So, I’m remembering, and listening, and I have this to share, even though I know you’ve read it before :
So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, and all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars’ll be out, and don’t you know that God is Pooh Bear?
The evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all the rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old. I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found. I think of Dean Moriarty, I think of Dean Mor-i-arty.”
The evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all the rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old. I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found. I think of Dean Moriarty, I think of Dean Mor-i-arty.”
It’s performance that makes words worth something, or it’s wank.
You reckon?
Category:
Booze Glorious Booze
I reckon.
As the man said:
“That’s not writing, Jack. That’s typing.”
One may be an icon or a writer. One may not be both.
‘One may be an icon or a writer. One may not be both.’
Sorry, but that’s big hairy dog’s bollocks of the purest variety. Pithy aphorisms should have as a first qualification that they be true.
How’s that for a pithy aphorism?
Perhaps your proposal needs to be reviewed by the International Pith Committee. Until then, I think we can find common ground in acknowledging that Mr. Kerouac did, in fact, type. Whether it amounted to more than that is best written off as a matter of taste.