by Jack Kerouac
Jack
1958
Allen Ginsberg [Paris, France] to
Jack Kerouac [Orlando, Florida]
9 Rue Git Le Coeur Paris 6
Jan 4, 57 [sic: 1958]
Dear Jack:
Don’t yell at me so drunk and wicked as in first aerogram from Fla., it is actually very upsetting, I don’t know how to answer—teach gentler. My writing is all fucked up it’s true, I write too little and am continually rusty at the black piano instead of blowing and ecstatic. Lately only time I can write well in fact is on junk (a shuddery dream)—tho I have great ideas. Latest is ten pages of political poetry (like Blake’s French Revolution) (Then Necker got up his robes full of the shrieking of golden babes and his voice shook the dank walls of the cavernous Louvre crying “Guillotine!” sample Blake type). Blake fits Whitman like a glove to apply to present day epic of Fall of America. [ . . . ]
We saw Sterling Lord, he took us all three to supper with his friends and kindly sat talking to us most of time, we read him Gregory’s new mad poem about SF—which he wrote per request of Esquire. “I looked at Alcatraz clutching my Pan’s foot with vivid hoard of Dannemora O stocky Alcatraz weeping on Neptune’s table and saw Death seated like a huge black stove.” He’s putting on his clothes now Sun nite, going with borrowed 10 mil franc note with foggy upstairs hipster by train to be a salesman in Germany—been sleeping in sleep bags on our floor last months—try to sell drawings of ghouls or Encyclopedia Britannica to soldiers in Frankfurt just decided to leave today try his fortune and see Germany. Told me to send you enclosed girl name Joy who’s waiting for you he’s been balling her but tired she lives in Paris and is Indonesian simple art model mostly homey type girl he say you can have her, make up for [Alene] Lee and Paris goil.
Anyway Esquire wired us both promising $35 on delivery for SF poems, he wrote one and I sent “Green Auto” fixed up but still dirty and “Over Kansas”, they won’t take them, but they sent me money, the $35—maybe they’ll print a poem too who knows.
[ . . . ]
Yes, no more poesy for poesy sake—though I have not yet as you and Greg gone thru a purely maniac unrevised phase of writing and still have to loosen me up—as you can see the above tho imageful is rather harsh and unmellow and too directed—tho I’d like to write a monstrous and golden political or historical poem about the fall of America, even talking about [John Foster] Dulles133—if poetry can be made of ashcans why not newspaper headlines and politics? Talk about Dulles the way Blake talks about the kings of France shuddering icy chill runs down their arms to their sweating scepters. But I write so little painfully and revise and I can’t get settled down to free expression and have nightmares about ever holding my piece. It’s not that I don’t really agree with you about method of writing—I don’t have your football energy for scrawling endlessly on pages. I am nervous and fretful and have to force myself to sit down—at least lately—other seasons it’s been more natural. I guess all this publicity is bad. Well like I say I prophecy a natural obscurity will befall me anyway and take that problem out of my hands. Fuck this bullshit. And Bill is blowing in Tangiers has several hundred more pages, I sent some to Chi Review . Get on Don Allen’s ass and find out what’s up—he’s been silent on it for months. Say Hello Lucien and best for New Years to everybody’s families. I’m triste it’s raining out today in Paris and there’s an empty room down the hall. Maybe I’ll go to London this month, I had sad exultant dream, parapets of England and couldn’t get in, I had no pounds or something to change—same dream as when I dreamt two years ago of going to Europe. Next year I guess will be sad dreams of exultant entry to India on backs of elephants. Do write me news and analysis of NY monster scenery—particularly what Lu says of it all. I wrote him awhile back. All I think it’s strangely up to us to save U.S.—who else—or what else to do next? Quixote wakes in the end last five pages.
Love,
Allen
Write me back about money so I’ll know.
