Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg (67 page)

Jean

 

 

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

ca.
September 16-17, 1958

170 E 2 St NYC
Sept 17 [
sic
: 16?], 1958

 

 

Dear Jack:

Quiet stately path pad alas alas hell, the girls are all here, plus a few tom-cats and FBI agents wandering around the Village inquiring of me if I'm from SF (a spade agent I heard about from paranoiac girlfriend of Peter—who's temporarily moved in with us to satisfy his cunt Karma)—came up to me in Jim Atkins—as prophesied he always does to Village cats from SF—and said “don't I know you from SF”—but I didn't want to bug him so I said, no, which was true, and also, “I come from New Jersey really” which was also true, so he retired a little baffled—anyway Sheila [Williams] my old girlfriend is in one room here (been here two weeks and says she's returning to SF as soon as someone bugged at her on the coast sends her the plane ticket, probably before this weekend)—she has nice painter boyfriend in side room with her they sleep all day and vanish gloomily onto the street for the night and come home and argue about his manhood.

She says she and Gary were having a kind of affair, and Gary came got her with little car at her husband's to rescue her drove her to Frisco and said he'd meet her in NY. But now she's changed her mind and's going back.

Well, also, another girl named Sheila [Plant] from SF who'd made it with Peter and Laf there, and subsequently various hospitals, also today settled in, preparatory to her return to SF also (“I don't believe I'm in NY. Is this NY?”) Peter's having a nice time, so am I, it leaves me free to lie in bed stare at ceiling and read. What I'll do is move into a private isolated side-room in the apartment and it'll be like I had a lonely furnished room. So actually that's all ok, and maybe even the present wave of dependents will unwave.

So come in and get drunk as you want to, or not. I'll be here, would like to talk to you.

Better later, tho, Lucien invited us both out to upstate this weekend, but I have things to do here this weekend anyway and Lucien it turned out couldn't get a car. He says later on in the fall.

I went to New Directions to pick up copy of [William Carlos] Williams' new
Paterson
which has a letter of mine, and met [James] Laughlin, talked to him. Explained to him about Gary and Phil's unpublished books, he said he wanted to read them and maybe would publish them. I explained him how poetry appearances were getting fucked up by absence of their high-class work and Ferlinghetti's blindness etc. I had just seen Don Allen for two minutes to pick up your
Blues
(which I had with me) and Laughlin said he wanted to see that also, maybe he could publish it complete I suggested. He said he was still interested and working on
Visions of Neal
he thought was great prose, but having trouble with fearful printers—but would sooner or later be able to find one and would definitely do it. Also he asked for Gregory's address and would write him a card.

Yes, I saw the
Horizon
, and broke my rule about not answering, several weeks ago, and wrote them objecting to their chopping out endless balls and cock from line eleven and leaving out two lines and patching in again, saying it “broke my rhythm” and they had to announce next issue that I disapprove and was not consulted and felt it was insult to the structure (which it actually is in a way since two lines they left out were the rhythmic come of the eleven preceding lines). I'm curious how they'll handle that. They first wrote back saying they meant no harm and consulted Grove, so I wrote back detailed one page explaining rhythm and offering to read it to them over telephone if they couldn't hear it themselves and requesting prompt reply. But they never replied. Besides I said, I had copyright anyway not Grove. I dunno just a funny piece of spleen like arguing with a bus driver.

However considering all that bullshit about no form it be funny if they had to print an announcement they'd fucked my form.

Also I went off my head last week and rapped out twelve page single-space heap of complaints to [John] Hollander in a girl's school in Connecticut.

Meanwhile I'm reading the Goddard book which three years ago I stole from I think San Jose library and have been carrying around since. Phil wrote that Gary was now up there with him, that he, Phil, would stay in Oregon till after the elections (he has to help his Judge friend be re-elected) and then maybe come here (he'd said earlier) around Xmas. He hadn't met Gary yet when he wrote (he was expecting him next day.) Gary'll write in a few days I think. But he'll not come I don't think.

