by Jack Kerouac
If so, it means I will come face to face with my romance, sheeps in heaven.
See you between the 16th and 23rd of September, though by now you don’t believe me any more.
Jockolio
Leaving Friday—can’t wait to see you.
[ . . . ]
1956
Editors’ Note: In September 1955, Kerouac arrived at Ginsberg’s Berkeley cottage door. At the very moment he was waiting for Allen to come home, Allen was meeting Gary Snyder for the first time and making arrangements for the Six Gallery poetry reading. Jack attended the reading , on October 7, but was too shy to read. Allen, Gary Snyder, Philip Lamantia, Philip Whalen, and Michael McClure read and Kenneth Rexroth acted as the master of ceremonies for the evening. In October, Gary and Jack went on a weekend camping trip that served as the basis for The Dharma Bums. Then in November, Natalie Jackson committed suicide while Jack was supposed to be keeping an eye on her for Neal. Both men were shaken by her death and Neal returned to live with Carolyn in Los Gatos. After a short visit with the Cassadys at the end of November, Kerouac eagerly returned to his mother who was living in Rocky Mount with Jack’s sister and brother-in-law. For the next few months, Jack remained in North Carolina working on several books, including Visions of Gerard.
Allen Ginsberg [Berkeley, California] to
Jack Kerouac [Rocky Mount, North Carolina]
1624 Milvia St.
Berkeley, Cal.
March 10, 1955 [sic: 1956]
Dear Jack:
Enclosed find letter from John Holmes. I’ll write him too. Enclosed also find the letter from Jonathan Williams114 I mentioned before. I have some notes I once showed you which I wrote in NYC which I will send him. I thought also to summarize Bill’s Naked Lunch and send a sample of Bill’s routines. Jonathan Williams’ letter is what it is. Black Mountain Review is run by Charles Olson (poet whose poem about hairy table I showed you in bookstore in Berkeley). Robert Duncan is now in N.C. also, teaching at Black Mountain [College], which apparently has a crazy hip crowd. I wrote Williams telling him you were in N.C. too, suggesting Duncan look you up, since he read Visions of Neal.
W.C. Williams apparently either never received or read neither your prose which I sent him nor a subsequent letter from me enclosing Howl for him to read. He wrote City Lights he would write an introduction if I sent him the manuscript I haven’t heard from him directly. I sent him another copy of Howl, and will inquire what happened to your prose later.
Cowley was in town, I spoke to him briefly, he didn’t remember me, then we got into an argument about Burroughs—“Keep away from him,” he said “I understand he killed his wife.” He mentioned On the Road, saying it would take time and was hung-up on the libel matter. Apparently they are all ballooned seriously on that issue. I didn’t like Cowley this time.
Lucien wrote: “Jack stayed here coupla days. Seemed quite cheery. Thought his stuff about brother Gerard quite excellent also. Glad to see you both on a less obscurantist, obfuscating kick. Also enjoyed his story in Paris Review.” . . . “I was made Night Bureau Manager recently which I guess means I’m white, if poverty stricken.”
Orlovsky moved into big happy modern housing project, gave Lafcadio peyote and got him laid. LaVigne having big shows of spontaneous drawings at The Place and City Lights bookstore. I had a big dream last night that Neal moved into my old neighborhood in Paterson. I’m working lugging baggage at Greyhound Station in SF, $13 a day, and applied at MSTS and MCS for ship, hope to get one inside two months.
Snyder living with [Locke] McCorkle at Mill Valley, [Philip] Whalen comes over for supper a few times a week, I stay in town at Peter’s a few nites a week when working. Revised Moloch which is now three pages long—“Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo,” etc.
See you in Time,
Love
Allen
Editors’ Note: In April Kerouac returned to the Bay Area and moved in with Gary Snyder, who was living in a cabin in Mill Valley while preparing to leave for a Buddhist monastery in Japan. With Snyder and Whalen’s help, Jack applied for work as a forest fire spotter on a remote mountain peak in Washington State that summer, while Allen found work in the merchant marines on a ship resupplying radar bases in the Arctic Circle.
Allen Ginsberg [USNS Joseph F. Merrell, San Francisco,
California] to Jack Kerouac [Mill Valley, California]
ca. late May 1956
Allen Ginsberg, Yeoman
USNS Joseph F. Merrell
TAKV-4
c/o Fleet P.O. S.F., Cal.
Jack:
Enclosed $20.00 ten I owe you ten because I’m rich. If you need any more for north-ward trip let me know.