Jack Kerouac [Orlando, Florida] to
Allen Ginsberg [Paris, France]
January 8, 1958
Dear Allen:
My royalty check comes in February, I send you money then in one lump. Sterling tells me you and Gregory wonder about my riches . . . didn’t he tell you I’m only going to get about $4500 from all that ROAD noise? No movie sale, of course, and little dribbles from everywhere. With that loot I gonna make down payment on a cottage for me and my mother, my later old age Emily cottage of haikus, way out on Long Island, furthern Lafcadio Northport. Just sent Burroughs manuscript (the one he sent me about queer fuzz who calls counterman by first name and another about Joseliot) to Ferlinghetti, who askt, giving Ferling Don Allen’s home address so’s to get all of Naked Lunch.—Ferling doesn’t believe Mexico City Blues is poetry because I say so in it . . . In Chicago Review I will be lead poem (quivering meat conception) and lead note on what is SF poetry, so there. I told Ferling off about this. Ferling thinks like Gregory that I wrote prose (as I state myself) LINES DONT MAKE A POET, . . . Poetry is poetry, the longer the line the better when it comes finally to two page Cassady sentences hooray. Big attack against me in Nation saying I a fool boy poet and Richard Wilbur a heroic man poet. Do guys like [Richard] Wilbur and [Herb] Gold stay up nights hoping we’ll hurl critical attacks at them? Geez. Everybody down on me for reading my heart out in Village Vanguard careless of my appearance, my “poise,” etc., read like Zen lunatic saint, like you said to do, would have anyway but you gave me confidence ahead of time. Steve Allen will make album with me, just wrote me. Your cousin Joel was there, sweet, your father wrote me from Paterson. I had wildest time of all time. Met great new cat Zev Putterman, from Israel, play director. Saw Leo Garen again (your brother, he’s like) . . . Got heeazi on your Paris kick but straight with Allen Eager. Had three girls in my bed one night. Me and Philip L. [Lamantia] orgied one together. Philip really wailing these days, got in the papers with me, NY Post, made big Marian nervous speeches to Mike Wallace tape. Tryna think of all thousands of details you’d like. I should write novel about it all. I read last part of Howl in the club, it’s mentioned in newspaper. I also read “Arnold” the few lines I could remember and got big yoks, of course I repeated that it was Corso’s, twice . . . I even read one of Steve Allen’s sensitive lil poems . . . I even read Dave Tercerero’s confession . . . (Esperanza’s old husband) . . . The Negro dishwasher said “Nothin I like bettern go to bed with two quarts of whiskey and hear you read to me” and Lee Konitz said I blew music, he could hear music. At Brata Gallery I read your latest Mother elegy poem [Kaddish] and Gregory’s “Concourse Didils” and use use use use to big audience of pale faced sober shits, at Philip’s and Howard Hart’s request, but later, after I left, a wino stumbled in from the Bowery Street and got everybody drunk and the reading was big success I hear (at same moment I was reading in club to big opening night audience and being photoed as I read and sneered at and thunderous applause and big swigs and long talks with hepcats in back). One young hepcat from Denver said everybody was going to start imitating Neal. In fact you shoulda been there, for all the handsome teenage boys came up to talk to me (hundreds). Trying to sleep days, my floor was covered with sleepers: musicians, editors of small mags, girls, junkies, it was a spectacle. Robert Frank is going to be our boy: Robert Frank is greatest photographer on scene, has already shot an experimental movie on Cape Cod, with free nutty actors who only want wine, and is going to make a movie with me in May in New York wherein I will get my experience for later in the year when you come back we will begin work on our first great movie. He says it only costs about $200 to make a movie but we’ll have sound too; he will get money from big Meyer Schapiro foundations. I already have an idea for a great movie about Lafcadio and Peter as brothers, Frank’s wife their sister, and you the father, or and you the father with your evil brother Uncle Willie Burroughs (incest). This Frank is no bullshit a future Rossellini but refuses to write own movies, wants me to. I told h
im of our old dreams and plans. With Bill back in New York we could really in 1958 do Burroughs on Earth. Gregory knows Alfred Leslie, don’t he, and Miles Forst, they were in movie, Leslie technician, wildhaired subterraneans running off their holy movies against pockmarked walls of Bowery lofts is the scene. Then all rush down to Fivespot . . . poor, crazy, future moguls of Hollywood like D.W. Griffiths actually. I have discovered cat to play Neal in On the Road, Kelly Reynolds, Irish nervous Neal with blue eyes and imperious Neal look in profile and nervous Neal of 1948 . . . (he’s an actor, MCA) . . . Got big letter from Gary Snyder shuffling around the world on a ship, India to Italy, etc.* (*and back to India). Got big letter from [Elbert] Lenrow who told me [Archibald] MacLeish at Harvard praising my book. Rexroth however is down on me, called me an “insignificant Tom Wolfe” on KPFA, because, why? I’ll write and explain to him I disassociated myself from his sphere of influence because I DON’T WANT NOTHIN TO DO WITH POLITICS especially leftist west coast future blood in the street malevolence (there will be a revolution in California, it is seething with incredible hatred, led by bloodthirsty poets like “Jean McLean” and Rexroth keeps yapping about the international brigade etc.). I don’t like it, I believe in Buddha kindness and nothing else, I believe in Heaven, in Angels, I eschew all Marxism and allied horseshit and psychoanalysis, an offshoot therefrom . . . beware of California.
Dear Buddy Gregory . . . Thank you for beautiful Buddha postcard, dig the monks, the one young monk so cool and free that he can stand in the street and do nothing but gaze at his reflection in streetpuddle . . . I dig you sending me that. I announced you in NY, I hope somebody heard, well Gasoline is coming out so you’re in . . . I see now, tho, that fame makes you stop writing, why should a man stop and sketch a railyard when he has to make a publicity appointment? So I am quitting all publicity appointments from now on, including Life and all that shit. If they want my picture they have to chase me down the street. Big new years eve party. Jay Landesman (this for Allen too) will pay big money for poetry readings at the Crystal Palace in St. Louis. You and Allen can actually make a big living now just touring the country and reading. Good for both of you, but I read no more. I get too drunk. I even burst into the New School, as asked, a read to bunch of seminar squares. Saw Alene [Lee], who is very mean now. She lives at 5 Jones. Saw [Stanley] Gould who is great guy. See Anton [Rosenberg] all the time. I wore crucifix around my neck, stuck in shirt, while reading in club. Beware of fame, poems will become non sequitur. I am worried about myself now, I feel that poems aren’t as important as writing a letter to my publishers, that’s bad. Allen, when is Peter coming back? It was humanly impossible for me to go see Laff. Is Bill now with you in Paris? give me news of Bill, and Ansen. Has Holmes come to see you. What an enormous number . . . and to think that this is going on in all directions of the universe, this multiplicity of Angels which was all once ONE ANGEL.
