Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg (23 page)

Dusty has returned and has new greater apartment with shy frightened mother at 19 Barrow Street—same place as Henri Cru
⁷³
used to live, right around corner from Louis' Bar. I dream of marrying her but don't have the force or money, and we don't love each other. We are great tired friends now—we talk a lot, sleep once in a while, but never screw. I am, myself, getting tired of sex. Which reminds me of a limerick I used to know:

The great line is the third. This reminds me of a joke I once told you. Carl S. [Solomon] and I were sitting around with a Subterranean in his old pad on 17th Street. The third guy was a young villager I had met briefly several years earlier—tall, thin, rather big boned, white faced and pale, with (as I remember) dark? hair. He was reputed to be one of the most intelligent people, an apocalyptic, and poet. He said very little, was not surly, though, just very silent and too gone hipwise to talk. So Carl and I embarked on a conversational conspiracy—we told silly jokes, limericks, dirty jokes—very neighborly like and relaxed and dull (including the above limerick.) Suddenly John Hoffman
⁷⁴
(the subterranean, whose name and fortune you know) started to tell a joke, in a very straight and low voice—he had a lugubrious solemn voice, very deep and weary.

“There was a cat who killed his mother—to collect on the insurance. They lived in an old house in Frisco and he didn't get along with her anyway. He wanted to collect the insurance on her so he could take things cool for a change. But he knocked her off with a hatchet and suddenly he dug that if he tried to collect on her, he'd wind up taking a murder rap instead. So he decided not to blow his top and he finished off the job by chopping up her anatomy carefully; and every night he'd pick up a leg, or a shoulder, put it in a paper bag, and carry it out to the city dump. So he got rid of his old lady piece by piece until on the last night, he was beginning to breathe easier again. He was walking down the street toward the dump and he had in his paper bag her heart, the last of her corpse. Just when he went to cross the street he slipped off the curb unexpectedly and went down, falling right on top of the bag, squashing it. He almost blew his top and picked himself up, cursing, when all of a sudden he heard a sad, frightened voice: ‘Did I hurt you, son?'”

I remember how his story shocked me, it fell like a maniacal bombshell, told in that solemn and world empty voice. That's the deepest I remember of Hoffman.

I see you are digging Lamantia, who is a very interesting chap. Neal, I remember, met him (and possibly H. [John Hoffman]) years ago at Solomon's. Give him my regards, I am glad you know each other. Of course he's cool—but did I ever tell you how, in the long space of dreary time when Jack was away, and Claude up the river, and I had not met Neal, I used to haunt the art library at Columbia, in a post Rimbaud love, and read Surrealist magazines. Well, I was astounded one day, when in
VVV
⁷⁵
(3 V's) a N.Y. transplantation of the style, a magazine like
View
, I ran into the poems of thirteen year old Lamantia (1945-4)—and I even remember envying and admiring him. I even remember two lines from a meaningless poem

a refrain of some sort. I followed his career vaguely, and ran into him in N.Y. also 2 years ago with great joy at the widening circle. Now you have him around.

Send
me
some peyote. Who else you know? How about digging Henry Miller?

Carl is serious about Neal's manuscript. Neal, get to it, honey lamb. He'll give you money and you are a great man.

How I miss both of you, and wish I were there with you so that we could share hearts again. I know I am hard to get along with and proud. I insulted Jack before he left and felt many twinges of sadness, that's what I meant in the telegram. I only hope that you two are not laughing at me or mocking me when I am here away from your warmth. Write me, I think about you all the time, and have no one to talk to as only we can talk.

So I have been reading a lot of things—Balzac (
Goriot
and
Distinguished Provincial
) Herman Hesse, Kafka's great diaries, Faulkner's
Requiem
and
Soldier's Pay
, cumming's
Enormous Room
, W. C. Williams' Autobiography, R. Lowell's poetry, Goethe's
Werther
, Lawrence's
Plumed Serpent
, Hardy's
Jude the Obscure
; Gogol's unknown novels; Stendhal's
Charterhouse
, Ansen's essays on Auden; Holmes' book, Genet's
Miracle of the Rose
, etc. Genet is the most beautiful. He is also a great poet, I am translating a poem called “
Le Condamne a Mort”
(“Man in Death Cell”)—Maurice Pilorge, his lover says—a long poem—65 huge Dakar Doldrums—pornographic stanzas of love—great as “
Bateau Ivre
.” In the Cell, he says—

The stanza before goes

Tell me, what crazy unhappiness lit up your eye with a despair so high . . . etc.

Well there's a lot of great golden-obscene poetry—I can't have time to write it, like

John Holmes' novel [
Go
] is no good, I believe. I was shocked when I got his eyedea of me. But maybe I'm so prejudiced. John Hall Wheelock, his editor, says that Holmes' conception is of a real poet, and that the poems (imitations of mine) are profound mystic poetry. Whore! Whore! Whore! as old Bull uster say; or how wondrous doth the Wheel of the World turn! But I say Wheelock is a fool, and Holmes because he talks nice and treats self badly in book, as badly as me or you, is not so much of a fool.

However Marian and John [Holmes] have actually separated. He lives somewhere else now. I went by to see him, he wasn't home, I haven't heard of him since. I wait developments.

I've been spending weekends out at Alan Ansen's house (you and Neal drop him a hello Valentine)—and am acting as his agent. He's also writing a strange literary but very sad novel about a spectre of a party at Cannastra's. Perhaps I will be able to get Auden essays in book by him through Mardeau's [Alene Lee] publisher (Goreham Munson, an old-time midtown ninny.) Ansen sends regards to Al Hinkle. So do I, thank them for the pretty Christmas card they sent me.

