Book of Sketches

by Jack Kerouac

  Indians — etc.” — plane

  falls — her thots,

  running, her whole life —

  crash — she ends up

  being treated kindly

  in a dirty village by

  sweet meek Indians

  whom she fears — she

  gets hysterical — her

  husband comes to get

  her & takes her back

  to her bedroom in some

  exclusive section outside

  Chicago — she’s had

  her taste of “Global

  Democracy” “Anti-

  Communism” & all that

  highblown Time shit —

  A movie idea —

  She appears on TV

  & you see her lie about

  her “experience” —

  Add to Sam Horn

  the idea of modern

  cowboys with Ford

  Mercuries

  Man, the terrible laugh

  of those who think

  themselves special

  — élite — it

  has a gory

  hungry sound

  lonely

  dirty

  Apr 28 ’53

  San Luis Obispo

  Blue 2 PM Sky

  Mtns smoky

  Growl of motor of

  bigtruck on 101

  Who cares

  Everything is alive

  the blue glass domes

  on tphone pole

  The skittering birds

  Rippling palm leaves

  Waving pine branches

  Valley of hope pale

  green with dark bushes

  A completely pastless

  man smoking a

  cig in a dark

  bedroom — fuck

  literature! —

  write like at 18! —

  cracked insanity of

  T & C years

  esply 1948 —

  enjoy — daydreams

  Unbroken word sketches

  of the subconscious pictures

  of sections of the

  memory life of an

  imbecile genius resting

  in the madhouse of his

  mind — The word

  flow must not be disturbed,

  or picture forgotten for

  words’ sakes, nor the

  pictures stretched beyond

  their bookmovie strength

  except parenthetically.

  Work from your own side of literature

  & room fetish, not “publishing’s” —

  It’s the Holy Memory

  It’s the dinihowi of

  Memory

  It’s fit for dunes &

  desert huts & railroad

  hotels

  Let them pick the story

  out of the house of your

  words, floor by floor, room

  by room

  Work on Railroad

  DRUNK: Know I can handle it (OVERCONFIDENCE)

  HIGH: Fear I cant handle it (UNDERCONFIDENCE)

  SOBER: Know I can handle it with reservations (NORMAL CONFIDENCE)

  Same with work on mind

  & memory —

  Automatic interest in

  that you write what &

  how you like, on spot

  Present tense —

  LIKE

  The following Sketch

  Late afternoon in San

  Luis, the Juillard Cockroft

  redbrick courthouse warehouse

  building stands in the

  profound 6 PM clarity

  to the stwigger of all

  the birdies — some of

  the birds trill, some sing

  like humans — a faroff

  racing motor — the still

  “suburban” trees — always

  the rippling pine fronds,

  the breeze — The green

  pale grass mtn. with its

  raw earth cut telephone

  pole & scattered cows —

  the green dazzle of

  grayfence bushes — shadow

  of a porch across the

  leaves & whitened buds —

  Moving shadows of bush

  on white house — The

  old Indian’s been

  rubbing his antique

  truck all day to get

  the rust rid — now’s

  inside working on

  dashboard — That

  sweet little cottage shack,

  Southern style groundlevel porch,

  purple flowers in a rock

  front, little slopey roof,

  broom, doormat, with a

  TV in SJ fine —

  PEOPLE

  “What do you mean,

  There are no people?

  Isnt Hawk people?

  Isnt Dove people?

  And Rat

  And Flint

  And all the rest?”

  — Jaime d Angulo

  COYOTE VIEJO

  My father in his dying

  1945 year thought Danny

  Kaye was funny — we’d

  listen to the radio, go to

  shows — how humble in

  eternity can you get?

  — We’d sit in the Ozone Pk

  parlor on Fri nites listening

  to the Pabst Blue Ribbon

  Ads between Danny’s

  jokes like O Really?

  No O Reilly! —

  & Hal Chase thot

  Danny was funny too

  & that too is a strange

  humility in eternity

  — that these gigantic

  hearts shd. have latched

  onto such a stale &

  narrow clown —

  & all for what?

  — for waste of time —

  I even used to

  listen to Jas Melton,

  dreaming of SERENADE

  by James M Cain,

  just as today I waste

  time on boxscores, on

  Philley’s last hit

  or Greengrass’s

  homer — or on

  TV stupidities —

  how mediocre everything’s

  got since 10 years!