Received proofs on my book [Howl and Other Poems] and Ferlinghetti asked for extra poems to include so I sent him Holy! etc. and a new four page Greyhound poem you haven’t seen yet. I leave 16th St. and 3rd shipyards pier 64 Triple A, on the 4th June to go to Oakland Supply Army Base, and sail on the 8th for Hawaii, then up to Seattle I think and then to Arctic. I maybe in Seattle till the end of June with weekends off so I’ll hire a helicopter to visit Desolation Peak.
Several letters from Bill [Burroughs] in Berkeley I haven’t seen yet. Eugene my brother had a baby boy named Alan Eugene Brooks. I didn’t realize he loved me so.
I guess I’ll see you before I leave, may in fact come out this weekend to Mill Valley. I gave Burroughs’ Yage City to [Robert] Creeley.
Needle man won’t print “Railroad Earth”—the young Italian Zoot Suit anarchists who support him think it’s not political anarchism, and they pay him to publish latter. He says he’s sorry. I saw him at Creeley reading.
I sent copies of Howl to T.S. Eliot, [Ezra] Pound, [William] Faulkner, [Mark] Van Doren, Meyer Schapiro, [Richard] Eberhart, [Lionel] Trilling, till they were exhausted (the copies). I wonder what T.S. Eliot will do. I wrote them each about you too. Funny letters to each. Imagine to T.S. Eliot.
I have a headache and am wandering around S.F. Friday afternoon with money and briefcase and poems and leather jacket and khaki shirt and pants and haircut with nothing to do. Stopped here in the Chinese Post Office by the Chinatown park.
What happened with Neal—you spent two-three days?
Love,
Allen
Allen Ginsberg [USNS Sgt. Jack J. Pendleton, Point Barrow,
Alaska] to Jack Kerouac [n.p., Desolation Peak, Washington?]
August 12-18, 1956
August 12, 1956
Dear Jack:
[ . . . ]
So have been up and down north coast of Alaska for a month, now at northern-most Point Barrow. Sun is out all night or was in midsummer last week, dread ghastly pallor all nite thru clouds, and this week fantastic burning iron sun going down at edge of horizon every nite for a few hours, clear weather. The water always moving clouds always moving, birds same clouds and me same like a transparent shifting haze everywhere changing. I spend a lot of time at the prow at nite, often on my knees, praying, but don’t know to who or what. I thought of you and wanted to write but didn’t know what to say, what you would find acceptable, and still feel ill at ease. I thought of writing you huge envy-worry-love confession but the sun’s in my eye and why bother you. And Gregory Corso is in S.F. heard so from Whalen and then got a short crazy letter from him—so sharp—.
“. . America cry was embarrassing . . . but so was Novalis and Wackenroder. And Kleist had the Amazon eat her lover raw right on the stage the German poets are the end. Read Howl and thought why when Rimbaud put us all down by 19ing himself. You are old. I am old. Our cries sound more like cracked wheezes than GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRS. And love. We are too old to say what love is. Easily enough we can call it Zen Polemic Boycock. If you didn’t write and live a great poem before your 30th year give up. I told that to [Archibald] MacLeish, and he sent me away from Cambridge. Goodbye, Gregory Corso.”
And he included a play, first art, crazy play called “Way Out” which is written all in style
of his poem on Bird, in poetic hip talk, and is very beautiful too.
[ . . . ]
Letter also from Burroughs and Ansen in Venice where they’re having a ball in “Mohammedan paradise with boys” and Auden is joining them maybe in the fall. Bill left London cursing London and Seymour Wyse too who he complains kept standing him up.
Finally came up against a sea full of ice floes and sailed around in that for two days, banged hull against one and cracked the fantail and flooded one of the rooms, that’s all fixed, I watched divers all day the other day swimming in Mars suits underwater, and took a ride around Barrow waters under the huge hulls of ships in a small landing craft, delivering papers. Work’s easy, lots of time off. Have not masturbated since leaving Seattle and so last week finally a flood of sexy daydreams and night dreams which came up like typhoon and I started writing a long poem of them, and finally it all stopped and left me more or less peaceful and undrowned. It’s all in the mind. It went away.
Work here is finished (it’s now the 18th August) and probably will leave here for S.F. today or tomorrow. I have weekend off to finish Bible if can.
Got a copy of Howl from City Lights, looks all right sort of sloppy and a few typographical errors and they left out Joan Dream poem I wanted in, and put in a few I didn’t care about. Next time will take my time and not be so eager to finish a book.
Wrote Gregory to stay put in S.F. perhaps City Lights will do a book for him.
