Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg

by Jack Kerouac

  Burroughs has been writing. He is very lonely—write him, care of Kells, Turf Club, Mexico DF. His boy [Lewis] Marker left him temporarily on a visit to Florida, is to rejoin him in Ecuador any week. I’ve been calling Laughlin70 but no word yet. Still considering (seriously apparently) Bill says: “Meanwhile things seem kind of dreary around here. Several other people I like left about the same time. I want to get the case settled and clear out.” His kids have been claimed by respective grandparents. No word of Hal [Chase].

  I saw [Bill] Garver71 (did I see you since then, Jack?) who says Phil White killed himself in Tombs72 because he was up on three raps, tried to get out of it by stool pigeoning on an old schmecker who didn’t sell to whores and kids only to respectable criminals. Thereby he got out on two raps. Last rap (non-narcotics) still hung him, was going to bring him to Rikers. But old schmecker and the boys were waiting for him at Rikers Island. So hung self in Tombs. Like tragic movie. Said Garver “I never thought he had much character. But what else could he do, he was washed up as a junkie in N.Y.” Said Burroughs (letter January 19) “He was so uncompromising and puritanical about stool pigeons. He used to say ‘I don’t understand how a pigeon can live with himself.’ I guess Phil couldn’t after what he did. Even so I still haven’t changed my opinion of Phil.”

  Dusty has returned and has new greater apartment with shy frightened mother at 19 Barrow Street—same place as Henri Cru73 used to live, right around corner from Louis’ Bar. I dream of marrying her but don’t have the force or money, and we don’t love each other. We are great tired friends now—we talk a lot, sleep once in a while, but never screw. I am, myself, getting tired of sex. Which reminds me of a limerick I used to know:There once was a young man from Datchet

  Who chopped off his cock with a hatchet,

  And said “Well, that’s over,

  But my little dog Rover

  Is hungry. Here Rover! Now catch it.”

  The great line is the third. This reminds me of a joke I once told you. Carl S. [Solomon] and I were sitting around with a Subterranean in his old pad on 17th Street. The third guy was a young villager I had met briefly several years earlier—tall, thin, rather big boned, white faced and pale, with (as I remember) dark? hair. He was reputed to be one of the most intelligent people, an apocalyptic, and poet. He said very little, was not surly, though, just very silent and too gone hipwise to talk. So Carl and I embarked on a conversational conspiracy—we told silly jokes, limericks, dirty jokes—very neighborly like and relaxed and dull (including the above limerick.) Suddenly John Hoffman74 (the subterranean, whose name and fortune you know) started to tell a joke, in a very straight and low voice—he had a lugubrious solemn voice, very deep and weary.

  “There was a cat who killed his mother—to collect on the insurance. They lived in an old house in Frisco and he didn’t get along with her anyway. He wanted to collect the insurance on her so he could take things cool for a change. But he knocked her off with a hatchet and suddenly he dug that if he tried to collect on her, he’d wind up taking a murder rap instead. So he decided not to blow his top and he finished off the job by chopping up her anatomy carefully; and every night he’d pick up a leg, or a shoulder, put it in a paper bag, and carry it out to the city dump. So he got rid of his old lady piece by piece until on the last night, he was beginning to breathe easier again. He was walking down the street toward the dump and he had in his paper bag her heart, the last of her corpse. Just when he went to cross the street he slipped off the curb unexpectedly and went down, falling right on top of the bag, squashing it. He almost blew his top and picked himself up, cursing, when all of a sudden he heard a sad, frightened voice: ‘Did I hurt you, son?’”

  I remember how his story shocked me, it fell like a maniacal bombshell, told in that solemn and world empty voice. That’s the deepest I remember of Hoffman.

  I see you are digging Lamantia, who is a very interesting chap. Neal, I remember, met him (and possibly H. [John Hoffman]) years ago at Solomon’s. Give him my regards, I am glad you know each other. Of course he’s cool—but did I ever tell you how, in the long space of dreary time when Jack was away, and Claude up the river, and I had not met Neal, I used to haunt the art library at Columbia, in a post Rimbaud love, and read Surrealist magazines. Well, I was astounded one day, when in VVV75 (3 V’s) a N.Y. transplantation of the style, a magazine like View, I ran into the poems of thirteen year old Lamantia (1945-4)—and I even remember envying and admiring him. I even remember two lines from a meaningless poemat the bottom of the Lake

  at the bottom of the Lake

  a refrain of some sort. I followed his career vaguely, and ran into him in N.Y. also 2 years ago with great joy at the widening circle. Now you have him around.

