The Town & the City by Jack Kerouac

Author:Jack Kerouac [Kerouac, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Beat generation
Publisher: New York : Harcourt, Brace
Published: 1950-12-22T05:00:00+00:00

[7]

IT WAS SATURDAY afternoon. The huge crowd filled the stadium and the ocean-roar of their jubilation was carried on radios all over America. The batteries of newsreel cameras clicked mysteriously high atop the pressbox. In the pressboxes men trained field glasses on the battered plain below as if they were generals of war. In the closing moments of the final period the piteous songs of the losing side were raised by choirs of faithful alumni, and fifes blew on the field, and muffled drums dolorously beat out the doom of certain hopes and certain destiny.

Young Peter sat on the bench, a new sophomore halfback, hooded among the others in the shades of historic day, aching and burning in every bone to run out into the middle of the field which was like the middle of the world’s life, and stand there among these great sanctifications which, for his soul, were like the Tribute of the Angels in the great arcades of Judgment Day.

Francis walked around noticing everything with great horror. There was one fellow who came up to him and said: “I know you, you don’t have to act innocent, not with me you don’t.”

“Why?”

“You’re an F.B.I, man, but you’re not fooling me, not one bit; what’s more I don’t care: you’ve got nothing on me.” And this young man smiled into Francis’ face.

“You don’t have anything to worry about,” replied Francis gravely, “I’m not here to watch you, but someone else. You can relax now.” He suddenly wondered why he should say a silly thing like that.

He made friends with only one patient in his ward, a tall, thin, sensitive-looking boy of twenty-four who continually smiled and behaved in the most genteel and refined manner. His name was Griggs. Griggs told Francis that he was a conscientious objector but that he hadn’t had the nerve to announce it to the proper authorities. He was very nervous, yet dreamy, and spent most of his time reading a book, or staring over it for hours. Francis thought him very intelligent but noticed something indefinite and inconsecutive in his line of reasoning, brilliant and provocative though it was.

“The trouble with the world,” said Griggs, absentmindedly running a long bony hand through his hair, “is not war or ignorance or anything like that, actually it’s—well, you’ll never guess what, it’s the liver, the organism right down here,” and he patted his side.

“The liver?”

“Yes. You see, people eat too much, they keep a continual sloppy stream of food going down all day and never give their liver a chance to kick out the bile. If they did, they’d never grow old and get gray hair, your Senators and Congressmen in Washington would not be a bunch of old petulant men, there wouldn’t be wars. It all begins in the liver. The liver is the killer.”

“That’s an interesting play on words,” sallied Francis.

“Oh, it’s more important than that,” said Griggs gravely, with a little reproach in his tone, “it’s a question of the source of youth itself.

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