Beat Generation Writers

"You're not punk, and I'm telling everyone. Save your breath, I never was one. You don't know what I'm all about Like killing cops and reading Kerouac"

"Kerouac had lots of class — stumbling drunk in the end, but read those last books. He never blames anybody else; he always blames himself. If there is a bad guy, it's poor old drunk Jack, stumbling around. You never hear him railing at the government or railing at this or that. He likes trains, people, bums, cars. He just paints a wonderful picture of Norman Rockwell's world. Of course it's Norman Rockwell on a lot of dope."

"Of the Beat triumvirate, Kerouac was probably both the most pathetic and least noxious. Psychologically, he was a mess—as indeed were Ginsberg and Burroughs. But, unlike them, Kerouac lacked the knack of sanctifying his pathologies and inducing others to bow down in obeisance."

"Texas in the summer is cool We'll be on the road like Jack Kerouac, lookin' back Sam, you're ready, let's go anywhere Get the car packed and throw me the key Run away with me"

"Maybe that's what life is... a wink of the eye and winking stars."

"The world that [Kerouac] trembling stepped out into in that decade was a bitter, gray one."

"Kerouac was "locked in the Cold War and the first Asian debacle" in "the gray, chill, militaristic silence, ... the intellective void ... the spiritual drabness."

"Ken Kesey wore a Mexican serape and said Jack/Kerouac got trapped in his "own little/box"-that was his downfall. Can we really say/anyone who changed so many lives/had a downfall?/He just drank too much alcohol and had a shorter life/than he might have had./Jack's box was pretty vast."

"The fifties were supposed to be a golden age when the pig had everything his way. That's what TV and the government wants us to believe: there was a time when no one made trouble. What about Kerouac, you assholes? What about Neal?"

"Images of cars and highways fill our literature, songs, movies and art, not just in America but worldwide. Books like "On the Road" by Jack Kerouac or "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test" by Tom Wolfe were among the first to romanticize driving and road trips. Old blues and early rock songs like "Route 66," "Brand New Cadillac," and "Goin' Mobile" further romanticized cars and highways for the postwar "Baby Boom" generation. Thousands of films and T.V. shows have focused on or predominantly featured cars and car chases: "Rebel Without a Cause," "American Graffiti," "Easy Rider," "Bullet," "The Dukes of Hazzard," the "James Bond" films, and at least half a dozen Burt Reynolds movies. The list goes on... All this pop culture, combined with relentless commercial advertising, has made cars an integral part of our personal identity. We have been taught to equate motor vehicles with wealth, power, romance, rebellion and freedom. Now, everywhere I go in the world, I see cars-millions and millions of cars-in Rome, Guatemala City, Kuala Lumpur, Bombay and Beijing. Everywhere there are huge traffic jams and poor air quality. The number of motor vehicles in the world is growing three times faster than the population."

"I notice that there's a long gap in your job history and it said for 22 years you went Kerouac on everyone's ass?"

"Certainly I've read The Subterranean: all his crap for that matter. The man is an ass, a mystic boob with intellectual myopia."

"Did the tea-time of your soul Make you long for wilder days Did you never let Jack Kerouac Wash over you in waves?"

"We will write a postcard To our friends and family In free verse On the road with Kerouac Sheltered in his Bivouac On this road we'll never die..."

"He did more in one lifetime than most people do in ten."

"And we know that everything is going to be okay. All we need is Kerouac and a glass of sweet tea."

"If you're working with words, it's got to be poetry. I grew up with Kerouac. If he hadn't wrote On The Road, the Doors would have never existed. Morrison read On The Road down in Florida, and I read it in Chicago. That sense of freedom, spirituality, and intellectuality in On The Road — that's what I wanted in my own work."

"All of life is a foreign country."

"I want to work in revelations, not just spin silly tales for money. I want to fish as deep down as possible into my own subconscious in the belief that once that far down, everyone will understand because they are the same that far down."