  Send me some peyote. Who else you know? How about digging Henry Miller?

  Carl is serious about Neal’s manuscript. Neal, get to it, honey lamb. He’ll give you money and you are a great man.

  How I miss both of you, and wish I were there with you so that we could share hearts again. I know I am hard to get along with and proud. I insulted Jack before he left and felt many twinges of sadness, that’s what I meant in the telegram. I only hope that you two are not laughing at me or mocking me when I am here away from your warmth. Write me, I think about you all the time, and have no one to talk to as only we can talk.

  So I have been reading a lot of things—Balzac (Goriot and Distinguished Provincial) Herman Hesse, Kafka’s great diaries, Faulkner’s Requiem and Soldier’s Pay, cumming’s Enormous Room, W. C. Williams’ Autobiography, R. Lowell’s poetry, Goethe’s Werther, Lawrence’s Plumed Serpent, Hardy’s Jude the Obscure; Gogol’s unknown novels; Stendhal’s Charterhouse, Ansen’s essays on Auden; Holmes’ book, Genet’s Miracle of the Rose, etc. Genet is the most beautiful. He is also a great poet, I am translating a poem called “Le Condamne a Mort” (“Man in Death Cell”)—Maurice Pilorge, his lover says—a long poem—65 huge Dakar Doldrums—pornographic stanzas of love—great as “Bateau Ivre.” In the Cell, he says—1. “Ne chante pas ce soir les ‘Costeauds de La Lune’”

  (Tonite don’t sing me the “Hoods of the Moon.”)

  2. Gamin d’or sois piutot princesse d’un tour

  (Golden boy, go be a Princess in a tower)

  3. Revant melancholique a notre pauvre amour

  (With a melancholy dream of our poor love)

  4. ou sois le mousse blonde qui veille a la grand’ hune.

  (or be the blond cabinboy up on the mast)

  (like Melville’s dream)

  The stanza before goesDis moi quel malheur fou fait eclater ton oeil

  D’un desespir si haut . . .

  Tell me, what crazy unhappiness lit up your eye with a despair so high . . . etc.

  Well there’s a lot of great golden-obscene poetry—I can’t have time to write it, like“Enfant d’honneur si beau / corrone / de lilas!

  [ . . . ]

  John Holmes’ novel [Go] is no good, I believe. I was shocked when I got his eyedea of me. But maybe I’m so prejudiced. John Hall Wheelock, his editor, says that Holmes’ conception is of a real poet, and that the poems (imitations of mine) are profound mystic poetry. Whore! Whore! Whore! as old Bull uster say; or how wondrous doth the Wheel of the World turn! But I say Wheelock is a fool, and Holmes because he talks nice and treats self badly in book, as badly as me or you, is not so much of a fool.

  However Marian and John [Holmes] have actually separated. He lives somewhere else now. I went by to see him, he wasn’t home, I haven’t heard of him since. I wait developments.

  I’ve been spending weekends out at Alan Ansen’s house (you and Neal drop him a hello Valentine)—and am acting as his agent. He’s also writing a strange literary but very sad novel about a spectre of a party at Cannastra’s. Perhaps I will be able to get Auden essays in book by him through Mardeau’s [Alene Lee] publisher (Goreham Munson, an old-time midtown ninny.) Ansen sends regards to Al Hinkle. So do I, thank them for the pretty Christmas car
d they sent me.

  I love a great new group of Subterraneans—I pointed out one Bill Keck, the N.Y. peyotl connection, to Jack. See if Lamantia knows him (and Anton [Rosenberg], Norrie, and Stanley Gould of course) and I see Peter Van Meter, and may move in with him while I’m waiting for a ship.

  I registered Jan. 7 with NMU [National Maritime Union], have a tripcard as a yeoman, but have been going to the Hall, and no tripcard yeoman’s job has come up. That’s all besides reading, writing and socializing that I’ve been doing. I go there every day from 10 AM 11-/ to 3 PM. My registration is running out, I don’t know what I’ll do, except hang on and really make a ship, as I do want to. I don’t know how you would do if, Jack, you came east. Norfolk, of course, perhaps but who knows what’s going on in Norfolk? There are very few tripcard yeomen in N.Y. but still no free jobs.

