Doctor Sax by Jack Kerouac

Author:Jack Kerouac
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Publisher: Grove Press
Published: 1959-03-24T16:00:00+00:00

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THUMPING TREES IN THE WELD WOOD beyond the bridge rail, the forests of the rock bank of Merrimac, where oft I’d seen old Sax–heart urge his oiky-cloiky fly along the black sides, headed for a perfidy of dirt–in mists of raw March-wild glee–

The history of the Castle goes back to the 18th century when it was built by a mad seafarer named Phloggett who came to Lowell looking for a sea-like expanse of the Merrimac and decided on the Rosemont basin and built his old haunted rockheap on the top of the Centralville hill where it backsloped to its Pelhams and Dracuts (many’s the time we’d run around there Joe and me picking green apples from the ground by stone walls and finding rusty fenders to piss on in the heart of every forest)—a ruinous old bones of a house, with turrets, stone, entryways gothicized, a gravel driveway which was put in by its 1920’s occupants for roadsters of the Ripe–Old Epzebiah Phloggett, he was a seafarer, for all we know he was a slavetrader — He sailed from Lynn in the molasses and rum fleet-Retired he went to his Lowell castle–not known as Lowell then, and wild–nothing but the Pawtucket Indians sending up their calm wigwams at eve with a puff of smoke-Old Smogette Phloggett occasionally made hikes with his footmen to see the Indians, at the Falls–where the river left its shale shelf that has served it since before Nashua and now drops blonk into the wornaway rock–rock as soft as silk when you touch it in hot dry summers– Phloggett didn’t have much to do with the Indians, he occasionally bought a young squaw and brought her to the Castle and back again in a week– There was something evil in the bottom of his dirty old soul … some snaky secret Sax knew about later– He had a long old antiquarian telescope eye-glass that he unfurled on gray March mornings on the West balcony and pointed to the wild wide Merrimac as it ancestral plowed its original forest-trail thru the site of Now-Lowell–not a house–New England was alone in the woods of time. Where Dracut Tigers field now is, back of homeplate, in the shrubs and stub pines, a red man Indian stalked in the silent mom–the birds that luted in the dew, and pointed rosy eyes to the new Promised East, are now the birds that fritter on the branch of dust–ancestral voices in the mute mist of morning, without fanfare or cry, quiet, it was bound to be there a long time– Phloggett trains his telescope on these woods, on the hump-rise of the sandbank in its wild golden isle mid green,—the huge tree across the street from my Sarah Avenue house stood then with the same majesty and height above the solid grunchy vastness green of the Pawtucketville forest–no dream-skyscrapers sprung from Mt. Vernon Street-George Washington was a boy stalking deer in Virginia flat forests– In the Gaspé peninsula up north the first

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