Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg

by Jack Kerouac

  Secondly, you know of course that great secrecy is desirable vis-a-vis your new relationship with MCA, particularly as there is still a delicate situation to be dealt with at A.A. Wyn. Solomon knows nothing of your recent activities. I have, by your express instructions, said nothing to him of any import on anything remotely concerning your present publishing position. So, if you do see him, and speak of this matter, or any other, I beg you for your own sake to breathe not a word about MCA. And certainly, if you wish to see him, avoid MCA as intermediary, until they say so.

  I applaud your discrimination in choosing the method of praise which you have consented to accord to Mr. Lee’s writings. I am sure that he, as well as myself as his agent, would be gratified by this instance of your esteem, were he apprised of the facts. He is, as you know, traveling in South America now and cannot be reached for consultation on matters of publicity. I have been proceeding carefully as possible on my own in his behalf, though mistakes are to be made and unmade I am sure.

  A further question, perhaps to be decided by your agent: do you really feel the possibility of threat of persecution for drug reasons as a result of your contribution to the publicity? The pseudonym conceals the author’s name as he confesses, as you know, to a number of statutory crimes. This does not involve a threat, except perhaps of social disapproval, to anyone who chooses to praise his writing.

  A further word as to my own position: though your name is being cried on the streets for book trade reasons, I would not dream of participating in this particular request to you except for reasons of high literary seriousness. I have faith in the quality of the book I am dealing with. I would not, as well, make use of your name for any other purpose publicly. The motives of the publisher, A.A. Wyn, are, as far as I am concerned, for the most part beneath my interest; and I do not find it necessary for my purposes to concern myself with their motives except infrequently for tactical reasons. As evidence of the latter I adduce my paragraph consulting you to keep silent about your arrangements with MCA until MCA makes it public.

  I cannot close this letter without thanking you once again for your paragraph which seems to combine all the proper elements and catch the spirit of admiration which I hope one day will be universally accorded to the work we are dealing with.

  Yours most respectfully and in the spirit of strictest commerce,

  Allen Ginsberg

  P.S. Once again let me apologize for bothering you on this matter. I will of course follow your suggestion and clear such matters with MCA first, on this situation and on any others to come.

  Editors’ Note: Typically, their disagreement was short-lived, and before long Kerouac was again asking Ginsberg to represent him with publishers in New York City.

  Jack Kerouac [San Luis Obispo, California] to

  Allen Ginsberg [New York, New York]

  May 7, 1953

  Dear Allen:

  Are you willing to take a chance with Sax and Maggie Cassidy primarily Sax. They’re in the upper right hand drawer of my rolltop desk at 94-21 134th—If you agree to agent Doctor Sax (We disagreed over ROAD, not SAX, right?) I’ll write and notify my Ma to give them to you when you call. Further, if Phyllis Jackson drops T&C, that would devolve to you too. I just don’t see the sense of letting Doctor Sax rot in my desk. Send it anywhere—but just don’t let every Tom Dick and Harry read it (Sax)—the first thing you know that style will begin to appear in New Writing and elsewhere—fuck Martha Foley’s son88 and his excerpt shit—get SAX published nobly as the architectural creation and symphony it is, please—if you don’t want to handle Sax (and also Maggie) let me know soon—I’m still miserable—in fact worse—my mind has begun to narrow in its spin, like the lip the throat of a whirlpool—I’m going going—But also I’m peaceful and work and sleep. How about you?

  Note

  Neal [Cassady] got badly injured here—fell off, was knocked off a boxcar, fell on an iron end bumper, slashed his chest, cracked his foot back to touch his ankle—is now home on crutches—write to him—I saw him at the hospital—I haven’t seen Carolyn yet but may go live with them—I am now in the mountains—braking—this summer I plan to go up into the wilderness and learn to survive by myself fishing and making Indian acorn mush and hunting etc. in preparation for when I won’t be able to make it in culture and civilization any more.

  What’s with A.A. Wyn and Maggie Cassidy?

  Well,—I hope you are well—Please give me Bill’s latest address and ask him to—well I’ll ask him, for Kells Elvins’ address, he is in Frisco someplace, yachting—

  I am so bored, aren’t you?

  Jack

  Allen Ginsberg [New York, New York] to

  Jack Kerouac [n.p., San Luis Obispo, California?]

