Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg (65 page)

Well, yesterday Art Buchwald, we were looped, I see not much gets across in interview that way, tho he was simpatico, I wrote him serious prose poem letter last nite for his column. I see what you had to go through, wish I'd been there, I feel now too tired tongue stricken to blow, afresh, when I get home, my virgin kicks and energy and sense of mission like I had with Gary in Northwest, or earlier in SF, seems gone—nothing new to say, repeat poetry novelties—wonder how I'll do in NY and if I'll have to do anything wild—don't even feel like reading,
Howl
, can't even make ecstatic tape in soundproof French Vogue studio room, tho I've been paid $50 advance on it, can't make it right now, maybe in Newman's studio in NY can get drunk—make last weep record. Help me. What you do—I heard your record (records?) out—Steve Allen? Tho not heard anything about it. Enclosed find letter from Terry Southern, friend of Mason [Hoffenberg], wrote pointless tho hip N. West book published by your Deutsch in England—perhaps you can answer him—I'll write him that queer sections, some libel characters, and whole scroll long syntax of
On Road
was tampered with by Viking—they take out any tea? I seem to remember they broke up prose a lot to shorter sentences often and disturbed the benny flow. He (Southern) seems well meaning and interested in prose and took trouble to write and investigate and so I feel like answering informationally. You seen review of
Road
from England
Times
and
Observer
? One (John Wain) quoted both of us at length attacking etc.

Buchwald said he'd introduce us (and Bill especially) to John Huston who's here, making picture. Bill has idea for Tangiers panorama film (episodes seen thru eyes of bill-junky looking for drugstore sick on Ramadan holiday, street boy looking for a score from fag, effeminate tourist with mother), town seen thru different Burroughs eyes, juxtaposed. Or maybe Greg [Corso] and I make travel loot in bit-parts—or maybe just watch Huston Burroughs talk.

Lentil soup and Bayonne hambone on stove, blue dawn rainy cloudy sky all week, coke descending, been grinding my teeth all night, cat's on bed washing his breast, grey calm cat Bill no longer torments at all, why don't you write me love letter, you ashamed of me I don't write enough or not sufficiently entered void ready for death? Ah Jack, are you tired—you have been writing long solitudenous halo for
Sax
? I'll be home in NY see you within a month, let's meet like angels and be innocent, what are you brooding about in Long Island, hold my hand, I want to see Lucien again and shade of Rubenstein and London Towers and 43, 1943, our walk by 119th St. to Theological Seminary when I told you about saying farewell to Lucien's and my door on 7th floor and adieu prayer to stairway there, is not Sebastian [Sampas] faithful to the end? Saw [Seymour] Wyse in London a month ago grinning over counter of his Chelsea record shop, indifferent, serious, no change in his face looks same as once, not even fat now. Write me a note, I'm coming home, write Neal, what's new, how's hicks, snow's melted, now I'll sleep.

Goodnight,

Allen

 

 

 

Jack Kerouac [Northport, New York] to
Allen Ginsberg [Paris, France]

July 2, 1958

 

Dear Allen:

