Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg (40 page)

[ . . . ]

Well, Bill writes he leaves Sept. 7 from Gibraltar and he'll get here sooner or later. God knows what will happen. Jack boy now get on the ball. I will be trying to make it perhaps with Sheila, trying anyway. I will do everything I can for and to Bill, anything he wants, but the impossibilities of his demands are ultimately inescapable unless I let him carry me off forever to Asia or something to satisfy his conception of his despair and need. You must try and now straighten him out, you know. I'm not that [much] a bitch or unwilling to go to any lengths to help out. I do like him and would love to share a place with him here if it could be done which it will be, but he is going to be frantic and possessive you know. He was (against his own will) having tantrums of jealousy in N.Y.C., even over Dusty [Moreland] he was annoyed. The situation with Sheila will be a madhouse. I don't know how to manage it. Bill will enforce his idea so much he will
make
me reject it and take it as a hopeless horror. He has of course calmed down a lot since midsummer, but he still puts all his life in my hands. Even
I
never went that far. So you must make him understand to go easy. It's not a crisis of final communication, etc. Whatever it is—it is whatever he sees it as of course, except for the basic mutual bond which is so final and permanent which seems now unreal to him unless he possesses my very thoughts equal to his—it's a real bitch man. So you
must
try to give him some kind of strength or Tao and O.K. hipness to the situation so that he doesn't make a horror of it. I can't be his one sole and only contact forever, I can only be his nearest and best. Well you know, whatever so long as everybody's happy with the resources that are at hand. Christ what a situation. Surrounded by mad saints all clawing at each other and I the most weird? And tell Lucien to talk to Bill. He certainly knows about symbiosis and ought to have a helpful constructive word. As for me I am resolved to be patient and as un evil as I can manage.

No time to describe—too tired—North Beach—characters—one mad Peter du Peru (who has gestures and same tone as Peter Van Meter and
both
are from Chicago). But Du Peru (what a mad Subterranean name!) is also like [Carl] Solomon a Zen ex amnesia-shock patient who wears no socks and is always beat and
sensitive
and curious and interested and has the best mystic mind I've met here. Digs me too. We talk—have walked together him telling me about various Baroque and Regency and City Hall weirdness of architecture all over S.F.

And our friend Bob Young, why my dear I
believe
it is the very same little black angel I once
did already
make it with on E. 7th Street no less perhaps a year ago—ask him. Wears fine clothes? very sad sweet, yes it must be he, even the name I
seem
to remember. We met drunk at the White Horse. Actually a sad occasion, it made me shudder.

As for the American Revolution it
was
a revolution wasn't it? The “traditional dissenters”—well the Tories weren't dissenting it was our forefathers, the Paines. But Hinkle (nor I) don't favor revolution or conquest of U.S. by Red-East. Maybe Hinkle does, come to think of it. All I am saying is that the U.S. is in the hands of people like the publishers you hate and they are fucking us up in the rest of the world's Spenglerian schemes. We should be feeding Asia not fighting her at this point. And if we actually do (for some mad reason) fight, it'll be the
end
. The Reds are what Burroughs thinks they are—evil—probably—but enough bullshit on this. Yes, Al [Hinkle] is kind, and so Helen [Hinkle] too at time of crisis in Cassady household—they put me straight on the horror. I thought I might be going mad. They knew.

No more long letters, but short notes occasionally when there's news. Keep me informed on pleasant news of publishing. No space to talk about Shakespeare. I like your Tao, it's more humane. I also have read some Chinese cloud mountain—for as said in the
Green Auto
“Like Chinese magicians, confound the immortals with an intellectuality hidden in the mist.” And my poem also by the way on Sakyamuni (who brought Buddhism to China) coming out of the mountain. I got most of my titles about it all from digging the
pictures
of the cloudy mountains and the sages that the
arhats
¹⁰¹
painted—
dig dig dig
at the N.Y. Public Library Fine Arts room the great collections of Chinese paintings—visions of the physical Tao, if one can get a spiritual insight from the painter's material vision of the mountains receding into vast dream infinities series of mountains separated by infinities of mist. The paintings of the infinite worlds of mountains were my favorite, and next the great belly rubbing or beat or horrible looking W.C. Fields
arhats
in rags with long ears or giggling together over manuscripts of poems about clouds.