  As for Wyn, Jack, the whole thing will be easily resolved if you: 1. Write A.A. Wyn (Jollson) a note of two paragraphs, saying you are working on the novel and feel sure that a first version of it will be complete on (_____) you fill in date, but not too near, give yourself at least one year to integrate your notes and ideas.

  Tell him in as few words as possible and in as least alarming manner as possible that you have changed your plan or method of approach somewhat, but like what you have as a result.

  And say that of course you know he will have the final say-so on publication, you have that in mind and feel sure that you and he will see eye to eye on completed manuscript, and you are of course willing to make revisions as he suggests, compatible with your own idea of integrity of structure.

  On this basis (knowing that you may have to do some re-integrative revision, or that is, have to sweat out a little extra work,) tell him that contract as proposed by Carl is O.K., and that Carl knows how you want money apportioned. (Carl hasn’t showed him your other letter yet)—(and also Carl will consult with Eugene [Brooks] on legal details—that’s all there is to it.) Let’s see you rejoice with the Ball of God. Send the letter, if O.K. by you, immediately, and you’ll have contract signed and O.K. in jiffy and be free to do what you want and finish book.

  It sounds O.K. to me as described in Carl’s letter, broken up sections and all—just like last Faulkner book. All I wonder is if you’re trying to escape (as I always do) the sweat of patient integration and structuring which you slaved over on T. and C. This my aside, is what Carl is worried about. Aside from that book sounds O.K. as it is if it is as you describe it.

  Please also write Laughlin (New Directions) 333 6th Ave. N.Y.C.—a short note telling him how much you like Bill’s book recommending it for prose and great archive value, and telling him you’re out of town and I’m Denison [Burroughs] ’s connection here for moment. I wrote him six page letter (to Laughlin) telling him why it’s great book. I have revised version Bill sent up two weeks ago,—smoother, now, not so weird Reichian. Great book. If Laughlin no want, we’ll peddle it to cheap paper cover 25¢ Gold Medal or Signet books, like I, Mobster.

  How or when will I ever hear your records? I sit here and my soul lacks you Neal and you Jack. I hope my ship goes your way to Frisco. I don’t want ever to fade from your minds.

  Love,

  Allen

  I read this over and it sounds so weak and matter of fact and hung up on details so as to bore you, while I see your bloody-red clouds of the western flood and Pacific riding by me here to the Atlantic. Send me a smoke signal from the cloud factory.

  Jack Kerouac [San Francisco, California] to

  Allen Ginsberg [Paterson, New Jersey]

  February 25, 1952

  Dear Allen:

  Your latest poem, about the poor young cowboy in his Texas shroud automobile [“A Crazy Spiritual”] is almost the best and maybe the best you’ve ever done and Neal himself specifically thought so tonight and leave it just as it is, except, leave “wooden leg” instead of “pegleg” it’s better rhythm and purer and originaller, so that’s a great, great poem.

  I think you should call your collected poems Don’t Knowbody Laff Behind My America Hunchback and use a picture on the cover of you sitting in that shroudy stranger sewage pipe Wilburg Pippin Central Park, remember?

  Also, when you find time, tell Carl [Solomon] the picture for the cover of On the Road is in Pippin’s76 possession. [. . .]

  Go down there and get your own picture of shroudy sewer too and I want my On the Road picture the one with the cigarette; Sara Yokley77 has only other copy (and while you’re at it pick up picture of Neal at mantelpiece with dollar over his cock, remember?)

  Bill [Burroughs] just wrote and’s waiting for me to join him at 210 Orizaba [Mexico City] . . . his case still pending. I’m ready to fly soon. [Lewis] Marker being gone, he resumed habit “for health.”

  Incidentally do NOT tell Bill I’m writing a book about him because he may get self-conscious and uninteresting and I really want to sketch him unawares, you dig.

  What’ll I call this latest new book after Road?

  How about DOWN?

  Yes, your latest poem is the finest suprafine, nothing wrong with anything you do lately, and so write to me again, I like to hear everything, etc.