I reread all of the
Bles Blues
and'll return that to Don Allen. I would like to read
Some of Dharma
etc. later. I've never lost your manuscript and had lots of them around.
Blues
are great, I understand them more perfectly now and they're like a monumental Shakespeare sonnet sequence.—all to be published entire—it's a good thing Ferlinghetti didn't publish a selection, actually. Maybe Laughlin could do it. They're a marvelous explanation and reaction to
Dharma
and it's as good as any late novel, better in fact, all poetry.

I read
The Dharma Bums
in one sitting, about five or four hours, the nite Peter brought it back. The whole thing's a great piece of religion testament book, strange thing to be published, I'm glad it is now tho before I'd worried should it be published out of chronological order—but the definite believable presentation of Buddha material is inspiring like a mad movie about St. Francis. The last pages of haikus are good prose. Sentences seem shorter and not so energetic continually as before, and not so mad. You settling down in simpler prose or just tired as you said? [John] Montgomery is great in there, and Gary is fine too, I don't dig myself (too inconsistent mentally) (in the arguments). It is a big teaching book which is rare and spooky. It is spooky, I wonder how XX Century NYC newspapers will react to that? This time it should be funny. You'll get attacked for being enlightened. I made marks on which pages and sentences I thought were groovy, but can show you that in the book when you're here. Rats in attic sentences at end was sublime, so were all the haikus and rainbows at the end. Meditation in the woods I read aloud, or Sheila [Williams] read aloud, great funny sustained serious final testament prose. Amazing after all these years there would be incarnation of some pre-prophesied romantical sense of The End.

Did I tell you, Gregory's, “Hay like universe, golden heap on a wall of fire, sprinting toward the gauzy eradication of Swindleresque Ink”—I decided finally it must be prophecy of disappearance of cosmic illusion. I'd never really understood that in Paterson. Did you see that?

[ . . . ]

My poetry is getting to be like your Blues. God knows how I'll get out of that and what literary hassles that will lead to but now does it make difference? I'm also writing like Whalen also.

[ . . . ]

Gave my book to Thelonius Monk—he was silent a week—then saw him outside Five Spot and asked him if he'd read it—“Yeah, I'm almost through.” “Well?” “It makes sense,” what a funny answer.

Owe Gregory a letter. Bill should be back in Paris now—was in Tangiers—the heat's on fairies—“India roll out your carpets” he writes.

When and where is the platform with Lerner? I'd like to go along and hear it all. I never saw you in public.

As ever,

Allen

 

 

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

October 5, 1958

 

Allen:

Came home full of exhilaration which became mental exhaustion. I don't think I can do the Hunter College thing now. Like America I'm getting a nervous breakdown. I am going into exile. Wrote Whalen big description of day. All these well dressed people looking at me with slitted eyes, why don't I just retire from the universe. Ah fuck it, I'm going back to Li Po. I hate my beating heart. Something's wrong with the world. I'll be alright in the morning. Grand-father Night in this old house scares me with its black coffin.

See?

Jacky

 

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

October 28, 1958

 

Dear Allen:

Here's what I'm telling Sterling to do, and it's what I want: to get that new publisher to buy
Sax
for $7500 advance but without a single change; thereby
Sax
gets published, what does it matter who? or hard or soft cover? it's still publisht and read and can be reprinted in five years hard. I need the $7500 now to complete the buying of this house so I can put it up for sale, if I don't buy the house now I'll lose the $7000 already in it, by big defaulting suits. A hard and evil world. But
Sax
will be angelly published. If they make changes, no go, I give it back to Don Allen. Meanwhile, I'm insisting that Viking take and publish glorious
Visions Of Gerard
next. No changes except where I'm going to take out the Buddhist imagery and transfer Catholic since the story is about a little Catholic saint. There will be no theological difference . . . The Holy Ghost is Dharmakaya (the body of truth.) See? Etc. Dharmakaya literally means the Holy Spirit, or the Holy Truth, so what's the big tzimis? So I told them, okay I'll go to Paris but I won't write the book about Paris till a year later when I've had time to digest the events. Meanwhile, even, in fact, I think now, I know now, when I get to peaceful Florida this Xmas I'm going to write
The Beat Traveler
anyway about my trip to Burroughs in Tangiers then on up France and London and back, and all the mad sea-writing around that, when I got caught in that great tempest and we had to flee south and almost foundered and I saw the whole jacobs ladder into the sea and saw Stella Maris too and thought NOTHING HAPPENS EXCEPT GOD which was the only thing I could think about because I thought we were all going to drown now . . . O poor seamen.

