"Джек Керуак. Big Sur (engl)" - читать интересную книгу автора

to just sit there or lie there or walk about slowly remembering all the
details of life which now because a million lightyears away have taken on
the aspect (as they must've for Proust in his sealed room) of pleasant
movies brought up at will and projected for further study - And pleasure -
As I imagine God to be doing this very minute, watching his own movie, which
is us.
Even when one night I'm so happy sighin to turn over to resume my sleep
but a rat suddenly runs over my head, it's marvelous because I then take the
folding cot and put a big wide board on it that covers both sides, so I wont
sink into the canvas confines there, and place two old sleepingbags over the
board, then my own on top, I have the most marvelous and rat free and in
fact healthy-for-theback bed in the world.
I also take long curious hikes to see what's what in the other
direction inland, going up a few miles along the dirt road that leads to
isolated ranches and logging camps - I come to giant sad quiet valleys
where you see 150 foot tall redwood trees with sometimes one little bird
right on the topmost peaktwig sticking straight up - The bird balances up
there surveying the fog and the great trees - You see one single flower
nodding on a cliff side far across the canyon, or a huge knot in a redwood
tree looking like Zeus" face, or some of God's little crazy creations
goofing around in creek pools (zigzag bugs), or a sign on a lonely fence
saying "M. P. Passey. No Trespassing', or terraces of fern in the dripping
redwood shade, and you think "A long way from the beat generation, in this
rain forest'... So I angle back down to the home canyon and down the path
past the cabin and out to the sea where the mule is on the sea shore,
nibbling under that one thousand foot bridge or sometimes just standing
staring at me with big brown Garden of Eden eyes - The mule being a pet of
one of the families who have a cabin in the canyon and it, as I say Alf by
name, just wanders from one end of the canyon where the corral fence stops
him, to the wild seashore where the sea stops him but a strange Gauguinesque
mule when you first see him, leaving his black dung on the perfect white
sand, an immortal and primordial mule owning a whole valley - I even
finally later find out where Alf sleeps which is like a sacred grove of
trees in that dreaming meadow of heather - So I feed Alf the last of my
apples which he receives with big faroff teeth inside his soft hairy muzzle,
never biting, just muffing up my apple from my outstretched palm, and
chomping away sadly, turning to scratch his behind against a tree with a big
erotic motion that gets worse and worse till finally he's standing there
with erectile dong that would scare the Whore of Babylon let alone me.
All kinds of strange and marvelous things like the weird Ripley
situation of a huge tree that's fallen across a creek maybe 500 years ago
and's made a bridge thereby, the other end of its trunk is now buried in ten
feet of silt and foliage, strange enough but out of the middle trunk over
the water rises straight another redwood tree looking like it's been planted
in the treetrunk, or stuck down into it by a God hand, I cant figure it out
and stare at this chewing furiously on big choking handfulls of peanuts like
a college boy - (and only weeks before falling on my head in the Bowery) -
Even when a rancher car goes by I daydream mad ideas like, here comes Farmer
Jones and his two daughters and here I am with a 6o-foot redwood tree under
my arm walking slowly pulling it along, they are amazed and scared, "Are we