Book of Sketches

by Jack Kerouac

it was 26.”

  P: (eating) (to LP) Eat

  yr. beans, boy.

  Better eat up chabeans, —

  boy.

  But all was not

  always so peaceful with

  the Blakes

  When LP was born & lay

  like a little turd in a

  rich white basket in the

  hospital (& the Grandma

  & Uncle of his future peered

  at him thru the slot in

  the maternity door — &

  the young nurse with glupcloth

  on her mouth making

  smiling eyes — & the

  little mother half dead

  in her bed. A premature

  birth, he weighed 2 lbs.,

  like so many links of

  sausage or one modest

  bologna; the ordeal cost

  Paul $1,000 — which he

  didnt have — Only a

  miracle saved Mother &

  Son anyway. The young

  doctor said sententiously

  “Long before Christ

  there was a Greek who

  found out why mothers

  die from shock — ”

  he emphasized “long before

  Christ” in this natty

  million dollar Duke Medical

  Center where the only hint

  of Christ lay if any in

  the English-style ministers’

  dormitory (students

  for the ministry played

  pingpong with their fiancees

  in a fresh painted basement,

  the emptiness of

  modern Southern & American

  life) — “long before Christ”

  said the young doctor — as

  Carolyn lay in a coma

  in the quiet shade drawn

  room — & the presence

  of his Meek & Sorrowful

  Humility hung like

  molasses with air —

  That was when Paul was

  being sent from one town

  to the other by the Tel Co

  & never had enough money

  for all he wanted, they

  had a house on the

  other side of RM, making

  payments at a debilitating

  rate of interest that

  would eventually force

  the house from them —

  Paul a veteran of Palau

  & Okinawa, an infantry

  man of the island jungles,

  now being usured & screwed

  by nonJew Southern realtors

  with bibles on their mantle

  shelves & respectable

  white shirts — sure, sure, —

  the dark rain splattered

  on the lonely house as

  he waited nights for C

  & the baby to come home —

  “She can never have another

  child — ” & across the

  road from the

  house, in the thicket

  woods, rain, rain of the South

  washed the sorrow & the

  deep & something mourned

  — & something whispered

  to Paul: “You were

  born in the woods — your

  father was a farmer —

  son of these rains — this

  wilderness — wretched

  victim of usurers &

  bitter pain — yr. wife

  has had yr. heir — you

  sit alone in night —

  dont let yr face hang,

  dont let yr arms fall —

  Doom is yr name —

  Paul Death is yr name —

  Paul Nothingness in the

  big wild, wide & empty

  world that hates you

  is your name — Sit

  here glooming all you

  want — in debt, dark,

  sad — Alone — You’ll

  lose this house, you’ll lose

  the 5, 6 dollars in yr

  pocket — you’ll lose the

  car in the yard — you’ll

  lose the yard — you’ve

  gained a wife & child —

  almost lost them? They’ll

  be lost eventually — a

  grave that sinks from

  the foot, that telegraphs

  in dirt the sinking of a

  manly chest — awaits

  thee — and they — &

  thou art an animal

  dying in the wilderness —

  Groo, groo, poor man

  — groo — only the

  heavens & the arcs

  will ac-cept thee —

  & Knowledge of heaven

  & the arcs is not for

  thee — so die, die,

  die — & be silent —

  Paul Blake in the

  night, Paul Blake

  in the No Carolina

  rainy night . . .”

  It took years to make

  up the death; C. came

  back feeble, pale, nervous;

  took nervous pains with

  the frail & tiny child;

  the months rolled — one

  of the bird dogs died of

  the St Vitus dance —

  in the mud — Only

  old Bob survived, sitting

  in wait for his master

  at gray dusks — The

  Autumn came, the winter

  laid a carpet of one

  inch snow, the Spring

  made pines smell sweet

  & powerful, the summer

  sent his big haze-heat

  to burn a hole thru

  clouds & swill

  up steams from fecund

  earth — lost earth —

  The Co. transferred

  Paul from town to

  town — Kinston — Tar

  boro — Henderson

  — (home of his folks) —

  back to Kinston —

  Rocky Mt. — Little

  Paul grew — & cried

  — & learned to suffer —

  & cried — & learned

  to laugh — & cried —

  & learned to be still —

  & suffered — Groo, groo,

  the heavens dont care —

  It had not always

  been so easy & calm

  as now at suppertime,

  in BE, 1952 —

  Hateful bitch of a

  world, it wouldnt

  ever last.