By now you must have gotten my mother's letter to you, which she wrote and mailed before telling me and thus only put a 6 cent stamp on it? did you get it? anyway, whether or not, it's nothing new from 1945 Ozone Park hangups only now I more agree with her not because what she says, but I have withdrawn (as you saw me begin to withdraw in Tangiers and Peter objected, recall) and want to live my own kind of simple Ti Jean (whatever you may think of it) life, like in overalls all day, no going out, no weeping mobs of Asia under my midnight Buddha pine, no “horde of silver helmets” (that alright for great historian and poet Corso who is a Romantic like Shelley)—I am just a Buddhist-Catholic and want no more shit nonsense and roses. What does this mean? O by the way I wasn't angry by your earlier letter, I've just been pondering what to say to you, it has nothing to do with that or with anything you've done since you never change, it's ME that's changing. Outside of a few calm visits with you in NY or preferably Paterson at your father's house I don't want no more frantic nights, association with hepcats and queers and Village types, far less mad trips to unholy Frisco, I just wanta stay home and write and figure things out by myself, in my own Child mind. This means of course I wouldn't dream of interfering with Julius [Orlovsky] shitmouth or Neal's fall, how many times have I in fact you told him to cool it, it was no longer feasible in California or anywhere in USA and on top of that he goes and pushes for the sake probably of saving a dollar for extry breakfast, poor N always did save a penny to spend dollars. He may write
The First Third
now, by the way, I think—what else do? as long as it ain't a Dostoevsky-Siberian term in hard labor snow. Carolyn may be wrong about the fuzz knowing Dean but in any case what's the real connection? in fiction, as it says on jacket, and Dean never pushed. I read all about the Frisco horror suicides and murders and Lucien came over and had me bat out a UPI interview to disassociate me from such shit. I agree with my mother on the point of your not using my name in any activities of yours (other than pure poetry and prose) such as politics, sex, etc. “action” etc. etc. I'm retired from the world now and going into my mountain shack later and eventually just disappear in woods as far as it can be done these days. That's why I've made no effort to see poor Peter or even Joyce [Glassman] anymore, Lamantia bugged the shit out of me in the spring using me to publicize his poetry readings rushing into Joyce's with screaming Howard Hart (was fun for awhile) then vanishing as tho nothing happened anyway, he really a con man. Very beautiful about Bill's great new Proustian sick-in-bed aesthetic millionaire genius, hope they do something together like India, because where can Bill go now? He said Portuguese East Africa last time. Does Gregory know that he was mentioned in Dantono Walker's column (
NY Daily News
) saying “While Beat Generation writers are raking it in in night club readings, Gregory Corso, who originated the idea years ago, starves quietly in Paris.” Also Robert Frank the great photographer thinks he's the greatest poet. Also there's a girl I know (twenty, rich) who's in love with him already. Yes, I'm beyond the idea of falls and orients and masses, the world is big enough to right itself,
Sax
said the universe disposes of its own evil, and so does history. You underestimate the compassion of Uncle Sam, look at the record. I know it will all come raining down in our paranoiac minds but maybe not in nature. As for a peaceful wiseman America I think you got that now. I just believe it, I have no facts to back it up, like Einstein don't have no facts to back up what Buddha knew in full (electromagnetic-gravitational ecstasy). Well Burroughs, okay, Great Teacher, the universe is exactly two billion years old—as for the 2,999 other Great Chilicosms guess. Don't get mad, Allen. I'm not screaming at you. I'm just like Lucien now, a quiet family man, of
T&C
solidities again, and not rolling in dough at all. No money from movies yet, and royalty monies gone in house . . . but I wanta figure it out by myself from now on in . . . I tired of outside influences. I'm getting at something in solitude halo. Besides I'm only interested in Heaven, which is evidently our reward for all this screaming and suffering going on. When you come back we'll discuss in detail all the publishing items for you and Bill and Greg . . . Be careful of NY this time, you know I got beat up almost killed when drunk by Henri Cru's enemies and people write on walls of Village shithouses “Kerouac Go Home” . . . that don't leave me much stomach for the same old shit of past years, man. Me for midnight silence, and morning freshness, and afternoon clouds, and my own kind of Lowell boy life. As for the Freudian implications, or Marxian, or Reichian, or Spenglerian, I'll buy Beethoven.

O why don't I shut up, always showing off? Your letter very great and I'm sorry and yet glad that now we'll have new quiet Van Doren type relationship. Lucien by the way approves of you altogether, says I'm nuts, and says all women afraid of manly queers who put shoulders to wheel but ain't afraid of swishies. My own reason is: Peace. And the Dove. In my ceiling crack, the dove. George Martin dying in the kitchen. Baseball games.
Memory Babe
my new book big RR Earth run on Lowell memories. I'll see you around September, won't leave house till then, according to June vow, for work reasons.

Alas, Allen Goodnight

 

 

Jack Kerouac [Northport, New York] to
Allen Ginsberg [Paterson, New Jersey]

August 11, 1958

34 Gilbert St
Northport NY

 

Dear Allen:

As you can see, I sent you $5 check a while back but the address Peter gave me I mustav imperfectly remembered. Anyway here it is. I notice you haven't written to me so you must be alas goodnighting too but that's alright because for now and next months I be going to town on
Memory Babe
which is big Xmas weekend in Lowell climaxed by huge vision of Bethlehem star and Child. A great new poet has arisen out of Chicago, Stan Persky, who sent me his long poem “How The Night Came To Me” and I wrote back and (rightly) praised him as greatest new cat since Gregory (you'll agree, this time) (I was lukewarm, after all, about [Jack] Micheline-Silver) and I wrote back and he wrote back saying: “Dear Mr Kerouac, And cried a hundred house in insane halls to read your message and the fruit upon the tree of Snaketown life is in season. I pray for you when I pray to God at night. And have just been inducted into the Navy and that day I got your card I stood around all day with naked multitudes and we gazed in embarrassment at each other with our mutual cocks and I thank you and thank you crazily in my young joytears and my name is Jewish and I come from hundreds of thousands and uncounted generations of brown shepherds in the wisdom of Kabala night.” Then in a Gregory-like burst, after saying how he reads your poetry to his hobo father “Overland Jackie” he says: “At what point in sad history will I be privileged to sit at your feet and watch you with my unabashed idolatry?” Ends, with, “Will meet you soon in neon mirages and night and desolate rivers.” How's he sound? I told him to send poems to Don Allen. You should write to this kid because he's the new great one, Stan Persky, 17, 27 N. Menard Ave., Chicago 44, Illinois.

