Strangely, my life has been the polar opposite of CB's. A downward spiral from comfortable when I didn't know it was, close to the rock where I'm getting even worse at writing along with everything else. The writing bit doesn't matter because I'm not a writer. It's just the everything else that's hard to live with. 'specially when it was all my own doing. Torn lined paper. Small print in blunt pencil.
He sounds like a typical American of that time, with the unpronounced Rs. He sounds a lot like Alan Ginsberg reading "Howl." Kerouac's parents were French Canadians, he was born in Massachusetts, and he didn't speak English until he was 6. He supposedly wasn't comfortable with English until his late teens! But this sounds like typical American English of the time.
fuck yes!!!! hollywood is lost for original ideals sadly past 16 years or more!!! but that would be great! he would be perfect! has that bukowski attitude, buk. didn't like barfly about him hw hated roukes over acting dramatics....i own all books and cd's by buk. pubslishing my books finally, called bukowski meets manson both named charles...
I don't understand why everyone's so mad. She was just doing her job, also if it weren't for her, some of our incredible you tubers wouldn't have been inspired to start channels so grow up and get over it.
I still get letters in the mail, mostly from cracked-up men in tiny rooms with factory jobs or no jobs who are living with whores or no woman at all, no hope, just booze and madness. I get most of their letters on lined paper written with an unsharpened pencil or in ink in tiny handwritings that slants to the left And the paper is most often torn usually halfway up the middle and they say they like my stuff, I’ve written from where it’s at, they recognize it truly, I’ve given them some chance, some recognition of where it's at. It’s true, I was there, even worse off than most of them. but I wonder if they realize where their letter arrives? well, it's dropped into a box on a wire fence behind a six-foot hedge and a long driveway to a two car garage, rose garden, fruit trees, animals, a beautiful woman, mortgage about half paid after a years residence, a new car- two cars, fireplace and a green rug two-inches deep with a young boy to write my stuff now, I keep him in a ten-foot square cage with a typewriter, feed him whiskey and raw whores, belt buckle him pretty good three or four times a week. I’m 60 years old now and the critics say my stuff is getting better than ever.
However popular Kerouac may be, I think that the greatness of his work is still very underappreciated. For example, what Kerouac accomplished between 1951 & 1957 is very similar to what Kierkegaard did between 1842 & 1848 (at exactly the same ages: between 29 & 35). They both, of course, died young as a consequence, but in those 6 years they accomplished more than a normal lifetime of work anyway. They were both born into families of tragic gloom and then wrote works of love "for revival and increase of inwardness." Adios, King!