  INTENSITY

  Intensity must be all

  Ripeness

  Intensity is all

  All night eager pale

  face Chinatown talk

  in eternity weary

  mystery

  Health is for clams

  snails & shells

  Intensity & sorrow

  is for Geo Martins

  of Time

  For Zagg Big O’Zaggus

  ALLEN G.

  O Allen Dear Allen

  Ah Allen Poor Me

  Walked the streets of

  Ee ter ni Tee

  With me —

  O Allen Sad Allen Ah

  Mystery — Ah Me

  Ghettos

  East Sides

  Denver Pigeons

  Doldrums of Coasts

  Suicides of Seas

  & Hart Crane Sub

  Sea Deities

  And Corals & Shelves

  Immemorial

  Hallos

  I have nothing to

  say to ye

  Except

  Dont trod the wrong

  tightrope

  Weird Mind will wrassle

  Thee

  To a meet in the

  Hole of Destiny

  With an Angel White

  as Heaven

  Gold

  Snow

  Cobalt Pearl

  And Fires of Rose

  Then remember me

  long dead.

  WM BUTLER YEATS

  Stormy mad

  Irish Sea

  Sex and bone

  Cane pipe peat

  Death stone

  Constantinople

  Dostoevsky of Machree

  Patriarc
h of Mayo

  Pard of Innisfree

  Isle of Imagery

  A.E.

  James J.

  Leopold Bloom

  Curmudgeon Connaught

  Patrick O Gogarty Bemulligan

  Silt throat

  LONG DEAD’S LONGEVITY

  Long dead’s longevity

  Coyote Viejo

  Ugly un handsome old

  puff chin eye crack

  Bone fat face McGee

  In older rains sat by

  new fires

  Plotting unwanted pre

  doomed presupposing

  Odes — long dead

  Riverbottom bum

  Raunchy

  Scrounge

  Brakeman bum

  Wine cans sand sexless

  Silence die tomb

  Pyramid cave snake Satan

  TOMBSTONE

  I was a naive

  overbelieving type

  AMERICAN CIVILIZATION

  Half wanting to live

  Full having to work

  Sketching is successful

  but not fun — not

  artistically absorbing,

  like making jerky

  or building a fire

  or writing a

  Cody Pomeray in

  The Poolhalls

  or sketching from the mad mind itself

  The metaphysical mayor

  broke down

  That which has not

  long to live, frets —

  That which lives

  forever

  Is full of peace

  And there is no man who’ll live forever

  Here it is California,

  little young girls going to

  school in the fresh &

  dewy sidewalks of sleepy

  San Luis — birds are

  noising up & down —

  a mist sweetens the

  mountains — the cool

  sea beyond the hills

  has been all night

  & will be all day —

  ever eating sand, creaming

  rocks, washing worlds —

  The rail is sticky, wet,

  dewy — clean architectural

  trains & perfect red &

  black signals —

  my life so lonely &

  empty without someone

  to love & lay, & without

  a work to surpass

  myself with, that I

  have nothing nothing

  to write about even

  in the first clear joy

  of morning — Today

  May 5 1953 I’m

  going to decide on my

  next book — the

  idleness is killing —

  WILL to decide —

  The pristine leader who

  made & lost this house

  has none of my sympathy.

  In the desert there was

  a sign that said

  “SNAKE CHEF’S

  DAUGHTER DOVE

  XND

  JOSEPH CHARLES BRETON

  HERE RECOMMENCED

  THE WORLD

  FROM THE GREAT FIRE OF

  JULY 1845

  URP RAIN AGAIN”

  though no one had seen

  it except the father

  of the later generation

  Bretons, John.

  “Urp what again?”

  “Rain”

  “What’s that mean.”

  “Nobody knows Looks

  like urp. It might

  be something else.

  It looks like Snake

  Chef’s Daughter Dove.

  It might be something

  else.”

  “When did you see

  this sign? Why didnt

  you bring it with you?”

  “I saw it in 1895

  with Uncle Bull Balloon

  I didnt bring it I didnt

  even touch it. That was

  my father’s sign your

  grandfather He was

  given the name Silver

  Fox by the Indians His

  son his eldest son his

  first was called Coyote

  & is now somewhere in

  the Mexican desert or

  walking along a railroad

  track in California

  & known as Whitey to

  the bums & Coyote

  Viejo to the Mexicans

  & has a flowing white

  beard. That is your

  uncle Samuel He is

  I believe in the

  Zacatecan Desert &

  like a ghost.”