I gave him your imperfect address so write to him, maybe, after all this is your meat. Poet meat.—Bill Burroughs wrote to my mother saying “I will not forward any more of your insane letters to Allen. Please stop bothering me.”—In the Fall I will come out of my writing fog and come see everybody in town when the winds blow. Meanwhile I'm having trouble with Hollywood who refuse to pay for any of my material. I don't know why. They all seem to want it free. I have just enuf money to furnish this house, pay it, and then no more money, so I better make Hollywood do some paying somehow. Gary [Snyder] gone to mountains Holmes wrote me, would like to see you at Saybrook Old. Don't be afraid to write me if you want, like we planned. Have you seen Lucien? I'd like to go to his country house with you in Fall, since by then he'll be drinking again and we can howl under Adirondack stars and crash his car through woods and go to big cocktail parties with Gov. Harrimans. Until then I write. Soon I buy oil paints and (for first time oils) start painting in my attic room. That's why I'm not worried about Laff, I be greater painter maybe someday. Laff no talk to me on train. Quiet letter from Gregory in Stockholm, says he going to Lapland.

Well, okay, and give Peter some of this money I guess. See you in Ha He Her Had Hea Hero

Hok

Allen Ginsberg [New York, New York] to
Jack Kerouac [Northport, New York]

Tuesday Aug. 20, 1958
170 E 2 St Apt 16 NYC 9

 

Dear Jack:

Fast note, I have no comfortable table to type on yet. I'm living at 170 East 2nd Street, apartment 16, New York—that's between Ave A and B—great Lower East Side neighborhood, I take long walks around Orchard Street—walked into Hebrew Funeral Home and saw a big display tombstone GINSBERG. We (Peter and me) got four rooms—front, overlooking all night rye bread bakery with noisy trucks, but that's nice all night, the lights and tinkle of glass—we got no furniture yet, but an extra pallet in one room and some Indian rugs—have heat, great huge new stove, icebox, shower, hot water, etc etc. big solid family type apartment—$60 a month between us tho Peter's paid it all so far. Comfortable boxlike square apartment square rooms, not too big, but big thick doors so lots of privacy from room to room—spent this week washing walls and cleaning up. You can stay here all you want if need NY refuge—new policy that nobody visits, it's silent castle for sleeping, balling, cooking and writing. I see Peter off to work at 11 every night, then take tour of bars, visit Five Spot, nobody knows me except the waiter who lets me in free and gives me an occasional beer and gossip, I hear hours of anonymous Thelonius Monk. Then maybe I see Lucien at after midnite and watch the late show with him, we don't drink, so we don't yet have talked much, deeply. He goes to three week upstate vacation today. Saw Monacchio and Merims there yesterday, and Luce and Hudson there last week. So far Lou and I talk politics. Then I hit San Remo or Cedar Bar, see [Michael] Rumaker once, and Edward Marshall, great religious poet, often, he's the best of the young poets—you saw his long mad poem in
BMR
?? [
Black Mountain Review
] I thought he'd be cranky strange pimpled schizo, but he's stocky blond manly queer who reads Episcopal bibles theology and works fulltime Columbia Library, and writes long primitive original confessional poems. Also saw [Frank] O'Hara one night, just talked, and the girls (Joyce [Glassman] and Elise [Cowen] and Helen Eliot) one night, and Dusty [Moreland] another, and Walter Adams, I visit them all, sneak up like a ghost and spend all evening talking about what happened to them. Then I go home, I brought my books from Paterson, read the
Iliad
or whatever, lay and think, cook. Saw Don Allen also again—this week all week will be in Easthampton, Peter has five day vacation, we'll go screw on rocks in sun, stay at Richard Howards and meet all the rich painters. So be back next Thursday.