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

shore.
Maybe I shouldna gone out and scared or bored or belabored myself so
much, tho, on that beach at night which would scare any ordinary mortal -
Every night around eight after supper I'd put on my big fisherman coat and
take the notebook, pencil and lamp and start down the trail (sometimes
passing ghostly Alf on the way) and go under that frightful high bridge and
see through the dark fog ahead the white mouths of ocean coming high at me
- But knowing the terrain I'd walk right on, jump the beach creek, and go
to my corner by the cliff not far from one of the caves and sit there like
an idiot in the dark writing down the sound of the waves in the notebook
page (secretarial notebook) which I could see white in the darkness and
therefore without benefit of lamp scrawl on - I was afraid to light my lamp
for fear I'd scare the people way up there on the cliff eating their nightly
tender supper - (later found out there was nobody up there eating tender
suppers, they were overtime carpenters finishing the place in bright lights)
- And I'd get scared of the rising tide with its 15 foot waves yet sit
there hoping in faith that Hawaii warnt sending no tidal wave I might miss
seeing in the dark coming from miles away high as Groomus - One night I got
scared anyway so sat on top of 10-foot cliff at the foot of the big cliff
and the waves are going "Rare, he rammed the gate rare" - "Raw roo roar" -
"Crowsh'- the way waves sound especially at night - The sea not speaking in
sentences so much as in short lines: "Which one?... the one ploshed?... the
same, ah Boom'... Writing down these fantastic inanities actually but yet I
felt I had to do it because James Joyce wasn't about to do it now he was
dead (and figuring "Next year I'll write the different sound of the Atlantic
crashing say on the night shores of Cornwall, or the soft sound of the
Indian Ocean crashing at the mouth of the Ganges maybe') - And I just sit
there listening to the waves talk all up and down the sand in different
tones of voice 'Ka bloom, kerplosh, ah ropey otter barnacled be crowsh, are
rope the angels in all the sea? " and such - Looking up occasionally to see
rare cars crossing the high bridge and wondering what they'd see on this
drear foggy night if they knew a madman was down there a thousand feet below
in all that windy fury sitting in the dark writing in the dark - Some sort
of sea beatnik, tho anybody wants to call me a beatnik for THIS better try
it if they dare - The huge black rocks seem to move - The bleak awful
roaring isolateness, no ordinary man could do it I'm telling you - / am a
Breton! I cry and the blackness speaks back "Les poissons de la mer parlent
Breton" (the fishes of the sea speak Breton) - Nevertheless I go there
every night even tho I dont feel like it, it's my duty (and probably drove
me mad), and write these sea sounds, and all the whole insane poem "Sea'.
Always so wonderful in fact to get away from that and back to the more
human woods and come to the cabin where the fire's still red and you can see
the Bodhisattva's lamp, the glass of ferns on the table, the box of Jasmine
tea nearby, all so gentle and human after that rocky deluge out there - So
I make an excellent pan of muffins and tell myself 'Blessed is the man can
make his own bread" - Like that, the whole three weeks, happiness - And
I'm rolling my own cigarettes, too - And as I say sometimes I meditate how
wonderful the fantastic use I've gotten out of cheap little articles like
the scourer, but in this instance I think of the marvelous belongings in my
rucksack like my 25-cent plastic shaker with which I've just made the muffin