  Yes, Yes, there they are

  the poor sad people

  of the South on Saturday

  afternoon at

  the Crossroads store —

  Not so sad as heaven

  watching but all the

  more lost — all the

  more lost — That

  poor fat Negro woman

  with her festive straw

  hat for a joke but has

  to be assisted from the

  store where she supervised

  the week’s grocery

  purchases — on her

  crutches; and old

  Albino Freckles her

  gaunt ghostly farmer

  husband, comes tottering

  after on his cane

  — & they are deposited

  in the car, nephew Jim

  slowly wheels the old

  family Buick (1937)

  from the store — groceries

  safe in the old boot trunk,

  another week’s food

  sustenance for the clan

  in its solitudes of

  corn —

  Sat Afternoon in

  the South — the

  Jesus singers are already

  hot for come-

  Sunday tomorrow on

  that radio — “Jee-

  zas — ” 4, Five cars

  are parked on one

  side alone of that

 
; store — & a truck —

  and a bicyle — The

  purchases are going

  strong — inside rumbling

  business, George cigar-in-

  mouth is storing up his

  Midas profits — only

  the other day he fired

  Clarence for being

  late after seeing his

  father at the hospital,

  after five times driving

  his useless bucktooth

  wife to & fro the hospital

  — out there’s sadness

  enough without having

  to run into that —

  Here comes a flat

  wagon, mule drawn,

  with fat Pop, son &

  granddotter, black,

  all sitting legs adangle,

  they didnt want to

  shop his prices at George,

  coming from another

  down-the-road store —

  eating the bought tidbits

  of Saturday, — poverty,

  sadness, name yr beef but

  Pop is eating & is big &

  fat — sits, maybe, on

  the warpy porch in the

  woods, lets son do

  all the work — muching

  — The little girl black &

  ugly like Africa eats

  her cone — Old Mule

  clops on — Son-Bo

  has eye on crossroads

  for traffic — , holds reins

  loose, they turn, talking,

  into Rt 64 — now son

  doesnt even look ahead —

  quiet road — Old Mule

  is alive just as they, suffers

  under same skies, Saturday,

  Weekday, Sunday shopping

  day, Weekday fieldpull

  day, Sunday churchgoing

  day — sharing life with

  the Jackson family —

  they will remember that

  old Mule & how it lived

  with them & slowly religiously

  drew them to

  their needs, without

  thanks, they

  will remember the life

  & presence of Old Mule

  — & their hearts’ll cry

  — “Old Mule was with

  us — We fed him oats —

  he was glad & sad

  too — then he died —

  buried in the mule earth

  — forgot — like a

  man a mule is & will

  be — ” Ah North

  Carolina (as they turn

  into the countrified home

  & slowly roll home with

  the groceries of the

  week scattered on the

  platform) — Ah

  Saturday — Ah

  skies above the gnawing

  human scene.

  LP Mama slice me one

  of am — slice me

  this kind of am —

  what is this —

  Mama what

  kind is this?

  C Swiss!

  LP I want Swiss

  Nam nam nam

  (hamburg frying) (radio

  noon) (hot South)

  Saturday afternoon in Rocky

  Mt. woods — in a tankling

  gray coupe the young father

  crosses the crossroads with

  his 4 dotters piled on the

  seat beside him all eyes

  — The drowsy store the

  great watermelons sit disposed

  in the sun, on the

  concrete, by the fish box,

  like so many fruit in

  an artist’s bowl —

  watermelons plain green

  & the watermelon with

  the snaky rills all

  tropical & fat to burst

  on the ground — came

  from viney bottoms of

  all this green fertility —

  Behind Fats’ little shack,

  under waving tendrils

  of a pretty tree, the

  smalltime Crapshooters

  with strawhats & overalls

  are shooting for 10¢

  stakes — as peaceful &

  regardant as deer in

  the morning, or New

  England boys sitting in

  the high grass waiting for

  the afternoon to pass.

  Paul Blake ambles over

  across the road to watch

  the game, stands

  back, arm on tree,

  watching smiling silence.

  Cars pull up, men

  squat — there goes Jack

  to join them, everywhere

  you look in the enormity

  of this peaceful scene

  you see him walking, on

  soft white shoes, bemused

  — Last night a few

  hotshots & local sailors

  on leave grabbed those

  reed fishingpoles &

  waved them in the drunken

  Friday night dark, yelling

  “Sturgeon! — catfish!