Have so far $850 in the bank in N.Y.C. from this trip plus my mother’s money115 (as of end of this month August). Will be in S.F. Hope to hear from you—when you get back?—earlier if possible—and make plans for soon return via knapsack thru New Mexico Grand Canyon and Chicago hitchhike, will buy sleeping bag, maybe stop off in Mexico? Anyway I should be in S.F. in two weeks if ship doesn’t change plans. Mail service is irregular I don’t know if this note will get to you before I leave here or be held on ship till S.F.
You must be lonely or strange in all that solitude on mountain if you don’t get mail.
I’ve written journals and notes and a few psalms and the long sex poem, so far about Haldon [Chase] and Neal.
I wrote Hal also and sent him the clipping and your sympathies. Short note, said I might pass thru Denver and would look him up if he’s there.
Saw [Bob] Merims also before leaving S.F. for half hour, he on way to Japan, gave him Gary’s [Snyder] address. Heard from Whalen, Marthe Rexroth back in S.F. Whalen is a pillar of strength like you said.
Picture of Walt Whitman—I just finished last month also a huge biography. Notice ever that guarded look in his eye? Nothing like the poetry. I finally understood it when I quit masturbating for the trip—he’s hiding his queerness and tenderness, fear and shame. So the blank guarded lidded look, he put himself down. His journal note, poor Whitman, “his emotions are complete in himself (indifferent) of whether his love, friendship etc. are returned or not.” That’s why Whitman never made great lovely saintly photos of himself entreating the world of boys. Remarkable thing is the complete openness of the writing.
[ . . . ]
But after all the reading of Bible and thinking I am more confused as usual about the holy life to come. Sooner or later I guess I’ll have to start out totally poor and give up altogether. I guess when I finish taking care of Bill if I do so and return from Europe, it’ll be hard to live and get job and I’ll be too old for fucking with boys so I’ll be thrown into the outside and go friendless and not know what I’m doing anymore at all. We’ll see. Let me know where you are and will be September.
Love as ever.
Allen
Editors’ Note: After he returned from his fire-spotting job, Kerouac stayed only a few days in San Francisco before moving on to Mexico. Later in the year, Ginsberg, Corso, and the two Orlovsky brothers met him there.
Jack Kerouac [Mexico City, Mexico] to
Allen Ginsberg [San Francisco, California]
Sept. 26 1956
(Love to Peter)
Dear Allen:
Well here I am—Just (in my rooftop cell) wrote (by candlelight) first sad serious chapter of “The Angels In The World” which is about our most recent season in San Fran and which I’ll hold on to for three, four years while I publish other things, for it will be intensely wild and personal—All about you, me, Peter, Gregory, Lafcadio, Neal, etc., angels, etc. with invisible wings that don’t help—(and my vision of the silver crosses I saw).
Neal saw me off with that muddy hashish of his and near scared me to death with his railroad anxieties (“Keep out of sight!” he whispers from passenger coach as freight engine turns corner and puts big light on me)—Otherwise I woulda hopped freight with a song. As it is, you see, I made it, and what does it matter anyway?
Allen I want you to know I’m sorry I mistrusted you a while, now I trust and love you completely, even like you, so don’t worry—You are martyred type of pure goodness wearing mask of evil, for martyr-reasons. Go around tell these bums you have a good heart—I know you’re lechering but aren’t we all—(that is evil-seeming ulterior motives of sex-seekers but I do same to girls)—Just laid a fifteen year old gorgeous girl for 48 cents, tell Peter—Name is Rosa, I’ll bring Peter right to her—If you come. Are you coming? What precisely is the plan for our going to Europe?
I think I’ll go cause I don’t like Mexico anymore, shoulda stayed in Frisco for Life magazine,116 these Indians of Mu ain’t got no vibrations—Esperanza flipped on goofballs and tried to beat me and Bill up—Bill himself flipped and pissed in my bed poor dog (I was mad)—Awful first days.
What shall we do? I am lost in the world night. I’d like to go to Europe, yes, but let’s be careful of Tangiers, the Arabs will want to kill whites very soon. I may not go with you to rat hell hole. I’d like to eat bread and cheese in Paris garrets, visit museums and cathedrals, drink in sidewalk cafes.
I haven’t heard a word from my mother and I’m worried. It’s like being born into a new hateful world today, tonight, this week. I don’t understand anything. I told Neal to love Gregory but he don’t. I wrote Creeley and apologized for telling Duncan to stick the rose up his ass.
