Heaven And Other Poems by Jack Kerouac

Author:Jack Kerouac
Language: ita
Format: epub
Published: 2017-01-01T16:00:00+00:00

time, actually

(O yes, also I could send you a little masterpiece prose description of the end of the world by Herbert Huncke, the mysterious “Junkey” we never found on Times Square in On the Road, the “Ancke” of Holmes’ Go, it is a gem only Ginsberg & I have read & treasured) (Being a down word from the horse’s mouth, writ in subway at 5 a m)

A

lil beato

pome

by

Bob

Lax

Mebbe

too

[Orlando, Florida February 18, 1958]

Dear Don

Well Daddio a sheaf, I think it’s a pretty damned nice sheaf and in it you will find a consistency in the prose, and a strange back-and-forth in the poems, to put together a cohesive Beat/Hip thing . . . And since you’ll get more material in the mail, from Whalen et al, and maybe a poem by Anton Rosenberg or two, you’ll have a rounded out picture. I have taken the pains of typing up this excerpt in here from Burroughs’ massive manuscript. Because he cant type himself his manuscripts are well nigh unreadable. I thought it would be a good idea to call it DAYDREAM OF THE DISK, because Burroughs writes what he calls “routines,” which are big mad funny satirical daydreams he acts out in front of his friends. In Tangier he never touched a drop till exactly 4 PM, then had his brandy, and started acting out his routines; in the morning, on a little majou, he would then record last night’s routines. And because he is a great aristocratic master of the English language, and is really “The Forgotten American,” which I can explain later, and because he’s been everywhere and done everything, to read his prose is to get a first birds view into the latest accomplishment in human utterance. At least I think so, Don. (I think Burroughs is being put down by publishers for the same reason that he was put down by Peggy Guggenheim and Mary McCarthy when he met them in Venice, he’s too frank for society) (polite society as it is?). Daddy Long Legs Burroughs is my way back daddy. He is every bit as great as Celine and greater than Genet, almost; tho he doesnt think so, about Celine I mean, but I’m sure he can do a full narrative job like Celine one of these days and his images are stranger all the time. He stands tragic alone in a sea of facts, all of them strange. He is tall, with thin lips, spectacles, wears gray felt hats and walks down the street with a vigorous pump of his arms like a mad German genius of the 19th century, thru casbahs, medinas & Meixo Thieves Markets of the world. Aint nothin old Bull dont know. Especially now, circa 1958. Ginsberg announced that he has become a Quiet Flowery Sage on top of all that. Whalen says that he is the great ultimate Sanders-of-the-River (no, I said that), Whalen says that he knows the secret of George Sanders vs. Mussolini, or is that Mississippi?

Also, enclosed, fine

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