I love a great new group of Subterraneans—I pointed out one Bill Keck, the N.Y. peyotl connection, to Jack. See if Lamantia knows him (and Anton [Rosenberg], Norrie, and Stanley Gould of course) and I see Peter Van Meter, and may move in with him while I'm waiting for a ship.

I registered Jan. 7 with NMU [National Maritime Union], have a tripcard as a yeoman, but have been going to the Hall, and no tripcard yeoman's job has come up. That's all besides reading, writing and socializing that I've been doing. I go there every day from 10 AM 11-/ to 3 PM. My registration is running out, I don't know
what
I'll do, except hang on and really make a ship, as I do want to. I don't know how you would do if, Jack, you came east. Norfolk, of course, perhaps but who knows what's going on in Norfolk? There are very few tripcard yeomen in N.Y. but still no free jobs.

As for Wyn, Jack, the whole thing will be easily resolved if you: 1. Write A.A. Wyn (Jollson) a note of two paragraphs, saying you are working on the novel and feel sure that a first version of it will be complete on (_____) you fill in date, but not too near, give yourself at least one year to integrate your notes and ideas.

Tell him in as few words as possible and in as
least
alarming manner as possible that you have changed your plan or method of approach somewhat, but like what you have as a result.

And say that of course you know he will have the final say-so on publication, you have that in mind and feel sure that you and he will see eye to eye on completed manuscript, and you are of course willing to make revisions as he suggests, compatible with your own idea of integrity of structure.

On this basis (knowing that you may have to do some re-integrative revision, or that is, have to sweat out a little extra work,) tell him that contract as proposed by Carl is O.K., and that Carl knows how you want money apportioned. (Carl hasn't showed him your other letter yet)—(and also Carl will consult with Eugene [Brooks] on legal details—that's all there is to it.) Let's see you rejoice with the Ball of God. Send the letter, if O.K. by you, immediately, and you'll have contract signed and O.K. in jiffy and be free to do what you want and finish book.

It sounds O.K. to me as described in Carl's letter, broken up sections and all—just like last Faulkner book. All I wonder is if you're trying to escape (as I always do) the sweat of patient integration and structuring which you slaved over on
T. and C
. This my aside, is what Carl is worried about. Aside from that book sounds O.K. as it is if it is as you describe it.

Please also write Laughlin (New Directions) 333 6th Ave. N.Y.C.—a short note telling him how much you like Bill's book recommending it for prose and great archive value, and telling him you're out of town and I'm Denison [Burroughs] 's connection here for moment. I wrote him six page letter (to Laughlin) telling him why it's great book. I have revised version Bill sent up two weeks ago,—smoother, now, not so weird Reichian. Great book. If Laughlin no want, we'll peddle it to cheap paper cover 25¢ Gold Medal or Signet books, like
I, Mobster.

How or when will I ever hear your records? I sit here and my soul lacks you Neal and you Jack. I hope my ship goes your way to Frisco. I don't want ever to fade from your minds.

Love,

Allen

 

I read this over and it sounds so weak and matter of fact and hung up on details so as to bore you, while I see your bloody-red clouds of the western flood and Pacific riding by me here to the Atlantic. Send me a smoke signal from the cloud factory.

 

 

Jack Kerouac [San Francisco, California] to
Allen Ginsberg [Paterson, New Jersey]

February 25, 1952

 

Dear Allen:

Your latest poem, about the poor young cowboy in his Texas shroud automobile [“A Crazy Spiritual”] is almost the best and maybe the best you've ever done and Neal himself specifically thought so tonight and leave it just as it is, except, leave “wooden leg” instead of “pegleg” it's better rhythm and purer and originaller, so that's a great, great poem.

I think you should call your collected poems
Don't Knowbody Laff Behind My America Hunchback
and use a picture on the cover of you sitting in that shroudy stranger sewage pipe Wilburg Pippin Central Park, remember?

Also, when you find time, tell Carl [Solomon] the picture for the cover of
On the Road
is in Pippin's
⁷⁶
possession. [. . .]

Go down there and get your own picture of shroudy sewer too and I want my
On the Road
picture the one with the cigarette; Sara Yokley
⁷⁷
has only other copy (and while you're at it pick up picture of Neal at mantelpiece with dollar over his cock, remember?)

Bill [Burroughs] just wrote and's waiting for me to join him at 210 Orizaba [Mexico City] . . . his case still pending. I'm ready to fly soon. [Lewis] Marker being gone, he resumed habit “for health.”

Incidentally do NOT tell Bill I'm writing a book about him because he may get self-conscious and uninteresting and I really want to sketch him unawares, you dig.

What'll I call this latest new book after
Road
?

How about
DOWN
?

Yes, your latest poem is the finest suprafine, nothing wrong with anything you do lately, and so write to me again, I like to hear everything, etc.

I sent Carl excerpt of
Road
to reassure him and proposed papercover separate shorter edition of
Road
(sexy party) and also publication in papercover of Lucien novel (the one Bill and I wrote together 1945 [
And The Hippos Were Boiled In Their Tanks
]) but you must beware of telling Lucien who will object and have us thrown in the madhouse the whole literary movement and slam the door after us in the name of politics of the United Press and the United States of Amerkee.

Don't nobody fuck with the spiderweb.

What's wrong with the spiderweb [“Long Live the Spiderweb”] is that you
didn't
spend seven years wasting on it, you did a lot of other too, ha hee hee.

(It's okay, don't worry).

and your Harlem vision I don't understand the difference between abstract description of something and mystical description . . . if you feel my Richmond Hill tree poem is, as you say, “exactly the same kick” then how can you make big tsimmis about one vision when, as proved by Richmond Hill to me, you can get high and “mystical” or “abstract” anytime anywhere; goes for you too of course, you so high alla time whatsa matter you dumb dope you hey stumboutsa mougavala, yr current poetry is, to me, best.