed my heart, as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world.”
― Jack KerouacOn the Road
“Happiness consists in realizing it is all a great strange dream”
― Jack Kerouac
“Great things are not accomplished by those who yield to trends and fads and popular opinion.”
― Jack Kerouac
“Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together; sophistication demands that they submit to sex immediately without proper preliminary talk. Not courting talk — real straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every moment is precious.”
― Jack KerouacOn the Road
tags: sex
“The best teacher is experience and not through someone’s distorted point of view”
― Jack KerouacOn the Road
“Don’t use the phone. People are never ready to answer it. Use poetry.”
― Jack Kerouac
tags: poetry
“I don’t know, I don’t care, and it doesn’t make any difference.”
― Jack Kerouac
“I realized these were all the snapshots which our children would look at someday with wonder, thinking their parents had lived smooth, well-ordered lives and got up in the morning to walk proudly on the sidewalks of life, never dreaming the raggedy madness and riot of our actual lives, our actual night, the hell of it, the senseless emptiness.”
― Jack KerouacOn the Road
“I was surprised, as always, be how easy the act of leaving was, and how good it felt. The world was suddenly rich with possibility.”
― Jack KerouacOn the Road
“My witness is the empty sky.”
― Jack Kerouac
“I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn’t know who I was – I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I’d never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn’t know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn’t scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost.”
― Jack KerouacOn the Road
tags: ghostslife
“Will you love me in December as you do in May?”
― Jack Kerouac
“Down on the lake rosy reflections of celestial vapor appeared, and I said, “God, I love you” and looked to the sky and really meant it. “I have fallen in love with you, God. Take care of us all, one way or the other.” To the children and the innocent it’s all the same.”
― Jack KerouacThe Dharma Bums
“It all ends in tears anyway.”
― Jack KerouacThe Dharma Bums
“I have lots of things to teach you now, in case we ever meet, concerning the message that was transmitted to me under a pine tree in North Carolina on a cold winter moonlit night. It said that Nothing Ever Happened, so don’t worry. It’s all like a dream. Everything is ecstasy, inside. We just don’t know it because of our thinking-minds. But in our true blissful essence of mind is known that everything is alright forever and forever and forever. Close your eyes, let your hands and nerve-ends drop, stop breathing for 3 seconds, listen to the silence inside the illusion of the world, and you will remember the lesson you forgot, which was taught in immense milky way soft cloud innumerable worlds long ago and not even at all. It is all one vast awakened thing. I call it the golden eternity. It is perfect. We were never really born, we will never really die. It has nothing to do with the imaginary idea of a personal self, other selves, many selves everywhere: Self is only an idea, a mortal idea. That which passes into everything is one thing. It’s a dream already ended. There’s nothing to be afraid of and nothing to be glad about. I know this from staring at mountains months on end. They never show any expression, they are like empty space. Do you think the emptiness of space will ever crumble away? Mountains will crumble, but the emptiness of space, which is the one universal essence of mind, the vast awakenerhood, empty and awake, will never crumble away because it was never born.”
― Jack KerouacThe Portable Jack Kerouac
“I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.”
― Jack Kerouac
“What’s in store for me in the direction I don’t take?”
― Jack Kerouac
“beautiful insane
in the rain”
― Jack KerouacThe Subterraneans
“My whole wretched life swam before my weary eyes, and I realized no matter what you do it’s bound to be a waste of time in the end so you might as well go mad.”
― Jack KerouacOn the Road: The Original Scroll
“I’m going to marry my novels and have little short stories for children.”
― Jack Kerouac
“Life must be rich and full of loving–it’s no good otherwise, no good at all, for anyone.”
― Jack KerouacSelected Letters, 1940-1956
« previous 1  3 4 5 6 7 8 9 … 25 26 

 

ON THE ROAD – JACK KEROUAC

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ROAD

On the Road – Jack Kerouac

By Shubhajit Lahiri on 17 November 2008

“What’s your road, man? — holyboy road, madman road, rainbow road, guppy road, any road. It’s an anywhere road for anybody anyhow.”

That’s not the kind of question that an everyday Joe would ask; that’s not an inquiry that would lurk in the mind of a 9-to-5 desk clerk. Hell, that’s not the kind of thought that someone scrubbing for a mere existence in a drab world, living just another static life, in his routine environment, and doing stuff that is decided through rote and careful rationalization, would even dare let his perfectly chiselled mind waver to.

That’s precisely the kind of belief one would be enticed by who adheres to the maxim, “Road is where life is.” And On the Road, for those crazy venture-addicts, is the greatest bible that there ever was. It is a novel that would make the most cocooned of creatures to be hit by the road bug and actually start ‘living’ life.

Written in 1951, by Jack Kerouc – the original King of the Road, was a novel that eulogized the free-spirited life where boundaries, confines and borders cease to exist. And in the process it kick-started Beat Generation – one of the most fascinating American movements where life is equated with jazz (viz. Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Louis Armstrong et al), hallucinatory drugs, free sex, smoke-filled cars, and above all, life on the road. For them there’s just one answer to the rhetoric question, “Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?”, and that being Heaven.

Though On the Road is considered the greatest book of this movement and Kerouac its unofficial spokesperson – which has been duly acknowledged by the venerated TIME magazine by including the book in its list of Greatest Novels of the 20th Century – Kerouac essentially formed a part of a hallowed trio also comprising of Allen Ginsberg and William H. Burroughs, the co-pioneers of the Beat Movement. And this semi-autobiographical novel chronicles Kerouac’s experiences on the road. Hence they are all there in the novel, with their names altered. However, it is someone called Neal Cassidy, a common friend of the enlightened troika, who formed the basis for the book’s most celebrated character – Dean Moriarty.

Narrated by Salvatore ‘Sal’ Paradise, an Italian-American resident of New Jersey, a writer by profession, and Kerouac’s terrific literary alter-ego, On the Road is a mesmerizing and one-of-its-kind travel-diary of the narrator, and its apotheosis is his unforgettable friendship with Dean, one of the craziest and alive characters one can ever hope to come across. It tells the tales of his journeys back and forth across America. It is a tale of New York, San Francisco, Denver, Detroit, New Orleans, Chicago, Los Angeles, and Mexico City. It is a free-flowing account of ‘nowness’ – a word that defined the willingness to reside in present without a worry for the future or attachment to the past. It is a madcap poetry to the Beat life, where all you need to survive is a car that does its 90 mph, beer cans, an uninterrupted supply of cigarettes, friends with whom you can talk all through the night and into the dawn, a few Benzedrine tablets to give you the kicks, and the singular beauty of hitch-hiking.

The novel is peppered with some of the most atypical characters – Carlo Marx, Chad King, Old Bull Lee, Ed Dunkel, Remi Boncoeur, with each representing the various constituents of the Beatific and the free spirits of the world. But the two protagonists – Sal and Dean, are the ones who really draw the readers out with their contrasting lives and yet their common passion. Where Sal is a home-grown, serious, sensitive, college educated intellectual with a steady income – an otherwise regular guy who one can relate to and be in sync with, Dean is an impulsive, irreverent, wildly unpredictable, rebellious, thoroughly alienated soul with an infectious method to his madness. As Sal so brilliantly states in one of his many explanations of who Dean really is, “He was simply a youth tremendously excited with life, and though he was a con-man, he was only conning because he wanted so much to live and to get involved with people who would otherwise pay no attention to him.”

On The Road wasn’t just anti-establishmentarian in its outlook, it was also non-conformist in its style and composition. Legend has it that Kerouac wrote it in an uninterrupted and truly inspired Benzedrine-fuelled three weeks’ session on a manual typewriter in his New York City loft, on a long scroll over 100 feet long. The book is devoid of crisp, literary sentences. It is instead based on improvised, absolutely free-flowing, stream-of-consciousness style of writing, where the words form a direct representation of the writer’s unedited and unadulterated thought processes. It was a memorable kick in the belly for the purists and conservatives. In fact Truman Capote once infamously remarked about the prose, “That’s not writing, that’s typing.” The book was a glorious tableau of a truly liberated form and style of narration.

The enormous impact of the book is as relevant today as it was groundbreaking then. Its tale of lost souls who dared to be free is timeless. Through its fascinating depictions of friendship, experiences on the road and the longing for ‘It’ – an expression that could signify anything from cigarettes and drugs to frenzy and exhilaration to salvation and bliss, the novel was way ahead of its time in its effortless and spontaneous jab at such bogus parameters like morality and preordained requisites for the so-called good and happy life sans adventure and enlightenment.