  May 13, 1953

  Dear Jack:

  I got your letter yesterday. I’ll write to Neal immediately. I wrote to Bill today giving him your address. His is now: W.S. Burroughs c/o U.S. Consulate, Lima Peru. He’ll be there another two weeks maybe. He’s writing YAGE book.

  I have a lot to tell you—got a job with a literary agency, got fired, am unemployed (though have money from work for brother) and full of ideas and writing. In next letter will explain all. I will write all summer, have book to put together (another) and a great new work founded on the imagination and new philosophy. Dr. Sax and Maggie are publishable and I will take steps immediately to publish them.

  You must leave everything to me, or trust me, or something. Do the following things. Inform your mother that I will be out to see her (not bringing the monster) and will pick up both books. Send me a letter enclosing a note to Phyllis Jackson at M.C.A. saying:

  “Please take whatever steps are necessary to publish Dr. Sax and Springtime Maggie (Maggie Cassidy or whatever) at your convenience as soon as possible. Allen Ginsberg will be able to speak for me and handle my affairs in connection with these two books during my absence from NYC.”

  That’s all the note should say. I have been on the telephone arranging things today. Wyn has rejected Maggie Cassidy.

  Any further communications should be through me, Jack, please. I am sure that I know how to handle this situation completely.

  I will operate through the facilities of M.C.A. who are willing to cooperate in the manner that I have arranged with them. If they cannot place it—though they are interested and will try—I will peddle it further myself, with their OK and goodwill.

  Send me the above note to transmit to them, and don’t get in touch with anybody till I tell you (anybody in publishing).

  (Cowley89 doesn’t know, incidentally, that you have any other ideas about On the Road, such as you expressed to me in N.Y. He is still friendly disposed professionally.)

  I will write further tomorrow. Answer by return mail sending the note above.

  All my love,

  Allen

  Allen Ginsberg [New York, New York] to

  Jack Kerouac [n.p., New York, New York?]

  July 2, 1953

  Thursday Noon

  Dear Jack:

  “Just” a note on general plans:

  1. Could you bring in other copies—carbons—of Sax and Maggie. This way I think it is good, we will also publish sections in New Writing, and several other large anthologies I have in mind (Perspectives). Circulate at same time and save time.

  2. Do you have any short pieces at all around of any kind that you would like published in such (above places). Bring them too.

  3. Will you make (yourself) a list of selections or excerptable sections from Maggie, and Sax, for above purposes? (As M. Lowry did)

  4. Are there any parts of On the Road, Version I or II which you think will be in the final version or which you would like to see printed now? Bring those in.

  5. Can you give me copies of On the Road I and II for my own use to study (for my own poetry) and for my projected essay:

  INTRODUCTION TO THE PROSE OF JACK KEROUAC

  which I have been thinking of for half a year and which I am ready to b
egin.

  I am off all weekend from Fri. at 4:00 to Monday morning on account of the holiday. Walter Adams is supposed to come early evening Friday; and Alan Ansen invited me out to Woodmere Saturday night tentatively. I would like really to go away to shore or mountain for the days (I never get two days off as a rule—this is July 4) but I don’t know where to go. If I could think of somewhere I would cancel all others and scram.

  As ever, as Bill says,

  Allen

  In fact I may cancel others anyway on general principles.

  Allen Ginsberg [New York, New York] to

  Jack Kerouac [n.p., New York, New York?]

  July 13, 1953

  Dear Jack:

  Business:

  I finally picked up Maggie from Wyn & a letter of rejection, and delivered them to MCA. Hard as pulling teeth, they kept putting me off and evading, God knows why.

  The following documents are necessary for me to have:1. A copy of your contract with Wyn. Do you still have that at all or did I understand that you mailed it back to them? If you have it, need it. If not I will get one from them.

  2. All correspondence from Wyn that has anything of business in it. Particularly letters (if any) rejecting On the Road (Visions of Neal version) and Dr. Sax. Did they ever send you those letters, or was all dealings mouthly? If not, I will also get them from Wyn. Also letters asking for revisions, etc.

  This makes three definite documents I need, and all supplementary ones you have around. This is very important. Mail them to me or bring them this week. If you haven’t any one of the three let me know.

  Carl [Solomon] shouldn’t know any more (than he does) about present publishing plans. So if you see him or anyone likely to converse with him about you, don’t say anything. As far as I said today was that I was trying to place Maggie and Sax, didn’t talk about anything else. He knows about [Malcolm] Cowley etc. from last season but should not know an inch more, and further conversation on that score should be wrapped in confusion and obscurity. Unless you have alternative plans, of which please let me know. This too is very important. Delicate. Subtle.