  — Whooee!” —

  They’re still unbought

  in the old stained

  barrell — A trim little

  truck is parked, eagerly

  at the ice porch, the

  farmer’s inside having

  5 pounds of pork chops

  sliced, he likes em for

  breakfast — A

  hesitant Negro laborer

  headed home to his

  mother & younger brothers

  in the woods is speculating

  over a hambone in the

  counter — Sweet

  life continues in the

  breeze, the golden fields —

  August senses September

  in the deeper light of

  its afternoons — senses

  Autumn in the brown

  burn of the corn, the

  stripped tobacco — the

  faint singe appearing

  on the incomprehensible

  horizons — the tanned

  tiredness of gardens, the

  cooler, brisker breeze —

  above all the cool

  mysterious nights —

  Night — & when the

  great rains of the

  night boom & thunder

  in the South, when

  the woods are blackened,

  made wet,

  mudded, shrouded,

  impossibled —

  & when the rain

  drips from the roof

  of the G. Store

  in silver tragic milky

  beadlets over the bright

  bulb-light of the

  old platform — inside

  we see the snow white

  bags of flower, the

  whitewashed woodwalls,

  the dark & baneful

  harness hanging, a

  few shining buckets

  for the farm —

  Sat. rainy night,

  the cars come by

  raising whizzes of

  smoky dew from

  the road, their tires

  hum, they go off

  to a rumble of

  their own —

  And the great falls —

  The watermelons are

  wetted, cooled — The

  earth breathes a

  new rank cold up

  — there’s winter

  in the bones of this

  earth — Thunder of

  our ancestors, Blake,

  Kingsley, Harris, —

  thunder of our ancestors

  rumbles in the unseen

  sky — the wood walls

  of the store have now

  that tragic businesslike

  look of hardships in

  the old rain, use in

  old wars, old necessities

  — Now we see that

&nbs
p; there were men who

  wore raincoats & boots

  & struggled here —

  & only left their ghosts,

  & these few hardhip

  houses, to sit in the

  Saturday night rain.

  How different from

  the Saturday night of

  the cities, the Chinatowns,

  the harbors of the

  world! — This silent

  place haunted by

  corn shapes, the

  beauteous shrouds of

  fields, the white leer

  flash of lightning, the

  stern tones of thunder

  (the rattlebones of

  bunder, the long buuk

  braun roll of munder,

  the far off hey - Call

  of old poor sunder,)

  — Ah South! of

  which I read, as a

  child, of coonskin caps,

  Civil wars, piney woods,

  brothers, dogs, morning

  & new hope — Ah

  South! Poor America!

  The rain has been

  falling a long time on

  thee & on thy

  history —

  George hustles across

  the road with a

  bagful of his own

  beer — a Grandet

  of the Americas,

  worse than Grandet!

  he wears no miser’s

  Puritan cap, or

  gloves, but smoking

  a harmless cigar —

  the bulb shines sad

  & lonely on the old

  wood porch of the

  South — I see it —

  In the loam of

  the Blake yard sweet

  rain has soaked

  in greens & flowers

  & the grass, & in

  the mud, & sends

  up fragrances of

  the new clean

  eternal Earth —

  Inside the low

  roofed homey rosy

  lit Blake home, see

  the little family

  there, bearing Time

  in a rainy hour

  in the silence of themselves

  Leaves thin-shadow on

  the wall — on the

  mottled redbrick base

  foundation — on the

  wet variant tangled

  weeds & up-sway

  grasses of the yard —

  Rain glitters in

  little bark-pools

  of the tree-trunk

  — sweet cool night

  & washed up, heavy

  hanging vegetation

  — Lights of passing

  cars dance in the

  drip-drops of the

  awning — Little Paul

  muses at the sofa

  window, turns &

  yells — “Why is

  it cause, Daddy, why

  is it cause?”

  PANORAMIC CATALOG SKETCH OF BIG EASONBURG

  (backyard)

  From right 90° to left

  rich brick house where kid

  lives who rides pony thru tobacco

  field, farmers say

  “Come on, work in the barn”

  & his father driving by says

  “If you wanta work, that

  barn is ready” & he gallops

  away saying, “The hell