Some of the most iconoclastic stalwarts like Bob Dylan, John Lennon, and Jim Morrison have been enormously influenced by the novel. Dylan once remarked about the book, “It changed my life like it changed everyone else’s.” Lennon ushered a memorable tribute to the Beat legacy by including the word ‘Beat’ in the name of arguably the world’s greatest boy-band The Beatles, through a subtle change in its spelling. The book may also count such outstanding and legendary movies like Easy Rider, Paris Texas, Five Easy Pieces and Stranger than Paradise as part of its famous legacy. Indeed, the novel’s place in popular culture as well as among the pantheon of great literary works has been preserved for posterity.

“Somewhere along the line I knew there’d be girls, visions, everything; somewhere along the line the pearl would be handed to me.” That sort of encapsulates the spirit and the essence of the book. I really feel a huge impulse to say to every bibliophile and lost souls and free people of this world regarding On the Road, “Dig it! Dig it!” And I’m sure, if Dean had been here with in my living room, he would have excitedly affirmed in his inimitable style, “Yass! Yass!”.

JACK KEROUAC’S “ON THE ROAD TO DESOLATION” DOCUMENTARY

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AZZhttp://societies.docuwat.ch/videos/people/jack-kerouac-king-of-the-beats

“TRANCED FIXATIONS” KEROUAC’S BREAKTHROUGH

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“Tranced Fixations” — Kerouac’s Breakthrough

Voice_is_Allbig.jpgThe following is excerpted from The Voice Is All: The Lonely Victory of Jack Kerouacpublished by Viking, 2012.

On October 7, 1951, after a gloomy Sunday when he seemed to be making no progress on the chapters about Neal Cassady he was adding to On the Road,  Jack went to Birdland to hear the alto saxophonist Lee Konitz, who recently had come into his own as a leading innovator of cool jazz.  During Konitz’s solo in “I Remember April,” which he played as if it were “the room he lived in,” his music sounded “so profoundly interior” to Jack that he was sure very few people would understand it. In fact, he compared Konitz’s extended phrases to the sentences he was writing lately, sentences whose direction seemed mysterious until the “solution” was suddenly unveiled in a way that shed light backward on everything that had preceded it. Admiring Konitz for refusing to make the concessions that would gain him a wider audience, Jack saw that both he and the musician were essentially doing the same thing — attempting to communicate “the unspeakable visions of the individual.” Grabbing a pencil, he scribbled a reminder to himself: “BLOW AS DEEP AS YOU WANT TO BLOW.” It was a rule he would start to follow in his work, despite his continued brooding about his tormenting inability to finish his second novel.

When Jack wasn’t writing in his cell-like basement room, he often roamed the surrounding streets of Richmond Hill, where one day he saw a crowd gathered in an empty lot.  A bloody fetus had been found there, dumped into the weeds in a paper bag. Shaken, he returned home, his reeling thoughts terrifying him, for it seemed he could hold on to none of them, making him wonder about the effect alcohol was having on his brain. If his mind was going, how could he ever finish On the Road?  Unable to calm himself, he broke down into a prayer for forgiveness.  The dead baby apparently reminded him of his guilty role in the conception of the one his ex-wife was carrying. Even the look Jack had been unable to prevent himself from taking at the red flesh of the fetus seemed to contribute to his guilt. He spent the next couple of days convinced he was being punished for his sins by losing the ability to write.

On October 15, Jack was still in a state of panic when he met Ed White in a Chinese restaurant near Columbia. Although Ed assured him his block was only temporary, this did nothing to improve Jack’s mood.  Changing the subject to his own work, Ed showed Jack the pocket sketchbook in which he had been making drawings of  architectural details. This led him to an idea he thought Jack should try out — a way for him to ease back into writing: “Why don’t you sketch in the street like a painter, but with words?”

As an experiment in which nothing was really at stake, “sketching” immediately gave Jack what he most needed — the freedom to write his “interior music” just as it came to him, removing the inhibiting presence in his mind of the imaginary reader.  He was about to discover what he had been looking for — a way to write passages in which he would seize the peak moment of initial inspiration and ride it through to the end, without interrupting the flow of imagery.  Sketching would finally dissolve the barrier between poetry and prose.