"I hope it is true that a man can die and yet not only live in others but give them life, and not only life but that great consciousness of life."

"Write in recollection and amazement for yourself"

"Accept loss forever"

"Believe in the holy contour of life"

"Be in love with your life every detail of it"

"We should be wondering tonight, "Is there a world?" But I could go and talk on 5, 10, 20 minutes about is there a world, because there is really no world, cause sometimes I'm walkin' on the ground and I see right through the ground. And there is no world. And you'll find out."

"Who knows, my God, but that the universe is not one vast sea of compassion actually, the veritable holy honey, beneath all this show of personality and cruelty?"

"Listen to the silence inside the illusion of the world"

"John Clellon Holmes ... and I were sitting around trying to think up the meaning of the Lost Generation and the subsequent Existentialism and I said, 'You know, this is really a beat generation' and he leapt up and said 'That's it, that's right!'"

"I went one afternoon to the church of my childhood and had a vision of what I must have really meant with "Beat"... the vision of the word Beat as being to mean beatific... People began to call themselves beatniks, beats, jazzniks, bopniks, bugniks and finally I was called the "avatar" of all this."

"Members of the generation that came of age after World War II-Korean War who join in a relaxation of social and sexual tensions, and who espouse anti-regimentation, mystic-disaffiliation, and material-simplicity values, supposedly as a result of cold-war disillusionment. Coined by Jack Kerouac."

"It is not my fault that certain so-called bohemian elements have found in my writings something to hang their peculiar beatnik theories on."

"All is well, practice kindness, heaven is nigh."

"My manners, abominable at times, can be sweet. As I grew older I became a drunk. Why? Because I like ecstasy of the mind. I'm a wretch. But I love, love."

"You can't fight City Hall. It keeps changing its name."

"All our best men are laughed at in this nightmare land."

"As early pioneers in the knowing, that when you lose your reason, you attain highest perfect knowing."

"So long and take it easy, because if you start taking things seriously, it is the end of you."

"The fact that everybody in the world dreams every night ties all mankind together."

"The tree looks like a dog, barking at heaven."

"Everything belongs to me because I am poor."

"All you do is head straight for the grave, a face just covers a skull awhile. Stretch that skull-cover and smile."

""What are you trying to do, Kerouac?" I'd ask myself in my sleepingbag at night, "trying to deny reality with all this Buddha stuff, ya jerk?" ... "Poor detailed immaculate incarnate fool, and you call yourself Self ... Take off your coat and crash wits." And I realized that all this Buddhism was a STRAIN at telling the untellable emptiness yet that nothing was truer, a perfect paradox."

"I am going to marry my novels and have little short stories for children."

"Your art is the Holy Ghost blowing through your soul."

"He saw that all the struggles of life were incessant, laborious, painful, that nothing was done quickly, without labor, that it had to undergo a thousand fondlings, revisings, moldings, addings, removings, graftings, tearings, correctings, smoothings, rebuildings, reconsiderings, nailings, tackings, chippings, hammerings, hoistings, connectings — all the poor fumbling uncertain incompletions of human endeavor. They went on forever and were forever incomplete, far from perfect, refined, or smooth, full of terrible memories of failure and fears of failure, yet, in the way of things, somehow noble, complete, and shining in the end. This he could sense even from the old house they lived in, with its solidly built walls and floors that held together like rock: some man, possibly an angry pessimistic man, had built the house long ago, but the house stood, and his anger and pessimism and irritable labourious sweats were forgotten; the house stood, and other men lived in it and were sheltered well in it."

"They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!""

"So I rushed past the pretty girls, and the prettiest girls in the world live in Des Moines."

"Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?"

"The one thing that we yearn for in our living days, that makes us sigh and groan and undergo sweet nauseas of all kinds, is the remembrance of some lost bliss that was probably experienced in the womb and can only be reproduced (though we hate to admit it) in death."

"I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion."