This is the story of America. Everybody's doing what they think they're supposed to do.
JACK KEROUAC, On the Road
Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together; sophistication demands that the submit to sex immediately without proper preliminary talk. Not courting talk -- real straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every moment is precious.
JACK KEROUAC, On the Road
JACK KEROUAC, On the Road
It is not my fault that certain so-called bohemian elements have found in my writings something to hang their peculiar beatnik theories on.
JACK KEROUAC, New York Journal-American, Dec. 8, 1960
All of life is a foreign country.
JACK KEROUAC, letter, June 24, 1949
What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? It's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.
JACK KEROUAC, On the Road
Paris is a woman but London is an independent man puffing his pipe in a pub.
JACK KEROUAC, Lonesome Traveler
L.A. is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities; New York gets godawful cold in the winter but there's a feeling of wacky comradeship somewhere in some streets. L.A. is a jungle.
JACK KEROUAC, On the Road
Live, travel, adventure, bless, and don't be sorry.
JACK KEROUAC, Desolation Angels
Because he had no place he could stay in without getting tired of it and because there was nowhere to go but everywhere, keep rolling under the stars.
JACK KEROUAC, On the Road
One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.
JACK KEROUAC, The Dharma Bums
It was a rainy night. It was the myth of a rainy night.
JACK KEROUAC, On the Road
The mountains are mighty patient, Buddha-man.
JACK KEROUAC, The Dharma Bums
I want to be considered a jazz poet blowing a long blues in an afternoon jam session on Sunday. I take 242 choruses; my ideas vary and sometimes roll from chorus to chorus or from halfway through a chorus to halfway into the next.
JACK KEROUAC, "Mexico City Blues"
The smog was heavy, my eyes were weeping from it, the sun was hot, the air stank, a regular hell is L.A.
JACK KEROUAC, The Dharma Bums
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