The day after seeing Ed, Jack took a notebook and walked to Sutphin Boulevard, a skidrow-like area in working-class Jamaica, where he sketched two places that had a time-stopped feeling about them.  The first was an old railroad-car diner permeated by a brown “FOODY” smell that reminded him in a Proustian way of the aroma of countless American diners, of parochial school and hospital kitchens, of greasy hamburger pans soaking in sinks. The next scene he colored in shades of gray, a dilapidated B-movie theater, adjoined by a filthy hotdog stand with its surrounding pavement littered with cigarette butts and chewing gum.  No sign of entropy escaped Jack’s eye — he searched out the broken bulbs behind the holes in the glass facing of the Capricio Theater’s marquee, saw how the diner’s scarred wooden counter resembled “the bottoms of old courtroom  benches.” Without knowing it, he had just written the opening of Visions of Cody. Somehow he’d been able to induce in himself an exceptional state of awareness that gave his portrayals of these scenes a heightened immediacy that went beyond realism.

The act of writing requires entry into a meditative state in which the tension between what the writers knows or feels and the peculiar need to put it into words upon a page can be resolved.  But sketching demanded something more from Jack — abandonment to a “tranced fixation” on the object, a deeper way of dreaming upon what he saw.  “Everything activates in front of you in myriad profusion,” he would explain to Allen Ginsberg, revealing that “sometimes I got so inspired I lost consciousness I was writing.” But there seemed to be an inherent danger in becoming what Yeats once called, “a man helpless before the contents of his own mind.” There began to be a palpable tension between the deepening melancholy that made Jack crave alcohol and the addictive exhilaration the intensification of his creative energy was giving him.

Meanwhile, not even alcohol could hold back the discoveries that were transforming his writing.  On October 25th, he went to sketch the old Forty-seventh Street El station.  In the men’s room, the way the yellow-painted walls contrasted with the dark brown woodwork and stamped tin ceiling summoned up a picture in Jack’s mind of the imitation wainscoting he’d noticed in flophouses out west.  When he returned to Richmond Hill, after taking a long walk down the Bowery to Chinatown, he was able to resume his sketching, evoking images of what he’d seen during his walk with no loss of intensity. By the following night he was sure that the sketches in his notebook were far superior to all the “oil” painting he’d been doing for On the Road and that he’d just had the “greatest” of all his Octobers.

 

I LIKE TOO MANY THINGS – – JACK KEROUAC

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Jack Kerouac
Jack Kerouac Sold Out
Hand made Lino Cut block prints
I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till i drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion. JACK KEROUAC

 

“TRANCED FIXATIONS” KEROUAC’S BREAKTHROUGH

Standard

“Tranced Fixations” — Kerouac’s Breakthrough

Voice_is_Allbig.jpgThe following is excerpted from The Voice Is All: The Lonely Victory of Jack Kerouacpublished by Viking, 2012.

On October 7, 1951, after a gloomy Sunday when he seemed to be making no progress on the chapters about Neal Cassady he was adding to On the Road,  Jack went to Birdland to hear the alto saxophonist Lee Konitz, who recently had come into his own as a leading innovator of cool jazz.  During Konitz’s solo in “I Remember April,” which he played as if it were “the room he lived in,” his music sounded “so profoundly interior” to Jack that he was sure very few people would understand it. In fact, he compared Konitz’s extended phrases to the sentences he was writing lately, sentences whose direction seemed mysterious until the “solution” was suddenly unveiled in a way that shed light backward on everything that had preceded it. Admiring Konitz for refusing to make the concessions that would gain him a wider audience, Jack saw that both he and the musician were essentially doing the same thing — attempting to communicate “the unspeakable visions of the individual.” Grabbing a pencil, he scribbled a reminder to himself: “BLOW AS DEEP AS YOU WANT TO BLOW.” It was a rule he would start to follow in his work, despite his continued brooding about his tormenting inability to finish his second novel.