  MCA thinks the short piece in Cowley’s hands is publishable here (or foreign), and will find out what he has done with it. He’s away for last three weeks, be back in seven days.

  I have a note from P.O. saying three registered letters are in (from Burroughs) at post office for me to pick up tomorrow. The continuation of Yage.

  I am off Wednesday (so is Lucien that rat) so am free Tuesday evening, and Wednesday.

  Finished Confidence Man. It’s about the void between friends, the break in continuity of innocent faith, between man. Exploration of that skull “reality” which suicided Pierre.

  Began your essay.

  Love,

  Allen

  Jack Kerouac [Richmond Hill, New York] to Allen Ginsberg

  and William S. Burroughs [New York, New York]

  Nov 21 53

  Dear Allen and Bill:

  Feel the need to write a letter to the two of you, sittin in front of my typewriter with goofball in, wine glass out—just wrote to [Malcolm] Cowley on business about New World Writing but threw in the following: “I see from the latest New World Writing where Libra or Gore Vidal is trying to tear you down to lift himself up to position of big new dean critic which is such a laff he’s just such a pretentious little fag. They told me in 1950 that the homosexuals were very powerful in American Literature but since then what’s troubled me is not that, so much as the certain dull individuals who happen to be homosexual who have grabbed off the limelight and therefore the temporary influence second rate anecdote repeaters like Bowles, pretentious silly females with flairs for titles like Carson McCullers, clever dramaturgists, grave self-revelers too naive to see the shame of their position like Vidal, really it’s too much—think I’ll come out soon and make a statement—every single original musical genius in America, for instance, “has been to jail or prison; I assure you the same holds true for literature”—How’s that? and next line in letter reads: “This is the time”—(the musical geniuses like Bud Powell, Bird, Bill Holiday, Lester Young, Jerry Mulligan, Thelonious Monk)—So that’s tellin em! hey? I’ll fix that Vidal; I’ll libra him; I’ll ad astra that ass hole a?

  Purpose of this letter is not to yak like this, tho, but serious necessity, to say, I had the Dolophine Visions now and after 48 hours of hi American chemical synthetic I am actually now junksick I guess and so lushing and barbitrating—but in the midst of that feeling such great tenderness and love for you two fellows, together or alone, wish there was some heavenly accolade I could lay on you or something you’d value—and soon we are going in three directions—but eventually and about a year probably we all probably be in Mexico City anyhow—but now I want to make a speech, an after dinner speech, a big successful fat cigar big steakdown after dinner speech, don’t know really what to say, ain’t no George Jessel, know you understand, etc. and just writing and mailing this letter and goofballs got me now, you boys okay, you boys gonna go heaven ya, you boys, coupla fine fellows, that what, tha wha, you bonna be do all right, okay, in heaven dog, love you.

  As ever

  Jack

  1954

  Editors’ Note: By the end of 1953, Ginsberg had saved enough money for a trip to visit Neal Cassady in San Jose. He decided that he’d make it a leisurely visit and stay for an extended period of time, and perhaps get a job in San Francisco and find his own apartment. He left New York in December and traveled by way of Florida, Cuba, and Mexico, writing long descriptive letters on the way. Since he was on the move in a remote part of Mexico, Kerouac did not have any way of writing to him, so the correspondence from this period is one-sided.

  Allen Ginsberg [Merida, Mexico] to Jack Kerouac,

  Neal Cassady, and Carolyn Cassady [San Jose, California]

  before January 12, 1954

  Dear Jack and Neal and Carolyn:

  I am sitting here on the balcony of my Merida “Casa de Huespedes” looking down the block to the Square at twilite—have a big $5 peso room for the nite, just returned from eight days inland. Came by plane from horrid Havana and more horrid Miami Beach. All these tropical stars—just filled my gut with big meal and codeinettas and am sitting down to enjoy the nite—first rest I’ve had in longtime.

  Saw Bill [Burroughs]’s Marker [Lewis Marker] in Jacksonville—a sweet fellow who donated $12 to my trip on his own hook, very simpatico—but, and, I must say Bill’s taste in boys is macabre—(to say the least etc.) he is so starved looking and rickety and pitifully purseymouthed and “laid”—French for ugly and with a disgusting birthmark below left ear—and skin the texture of a badly shaved hemophiliac. The first sight of him was a shock—poor poor Bill! To be in love with that sickly myopic pebblemouthed scarecrow! Had great long talk about mystical ignus personality and drank rum and stayed in big moldy apartment in slums house that he owns.

