Zitat des Tages von Jack Kerouac:
I hope it is true that a man can die and yet not only live in others but give them life, and not only life, but that great consciousness of life.
Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?
All human beings are also dream beings. Dreaming ties all mankind together.
If moderation is a fault, then indifference is a crime.
Great things are not accomplished by those who yield to trends and fads and popular opinion.
I don't really go out at all.
You can't teach the old maestro a new tune.
I know who the great poets are.
I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.
It is not my fault that certain so-called bohemian elements have found in my writings something to hang their peculiar beatnik theories on.
Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.
Maybe that's what life is... a wink of the eye and winking stars.
All our best men are laughed at in this nightmare land.
A pain stabbed my heart as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world.
My witness is the empty sky.
Accept loss forever.
Mankind is like dogs, not gods - as long as you don't get mad they'll bite you - but stay mad and you'll never be bitten. Dogs don't respect humility and sorrow.
I'm not a beatnik. I'm a Catholic.
Offer them what they secretly want and they of course immediately become panic-stricken.
My story is endless. I put in a teletype roll, you know, you know what they are, you have them in newspapers, and run it through there and fix the margins and just go, go - just go, go, go.
My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them.
I really hate to write.
I didn't dictate sections of 'Visions of Cody'. I typed up a segment of taped conversation with Neal Cassady, or Cody, talking about his early adventures in L.A. It's four chapters.
All my editors since Malcolm Cowley have had instructions to leave my prose exactly as I wrote it. In the days of Malcolm Cowley, with 'On the Road' and 'The Dharma Bums', I had no power to stand by my style for better or for worse.
All of life is a foreign country.
I got all my boyhood in vanilla winter waves around the kitchen stove.
It's hard to write haiku. I write long, silly Indian poems.