When Jack wasn’t writing in his cell-like basement room, he often roamed the surrounding streets of Richmond Hill, where one day he saw a crowd gathered in an empty lot.  A bloody fetus had been found there, dumped into the weeds in a paper bag. Shaken, he returned home, his reeling thoughts terrifying him, for it seemed he could hold on to none of them, making him wonder about the effect alcohol was having on his brain. If his mind was going, how could he ever finish On the Road?  Unable to calm himself, he broke down into a prayer for forgiveness.  The dead baby apparently reminded him of his guilty role in the conception of the one his ex-wife was carrying. Even the look Jack had been unable to prevent himself from taking at the red flesh of the fetus seemed to contribute to his guilt. He spent the next couple of days convinced he was being punished for his sins by losing the ability to write.

On October 15, Jack was still in a state of panic when he met Ed White in a Chinese restaurant near Columbia. Although Ed assured him his block was only temporary, this did nothing to improve Jack’s mood.  Changing the subject to his own work, Ed showed Jack the pocket sketchbook in which he had been making drawings of  architectural details. This led him to an idea he thought Jack should try out — a way for him to ease back into writing: “Why don’t you sketch in the street like a painter, but with words?”

As an experiment in which nothing was really at stake, “sketching” immediately gave Jack what he most needed — the freedom to write his “interior music” just as it came to him, removing the inhibiting presence in his mind of the imaginary reader.  He was about to discover what he had been looking for — a way to write passages in which he would seize the peak moment of initial inspiration and ride it through to the end, without interrupting the flow of imagery.  Sketching would finally dissolve the barrier between poetry and prose.

The day after seeing Ed, Jack took a notebook and walked to Sutphin Boulevard, a skidrow-like area in working-class Jamaica, where he sketched two places that had a time-stopped feeling about them.  The first was an old railroad-car diner permeated by a brown “FOODY” smell that reminded him in a Proustian way of the aroma of countless American diners, of parochial school and hospital kitchens, of greasy hamburger pans soaking in sinks. The next scene he colored in shades of gray, a dilapidated B-movie theater, adjoined by a filthy hotdog stand with its surrounding pavement littered with cigarette butts and chewing gum.  No sign of entropy escaped Jack’s eye — he searched out the broken bulbs behind the holes in the glass facing of the Capricio Theater’s marquee, saw how the diner’s scarred wooden counter resembled “the bottoms of old courtroom  benches.” Without knowing it, he had just written the opening of Visions of Cody. Somehow he’d been able to induce in himself an exceptional state of awareness that gave his portrayals of these scenes a heightened immediacy that went beyond realism.

The act of writing requires entry into a meditative state in which the tension between what the writers knows or feels and the peculiar need to put it into words upon a page can be resolved.  But sketching demanded something more from Jack — abandonment to a “tranced fixation” on the object, a deeper way of dreaming upon what he saw.  “Everything activates in front of you in myriad profusion,” he would explain to Allen Ginsberg, revealing that “sometimes I got so inspired I lost consciousness I was writing.” But there seemed to be an inherent danger in becoming what Yeats once called, “a man helpless before the contents of his own mind.” There began to be a palpable tension between the deepening melancholy that made Jack crave alcohol and the addictive exhilaration the intensification of his creative energy was giving him.

Meanwhile, not even alcohol could hold back the discoveries that were transforming his writing.  On October 25th, he went to sketch the old Forty-seventh Street El station.  In the men’s room, the way the yellow-painted walls contrasted with the dark brown woodwork and stamped tin ceiling summoned up a picture in Jack’s mind of the imitation wainscoting he’d noticed in flophouses out west.  When he returned to Richmond Hill, after taking a long walk down the Bowery to Chinatown, he was able to resume his sketching, evoking images of what he’d seen during his walk with no loss of intensity. By the following night he was sure that the sketches in his notebook were far superior to all the “oil” painting he’d been doing for On the Road and that he’d just had the “greatest” of all his Octobers.

Joyce Johnson is widely known for Minor Characters, her memoir about growing up in the 50’s and her personal relationship with Kerouac, which won a National Book Critics Circle Award in 1983.  The excerpt is from the latest of her eight books, The Voice Is All: The Lonely Victory of Jack Kerouac, which has just been published by Viking.  The first biography to be based on the material in the Kerouac Archive, it  looks at him as a Franco-American and as a bilingual American writer and tells his story with a focus upon the development of his work through 1951, the year he wrote On the Roadand began Visions of Cody.

 

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