  I sent Carl excerpt of Road to reassure him and proposed papercover separate shorter edition of Road (sexy party) and also publication in papercover of Lucien novel (the one Bill and I wrote together 1945 [And The Hippos Were Boiled In Their Tanks]) but you must beware of telling Lucien who will object and have us thrown in the madhouse the whole literary movement and slam the door after us in the name of politics of the United Press and the United States of Amerkee.

  Don’t nobody fuck with the spiderweb.

  What’s wrong with the spiderweb [“Long Live the Spiderweb”] is that you didn’t spend seven years wasting on it, you did a lot of other too, ha hee hee.

  (It’s okay, don’t worry).

  and your Harlem vision I don’t understand the difference between abstract description of something and mystical description . . . if you feel my Richmond Hill tree poem is, as you say, “exactly the same kick” then how can you make big tsimmis about one vision when, as proved by Richmond Hill to me, you can get high and “mystical” or “abstract” anytime anywhere; goes for you too of course, you so high alla time whatsa matter you dumb dope you hey stumboutsa mougavala, yr current poetry is, to me, best.

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

  Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady [San Francisco, California]

  ca. March 8, 1952

  Mon Cher Jack, Mon Cher Neal:

  Things is going great. Since I last wrote you I have been working steadily at typewriter piecing together mad poems—I have already 100 of them, I’m jumping. Listen to this: I’m putting together fragments of “Shroudy Stranger,” with a small descriptive poem—too busy on fragments to get to the EPIC which will be next. [the draft of “Fragments of the Monument” was included here]

  Now, what I want to know from you: my fantasies and phrases have gotten so lovingly mixed up in yours, Jack, I hardly know whose is which and who’s used what: like rainfall’s hood and moon is half yours. I am enclosing copies of poems that seem to stem from you, like rhetoric at end of “Long Poem”—is “very summa and dove” yours? I’m not haggling I just want to know if it’s OK to use anything I want that creeps in?

  Spoke to [William Carlos] Williams on phone, go down to River Street tomorrow. He said he already (he hasn’t seen the whole hundred, just about five poems) spoken with Random House (I thought it was going to be New Directions) and book may be there. Isn’t this crazy? I’ve been off my nut with work and giggling. Speaking of which one poem enclosed beginning “Now Mind is Clear” sounds like synopsis of Giggling Ling. Is that OK? Also I enclose, “After Gogol.” Do or did you use the idea? If I use it will it screw up you? Fuck, lets both use it. [John] Hollander thinks I have burst forth like Rilke and cries whenever he looks at me, for amazement. But I tell you really, though I’ll be depressed and incompetent and in a bughouse in three
weeks, I swear I really have got the whole metrical problem at last by the balls, and that been holding me up—meter, breaking out of it, and talking like we really talk, about madtown. I was all wrong.

  Listen to these “poems”: (a book if any will be called Scratches in the Ledger; and will be dedicated to Jack Kerouac, Lucien Carr and Neal Cassady: “VAST GENIUSES OF AMERICA WHO HAVE GIVEN ME METHOD AND FACT”)

  Jack Kerouac [San Francisco, California] to

  Allen Ginsberg [Paterson, New Jersey]

  March 15, 1952

  Dear Allen:

  Blow, baby, blow!

  I never knew you’d realize you’re great poet without my help (in telling you, that is, not in genius, “assistance”) (is completely your own). Summa and dove.

  In fact your letter was read by big great Neal and, without even knowing of its existence, Carolyn found it under the garbage sink where the baby girls threw it; otherwise I might never have seen it. (Neal loves you—he just works sixteen hours, twenty hours a day at hard crazy labour, for no reason except alleviation of his anxieties about the world and also saving up for a big Carolynhomecoming trip to Tennessee in their station wagon all five of ’em—Jamie, Cathy, Jack Allen, Neal, Carolyn—I may ride with them far as Nogales to go get me a store of T. [marijuana] for my next litry effort—but Neal’s awright, disregard he can’t write, he has no thumb.)78

  The only phrase which I have used in On the Road is “strange angel”—disregard ANY worries about “stealing from each other”—I steal from you all the time, it’s okay—anything that creeps in is the only truth . . . we’re creeping in the shroud. Please however, make these two improvements in your poems