Write, here, Florida. Love
Yes, love
Jack
P.S. Big article about Zen in new Mademoiselle quotes from Howl.
Allen Ginsberg [Paris, France] to
Jack Kerouac [n.p., Orlando, Florida?]
Jan 11, 1957 [sic: 1958]
9 Rue Git Le Coeur
Paris 6, France
Dear Jack:
Wrote you to NYC about five days ago and received your aerogram today, I guess you’ve not yet received my letter, ’twas long, full of instructions about nonexistent money and gloomy manuscripts. Well February’s fine by me for money, I’m going to spread out use of it for months anyway, it’s the last assets I got for the moment (barring happy fortune of Esquire publishing “Green Auto” which is Tank Dieu doubtful anyway). However I’m broke now and don’t have enough money to get through this month, the grocer ask’t me today when I pay my four day old small milk and eggs bill. I need at least 20 or $25 to see me through the end of the month—please send that airmail fast if it’s at all possible—I really be starving otherwise. I’ve used all other dribbles of ready cash, hawked my book and Evergreens in various bookstores, spent my Xmas $15 family money sent me and am down to stamp money for this and one last lugubrious letter to Bill saying when’s he arriving and send me some Tangerian Francs if he has any. So send me now please enough to get thru till February—don’t need much, just food money—I had thought you were sending loot January and getting royalties January as of letter some months back and so your new arrangements catch me short. Don’t be mad by this dunning letter.
Bill no write, I don’t know what he’ll do, he’s supposed to show up this month, I reserved a rare cheap hard-to-get room for him in this great hotel—only $25 a month—and wrote him last week that everything was clear, but silence from Tangiers. Maybe he’s incestuously miffed, Peter still being here waiting for government to ship him home. He’ll probably show up February.
Government called Peter last nite to say they would ship him home this coming week—probably the 17th he leaves and be in NY before end of the month. Too bad you didn’t have his two poems to read in Village they would have been the final naive bug of all dark-suited Manhattan. He’ll send them soon. We got letter from Laf, everything’s mad at cottage but everybody still hanging on waiting for him to swoop down angelic on wings across oceans and save everybody there. His long lost father even showed up home and had great manly talk with Lafcadio who liked him.
Oh, Ferlinghetti! I don’t know what to do, I’ll write him another letter. He resists other people’s advice tho, would never take my word on Gary [Snyder] and Phil [Whalen] and I suspect is suspicious about Burroughs too. Well, we’ll keep trying. He hasn’t written me about your book tho McClure has, thought it was greatest long poem since Paradise Lost—he read it thru. Sooner or later.
As related in last letter: What’s with Don Allen’s reaction to Interzone? Have him send me Queer and Yage to try publish first thru Olympia which won’t publish Interzone but wants to see Queer and Yage, that’s a beginning anyway. And fine he should send Interzone complete to Ferlinghetti.
I saw the Gold piece, not the later Wilbur, and many others, got all worked up one day on T and almost wrote huge manifesto of nonsense but it’s all transient and illusory aftereffects of writing and not writing itself, so decided to shut up. Maybe someday later if I write something by divine accident which applies—but these people are filled with the worst bullshit and nonsense, it’s almost unbelievable how unhip and what bad artists they are. It’s all off the point. No pay care what people saying; important thing about it all (the publicity) that we’d have chance to sow our dreams in market and lots of souls will read and see without doubt—those who have doubts have doubts what can you do? Un-doubt them and the whole civilization in one year?—how many literary sputniks necessary—we just keep sending up one a year. . . . Read all your lovely gossip of Lamantia (he writing too?) and Gary and various unknown Garens134 and [Lloyd] Reynolds and [Howard] Harts I guess I’ll have ball when I get back.
I’m trying to go to England February, stay free with [Thomas] Parkinson and meet some English hipsters there, see fogs and make BBC paid reading (says Parkinson but I won’t censor no more so doubt it)—I had dreams of London last week. Gregory still in Frankfort, flipped he writes in front of Army red tape on selling encyclopedias and is only visiting museums and conning poetic Germans, maybe be back soon. I know [Al] Leslie and [Miles] Forst. [Chris] MacClaine and SF bullshit will die a natural death and Rexroth’s cornier remarks also, so no need replying there any more than Gold, etc. Let works speak, they speak. I had long dry period chasing editors in NY and slowly coming out. No Holmes yet. Send loot.