  In Palm Beach I called up the Burroughs family and was given big welcome—Xmas dinner and put me up at fancy hotel and drove me around town sightseeing and asked me about Bill, who I told them was “a very good and perhaps become a very great writer” which I think they liked to hear said, and was glad to say it in most conservative Bob Merims90 considering manner. Old Burroughs very nice, some of Bill’s innate wisdom-tooth. Miami Beach I stopped overnite for $1.50 and saw all the mad hotels—miles of them—too much for the eye, the lushest unreal spectacle I ever saw. Also ran into Alan Eager91 at a Birdland they have there. Key West pretty like Provincetown, nothing happened there, rode on Keys on truck at nite. Havana I won’t talk of—kind of dreary rotting antiquity, rotting stone, heaviness all about and don’t dig Cubans much even in Cuba. Got lost penniless twenty miles out of town in small village and had to be sent home on train with man who bought me drinks. So sad, so hospitable, but I wanted to get away, can’t dig his fate. Marvelous first airplane air vistas of the earth, Carib Isles, great green maplike Yucatan Coast maplike below with sinkholes in earth of li
mestone crust and narrow road and trails like antpath down below and little cities like mushrooms in pockets and hollows of afternoon hills, and windmills.

  Stayed in Merida three days at this place, ran into two Quintana Roo Indians and drove in horse carriage round city, met mayor’s brother so got invited to big City Hall ceremonies New Years day—free beer and sandwiches overlooking plaza on balcony City Hall; that nite, New Years, formal dress—New York-Paris-London society type “Country Cloob” (Club) champagne free and French and English and German speaking industrialists and young Yucatan Spanish girls fresh from New Orleans finishing school—all dressed in tux and party evening dress at tables under stars—nothing happened I just wandered around and talked to people, then after went downtown and heard poor mambo in dancehalls and drank little and slept at 5 AM. Next day to Chichen Itza where I got free house next to pyramid and spent days eating in native hut for 7 pesos a day, wandering around great ruins—at nite take hammock up on top of big pyramid temple (whole dead city to myself as living in archeologists’ camp) and look at stars and void and deathheads engraved up on stone pillars and write and doze on codeinetta. Free guide from where I eat, and drink every nite before supper at Richman’s Mayaland Hotel talk to rich Americans, meet thirty-five year old Ginger B. all hung up on Yucatan songs and costumes, dumb, drag, talking bitch sad. Stars over pyramids—tropic nite, forest of chirruping insects, birds and maybe owls—once I heard one hooting—great stone portals, bas relief of unknown perceptions, half a thousand years old—and earlier in day saw stone cocks a thousand years old grown over with moss and batshit in dripping vaulted room of stone stuck in the wall. A high air silent above niteforest—tho a clap of hands brings great echoes from various pillars and arenas. So then left for Valladolid—money already running out—in central Yucatan and nite there with amigo speaking English who showed me the tower and I ate at his middleclass family house where his wife bowed respectful and a movie about ghosts—and next day awful miserable ten hour train to town name of Tizinia [sic: Tizimin] for the oldest fiesta of Mexico; most venerable Indians from Campeche and Tabasco on train with great sacks full of food and babies and hammocks; started on train at 4 A.M. morning rode till afternoon cramped no place to stand, train ran off rails, hold-ups, arrive at really crowded small town middle of nowhere—with silly bullring and 400 year old cathedral, mobbed by old Indians, candles, three wooden kings old as the conquest they came to see (three Mages)—the air of cathedral so smoky and so full of candles the wax on the floor was inches deep and slippery—thought I was the only American in town but later found a Buffalo optometrist on train back who said famous documentary film maker named Rotha92 was there with movie cameras—(I saw Rotha pix in Museum of Modern Art once)—trip back horrible—the boxcars with benches on sides and down center, wood, Mex-made and all crude, 110 people to car, people hanging on platform and even steps for hours—me too—so uncomfortable to sit it was insane, for 10 hours—and had left my codeine behind! (No have habit by the way only used two times) old women and babies falling asleep on my shoulder and lap, everybody suffering meaningless hour-long stops in the nite to change tracks or engines.