Also
there is a book,
The White Pony
, ed. Robert Payne, which is translation of all kinds from thousands years Chinese Buddhist-Taoist poetry—easy to read, such a pleasure, so many—and Bill Keck has my marked copy of this book, unless he's given it to someone. Tell him “I ask him for Balloon's sake to recover it and give to you if it's not an impossible hassle”—if you see him.

When you send me essay on Buddha? I read it with pleasure.

[ . . . ]

Give Gregory my respects. Say I said “The accurate measure of a free verse line is at present impossible (so as to make free verse stanzas and base lines to
vary
your free song from, like musical variation), but it is I think a beautiful problem to attempt to solve. I am interested in hearing any results on this still.” Give him my affectionate regards—tousle his head perhaps, poke his pap. He's alright maybe.

Remembrances to Kells. I'm a wandering Taoist Bum—as this Mex poem indicates—or would like to be
if
I could only escape this eternal fixation on the metaphysics of being one—tho I know that to be one you only have to forget it and let the thing and no thing whatever be. I am stuck on the paradox and can't get it out of my mind. It's a
hang up block
, my undoing. Madhouse.

Where where—is Carl Solomon?

 

 

Allen Ginsberg [San Francisco, California] to
Jack Kerouac [n.p., New York, New York?]

before October 26, 1954

 

Dear Jack:

Confusion reigns! After an exchange of shocking letters Bill [Burroughs] seems to have come off the distraction-intensity. Now he's down in Fla. My letter to him was perhaps too strong but subsequent correspondence has straightened out some of the bad feeling and left the whole situation a lot relieved. If you are interested, I do hope he comes out here, have always wanted him to, but not with the kind of hang up he had. I should know. Anyway, so he's down in Florida. What happens next? His inheritance is disappearing on him—reduced to $100.00 per month or less he writes. Maybe can't get to Tangiers. Not sure what to do. Doesn't much want to come to California he says but also says he might like to under certain circumstances, etc. I wrote asking him to come out, offered fare back to Mex border if he wished to depart. And would pay rent in small apt. or room for him here.

[ . . . ]

I am living in a big crazy apt. on Nob Hill with Sheila [Williams] who incidentally tell Jerry Newman heard about him thru an ex-recording engineer friend of Brubeck who she knows. Al Sublette comes all the time and wines up or eats and talks and Sheila and he dig one another. She a sort of department store white collar Dusty [Moreland], but younger with a child and more a prey to girlish psychological semi-dramatizations (I'm an old man tired sort of, I can't make the flux of love-illusions)—and undoubtedly the seeds of dissolution of this affair have already set in, now that we are established. I wish it were just quiet domestic so I could write. But there is the strain of Burroughs on my side and the strain of ex-lovers and department store cocktail friends and uncertain childlikeness on hers. God knows what'll happen.

[ . . . ]

Because of Sheila and moving around and screwing and evenings full of North Beach and department store types (who are a drag) I haven't written anything since I left San Jose. Things have finally settled down and I am back at work on book this week which is now ⅓ done about. Another month perhaps and I will send you copy called perhaps
The Green Automobile
. I sent your letter to Neal asking to see what you wrote him and haven't got it to answer he didn't reply—haven't seen him since the heat went on and off again, all's alright now again no threat.

[ . . . ]

I will go write on your S.F. poems. They are nearer to center of poetry than elsewhere can be found but since my effort in last two years has been to find a formal look (as Cezanne said he wants to paint pictures that look like classics in museums, and did) your poems are satisfactory at special moments in them (Ted the F.B.I. for instance; parts of Neal in Court; other sketches from window). I'd rather not say anything till I go home. (It's Friday afternoon in Montgomery Street office I am writing from) and look again—when they seem formal, too, as well as naked.

Sheila hates me because I am a stuffy old nay-saying abstractionist and not a Dostoevskyan lover. I screw for the first time regular these days by the way, what a relief to come home to. I hear Burford (and Baldwin?) put Bill and me down. What's wrong? I don't see why Burford should come on that way unless as Ed White said in Dusty's apartment he's just a continental snow-job specialist.