Okay. I think this is right. Meanwhile I'm sending “Lucien Midnight” to [Irving] Rosenthal
¹³⁸
and if he rejects it he's crazy but he may reject it because also I told him to give me whatever payment he can, or wants to pay.

My hand is shaking so today, Henri Cru came suddenly as I was balling with my baby and the house then became full of local drinkers and if it hadn't been for the girl cleaning an cooking it would look like hell now. She's coming back Thursday to take care of things while I try to answer a thousand letters. So today I tried, alone, in house, to sit and write you big glorious poem about golden eternity and couldn't because I've so been importuned by this world lately I can't even push a pencil any more so now I know if I want to take Lucien's advice and write more I must leave NY, and will (not so much “importuned” but pleasantly partied, actually, but my god every day, every night, no rest, no solitude, no reflection, no staring at the ceiling or clouds possible any more.) Big mad telegram, for instance, from Lucien, a British lord wants to rush out and interview me and I just GOT interviewed yesterday by
Herald Tribune
here in house, “millions of cool beautiful Marlon Brandos” I told him to say is what Beat Gen is . . . And
Look
mag is sposed to be coming out to interview me too, and meanwhile I try to feed and mind my poor frightened cats, the yard full of cars. When do I find time to type up Neons from Neal. Allen, can't you go to New Directions office and type up whatever you want (and Laughlin allows). If you need note of intro and permission I'll send. Short of that, okay, I'll type up Neons, let me know. As for poems, I just don't know which ones are forever eternal, goddamit, they the forever eternals I gave Don Allen on that roll but after all I got many more. Why don't I just send some and you judge, I don't know. Besides what's your deadline with City Lights? Let me know deadline, that'll help prod me in ass.—Bruno never came back the next day, he probably went away saying “Ah he's just another fag,” you don't know how those characters are, unless you're right about river-of-shit I-don't-care-everything-okay. In any case, whenever I come on with fuck I don't mean it, it's just a Zen joke. In fact it's the one thing I've never done, recall.

The situation about Tuttle etc. and Grove
¹³⁹
I just don't understand but let me know when time is ripe tho for krissakes yes I don't care but it's a good idea for Phil and Gary to get busy and blow out some poems.

Dody [Muller] is a painter, a big Alene-Esperanza combination in looks (laughs exactly like Alene) but not frigid like Alene, not junky like Espy, built better too, great woman, part Comanche Indian and French, a good painter (huge Al Leslie canvases of pink and blue women bathing) (also little tiny ones so big) and is regular barefoot Provincetown and Mexico City Helen Parker sophisticate also and fantastic cook and clean when does dishes, makes kitchen all beautiful with flowers and displays of vegetables and in the candlelight her face is holy and has black eyes and high cheekbones like I like and everybody likes her and is a young widow. And loves me. And I love her. Don't know what will happen. Used to draw pornographic pictures in her notebook which her mother threw into the sea weeping. In other words big Neal-favorite good doll and so fucking sensual I can't believe my good luck. She knows everybody, which is too bad. Altho good because I know everybody too. What a complicated scene is on now, wow, too much. Henri [Cru] lost his apartment by being evicted, bums he left there lost his cat, he came back no apartment, furniture impounded by marshal, is wandering around looking for cheap pad in Lower East Side, let me know if you know one. Henri great man. Likes you now, he told me. Mustv read your book or something.—I sent off a piece of
Book Of Dreams
to Robert Lowry
¹⁴⁰
and also part of a letter from Gregory I'd just got, about his theory of poetry. You'll see it.—What to do? Have another beer.