Let me know definite plans. Neal wants to drive you down, that would be best way and Neal needs a vacation I think (from Oral Roberts). I’ll look up boat fares to France outa Vera Cruz. I’m sorry I’m not God—I wish I was God. I’d make everybody’s wings appear and bring heaven on—why wait? What is this shit?
Your brother,
Jack
Allen Ginsberg [San Francisco, California] to
Jack Kerouac [Mexico City, Mexico]
October 1, 1956
5 Turner Terrace
SF Cal
Dear Jack:
Send poems or prose to Gregory for I.E. [The Cambridge Review]:—will publish Whalen, Snyder, me, you, etc.
Work ends here the 1st November I will hang around (I don’t think I’ll be shipped out again) till the 23rd or so for poetry reading with Gregory. Then leave for Mexico. All provided I don’t firewheel get shipped dynamite out.
Beginning to get long admiring letters from starry-eyed Parkinson117 and NY types about Howl. Did you see the NY Times September 2 article—I don’t remember? Yes, you must have I guess. You left about two weeks ago. Agh! I’m sick of the whole thing, that’s all I think about, famous authorhood, like a happy empty dream. W.C. Williams wrote he dug it and read it to “young artists” in NY and they were excited and “up their alley” and ordered five copies extra to pass around to the young. How beautiful, tho. I guess I really feel good about it. It’s assuming proportions of an “it” in my life. I will be glad to regain organic contact with Burroughs.
Here enclosed a letter from Sweet Prince Creeley. He writes me, sending incomprehensible short clipped poems—I don’t understand them, anyway usually.
I’ll maybe drive down with Gui De Angulo,118 Gregory and Peter—they’ll come too—and Lamantia? Regards to Garver. Tell him I send a book to him, autographed.
<
br /> Peter and I unable to sneak into The Lark (Joan of Arc) with Julie Harris left her a crazy note about not being able to pass the angels at the door and would she arrange for me and Peter to sneak in? So she sent back a letter via the manager giving us free tickets, and a $1.00 free program and invite to meet her after—we did—Peter will describe.
With Gui (she is sensitive she has shrunken freak red area sunken strange breasts—horrible—that’s why so dignified and private, suffering, set off apart) will drive to Big Sur this weekend stay maybe at her family house and visit Henry Miller at the baths Sunday morning and dig eternity in the landscape.
See you in maybe a month. Gregory writing long crazy jailhouse howl.
Allen
Allen Ginsberg [Berkeley, California] to
Jack Kerouac [n.p., Mexico City, Mexico?]
1624 Milvia
Oct 10, 1956
Dear Jackie:
Sorry not answer sooner—been running around, hanging around SF allee time, waiting for Neal to decide, what and when. Just returned to Berkeley for settle down a few weeks before heading for Mexico.
Me, Peter, Gregory and possibly bearded Hubert [Hube the Cube], possibly Gui de Angulo, will all go to Mexico City November 1. Peter and I will bring Gregory. I’m buying his records (for my brother) for 100 dollars, so he’ll have money to go anyway.
So much happened—first Neal—he went for his eye test, color blind, and he flunked, Dr. Strange rejected him—the same Dr. Strange that bugged me. He’s still working, but may be fired from S.P. as brakeman this week. Still up in air, he has to go to S.P. Hospital for retest—they can’t believe it. He doesn’t know what will happen. I’ll write further on this the end of the week. Era ending, Neal probably finished with SP unless he gets job in baggage room or otherwise. Also he says he wants to write again, maybe, on his post Cayce ideas. He has a new girl who loves him, a Bette from Chicago “No. 1 girl” in the rackets, bookies, gangsters, Mission Street, round eyes, mascara, slacks, cute little body, cool as cucumber, junkie, head, balls with spade chicks, blows Cowboy (trumpet) in alleys, thrice married, twenty-eight years, cars and babies and husbands back in Chicago, digs his body, doesn’t want him to make her hustle for his racetrack money. “Baby I don’t dig the horses but if you do I guess I got to now.” Gui gave her a pair of earrings. Peter, Greg and I made further friends with Gui, so we spend days and nites at her pad, Gregory yapping at her. She in hospital for operation, removed her female insides, no can have babies—nor has she breasts, Gregory one day saw by accident. Strange girl. Thinks about death and extinction, out of hospital, can’t stay home when no one is there, we keep rushing down to North Beach where she’s walking weak and twisted around a lamppost exhausted, bring her home. She was to drive us all to Mexico City—but she’s too ill, from operation, to make strenuous trip, nor can her car probably, so she will follow if at all by train, or see us in NY Xmas.