[ . . . ]

I'll write subsequently,

Allen

 

Bill said you were angry at me because of my letter to him. You should not be—I am doing all in my power for him. If I had not written so he would continue in state of tragic self-pity absorption perhaps. Even Bill knows at heart.

 

Jack Kerouac [Richmond Hill, New York] to
Allen Ginsberg [San Francisco, California]

Oct. 26, '54

 

Dear Allen:

Thank you for writing and implying that you forgive me and had gotten over that rage for a poor little kind white lie I told Bill—to make him feel good, almost droning like an old Grandmaw, I just said “He really secretly wants to be with you as before otherwise you see Bill he wouldn't write and discuss and re-hash so much”—My true feeling was that maybe
you
didn't want Bill anymore because he was become so strange and frightening and
secretive
.

1. He paid absolutely no attention to anything I said especially about Buddhism—like Lucien he “couldn't care less.”

2. You should never have involved me in these judgments which relate to cupidities and concupiscences of homosexuals of which I am no expert.

3. Burroughs does not respect my intelligence but what really is, he does not respect my
power of deception
.

4. I am not going to deceive or conceal anything for anyone and I call now for all of us to return to Beat Generation 1947 confessions and honesties
a la
Lucien dawn drunks of truth.

The “white lie” was spoken to Bill
for
Bill—I was also well aware you wanted straightness with chick and also told Bill. I don't know what he wrote you, (about my opinions.) “Canuck unsaintly” prescribing liaisons for you not meet for me, how come, who is the queers around here, now really—how could I make sex with Bill and so what is un-meet about an old lover re-loving him? I mean, why did you get so mad? Are you sure it isn't Neal but
you's
crazy? I think you were distracted and your severe formal reject letter to Bill I know was written in distraction. I don't want to be unkind and I don't want to fight and I don't want to be misunderstood as “mean”—But I do think we'll need a serious mutual confession and admit the new backlog of secret hates we have for each other that if not uprooted will grow, [ . . . ]

[Bob] Burford did
not
put you down, on the very contrary is deeply respectful and wants to hear from you at once—care of American Consul or Burford, c/o L'Eau Vive, Soissy Sur Seine, France—he was knocked out by
Visions of Neal
, the A.A. Wyn part and wanted to take
Beat Generation Road
to Knopf but my agent is jealous of interference and I hope I didn't goof by sticking to agent's judgment—God he's, it's slow—that Cowley article shoulda done it don't you think? Book is at E.P. Dutton's—[James] Baldwin put Bill down, not you, saw Bill's manuscript somewhere.—Tell Al Sublette I met a great new pianist called Cecil Taylor, plays like [Oscar] Peterson gone Classical, fast runs but Brubeck-Stravinsky-Prokofieff chords, a Juilliard classicist—He, like Baldwin, colored, I think gay,—Baldwin is gay. I don't dig all this gayness. Burford put Bill down, says “If I believe in evil, he is evil.” Burford says only other evil person he knows is Temko (!) (?)—I put [Eric] Protter down, was drunk there.—Bill has your poems—I think they are great, whattaya want Whitman to think of Melville.—

[ . . . ] I think Cowley should see
Naked Lunch
. I'm going to show
Sax
to [Alfred] Kazin, he was on air recently, TV, talkin about Melville stuttering breathlessly and great. My
San Fran Blues
poems did you know were all writ spontaneous fast? that's point. Not too good, really nowhere I'm sure, except some . . . images thin. Who cares? My poetry is prose lines.

I just took trip to Lowell, whole Duluoz Legend all thirty-five volumes of it flamed in my brain—should I bother with so much repetitious detail? haunting castle above my birthplace house I hadn't seen since I was three . . . so that's where Sax come from. In fact whole Lowell trip so vast I can't even begin to draw breath to tell . . . later. I tired. Glad you wrote and ain't mad and that I ain't mad and now let's rest in understanding. [ . . . ] Incidentally, if you have any questions and doubts about Luminous Truth, ask me. I am surer now than ever. As for Tao, it is just outer style, like in Mexico I be Tao hobo in beans and jeans, but etc. in other words, I have reached the Gnostic and apocalyptic certainty beyond all doubt and my mind is set to concentrate now to the end.