There was a man born in Lowell, Massachusetts in the year of 1922. He would traverse the continental United States numerous times, writing of self discovery, identity, and the terrible beauty of life and all it entails. This man has changed America, and, I believe to be equally important, me. Everything about this man, I’m enraptured by. You can feel the fire in his words, and you could see it in his eyes. You could hear it in his voice. This man was Jack Kerouac, and this is how he has changed my life.
The work of Jack Kerouac has forever influenced the way that I will consider writing as not only a practice, but as an art form, a way of life. Not to say I didn’t think it was elegant before, but his vision is unrivaled by anything I’ve come across to date. The way he looked at the world was beautiful, in every sense. He was deliberate and perceptive, but a sense of wonder and restlessness, a madness of the greatest sorts, seemed to be deeply rooted in him as a person.
“[…]the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!” -Jack Kerouac, On the Road
He possessed he ability to capture a moment, and leave it there, in its infamy, all its beauty and disgrace, forever. It’s an admirable quality. I hope to come close someday.
In addition to his prose, Kerouac’s poetry is incredibly interesting to me.
“When I write my symbolistic, serious, impressionistic novels, I write ’em in pencil.” –Jack Kerouac on the Steve Allen Show
He also wrote his poetry in this manner, and I think that’s beautiful, my goodness! The intimacy of it. He carried small notebooks with him wherever he went, for years, constantly writing poetry, especially haiku (a loose, workable variation of the strict seventeen syllable format, which I adore). Just last night, I read a book of them, and here are a few that I fell in love with. I’ll refrain from writing about each one and leave interpretation up to you–for now.
The sound of silence
is all the instruction
You’ll get
Why’d I open my eyes?
because
I wanted to
You’d be surprised
how little I knew
Even up to yesterday
Leaf dropping straight
In the windless midnight:
The dream of change
The barn, swimming
in a sea
Of windblown leaves
No telegram today
–Only more
Leaves fell
Wet fog
shining
In lamplit leaves
The ability to capture a moment, and leave it there, in its infamy, all its beauty and disgrace. Forever.
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