  “How old were you in

  1895?”

  “How should I know?”

  “How old are you now?”

  “I ceased I dont

  count any more I

  ceased & deceased . . .

  And that little hotbox

  in yr car wasnt

  even formed in yr

  unborn brain cells

  when I made my first

  payment on this

  farce — & you, but

  just an idea buried in

  dirt at the back of

  my brain.”

  “I remember Old

  Jim when his eyes

  were moist — ”

  Sun Apr 26 SWING THE HILL

  (The railroad is a steely

  proposition)

  Animals dont have pride

  Men shouldnt — healthy

  men have no peacock

  pride

  I’ve been imitating Gerard

  in reverence since he

  died — his death was

  my one real tragedy

  more than Pa — his

  death my death — But

  imitating & adoring him

  I grew exclusive, special,

  prideful, found Turf, later

  “literature” to do in my room

  — in fact life insulting me

  because it no longer

  included Gerard —

  Get rid of pride

  Get rid of sorrow

  Mix with the People

  Go among the People,

  the Fellaheen not the

  American Bourgeois Middle-

  class World of neurosis

  nor the Catholic French

  Canadian European World

  — the People —

  Indians, Arabs, the

  Fellaheen in country, village,

  of City slums — an

  essential World Dostoevsky

  if you want to Gauguin on —

  but mainly, fulfill yr.

  needs, live, — sit staring

  in the yard all day, if

  the other men laugh at

  you challenge them

  & ask them if “you would

  like it if I laugh at

  you” — Screw, drink,

  be lazy, roam, do

  nothing . . . gather yr.

  food — Get out of

  America for good, it’s

  a Culture holding you,

  no Life — The People

  of No Good & Evil —

  of No Culture, no

  Prophets — nothing but

  essential politics & literature

  as Tales of the People —

  Gauguin practised a

  neurotic civilization

  impressionism among

  primitive fellaheen

  people — is his

  art so good as they

  say? — is it better

  really than all-out

  culture bourgeois dutch

  come-&-honey Rembrandt?

  — of course not — Impressionism

  is & has always been

  a breakup & compromise

  in the art of picturing

  nature & is now a

  wild scatalogical paint

  blur call’d Surrealism etc

/>   Primitive art nevertheless

  is closer to Surrealism

  than “Naturalism”

  (which is unnaturally technical)

  — but primitive

  art does not consider

  Subconsciousness or

  Primitivism — & is in

  any case Decoration

  for Utilitarian Purposes,

  not so called “expression

  for expression’s sake”

  & the difference is

  millionfold down deep —

  Gauguin would have done

  better decorating their pots

  & boats — This humility

  is the true artist’s —

  & explains the vast

  greatness of Bach writing

  for the Sunday Service,

  Raphael painting for

  the church wall, —

  the essential uselessness

  of Goethe — Shakespeare

  writing to fill the

  theater seats — (a

  shoddy purpose) —

  Homer singing to his

  listeners is the essential

  fellaheen poet —

  There are 3 basic

  possibilities in fellaheen

  Hunter, Priest, Warrior

  The hunter has to be experienced,

  the priest political, the warrior

  mindless — I’ll have to

  learn to be a hunter

  The railroad is the hunt

  in America, for me (&

  Neal & Hinkle) — hunt

  down the rail for bread —

  I gotta learn many

  essential things now

  Hit my natural male

  level after awhile —

  It aint easy to get

  away from the inworked

  influence of Civilization

  — which is an avoidance

  of reality finding its

  greatest symbol in

  embalming fluid —

  Sad that even the fella-

  heen are stupid — want

  radios & soap operas —

  Thoreau made the 19th

  century intellectual mistake

  of reading the

  Koran & the Bible instead

  of following his

  soul to ultimate . . . the

  tales of creation among

  the Indians & even

  further the methods

  of hunting & nomadry

  — instead he pored over

  the stale Goy Hatreds

  of the Old Testament,

  the aristocratic “middle-

  class” Arabic cultisms

  of Mohammed —

  The People Need no

  Religion, no Art, no War

  A healthy man imitating

  an invalid —

  me imitating Gerard —

  men imitating Christ

  Cockless Christ —

  Culture, & Civilization

  its later millionfold

  subdivision into