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

batter but also I've used it in the past to drink hot tea, wine, coffee,
whiskey and even stored clean handkerchiefs in it when I traveled - The top
part of the shaker, my holy cup, and had it for five years now - And other
belongings so valuable compared to the worthlessness of expensive things I'd
bought and never used - Like my black soft sleeping sweater also five years
which I was now wearing in the damp Sur summer night and day, over a flannel
shirt in the cold, and just the sweater for the night's sleep in the bag -
Endless use and virtue of it! - And because the expensive things were of
ill use, like the fancy pants I'd bought for recent recording dates in New
York and other television appearances and never even wore again, useless
things like a $40 raincoat I never wore because it didn't have slits in the
side pockets (you pay for the label and the so called "tailoring') - Also
an expensive tweed jacket bought for TV and never worn again - Two silly
sports shirts bought for Hollywood never worn again and were 9 bucks each!
- And it's almost tearful to realize and remember the old green T-shirt I'd
found, mind you, eight years ago, mind you, on the DUMP in Watsonville
California mind you, and got fantastic use and comfort from it - Like
working to fix that new stream in the creek to flow through the convenient
deep new waterhole near the wood platform on the bank, and losing myself in
this like a kid playing, it's the little things that count (cliches are
truisms and all truisms are true) - On my deathbed I could be remembering
that creek day and forgetting the day MGM bought my book, I could be
remembering the old lost green dump T-shirt and forgetting the sapphired
robes - Mebbe the best way to get into Heaven.
I go back to the beach in the daytime to write my "Sea', I stand there
barefoot by the sea stopping to scratch one ankle with one toe, I hear the
rhythm of those waves, and they're saying suddenly "Is Virgin you trying to
fathom me" - I go back to make a pot of tea.

Summer afternoon...
Impatiently chewing
The Jasmine leaf

At high noon the sun always coming out at last, strong, beating down on
my nice high porch where I sit with books and coffee and the noon I thought
about the ancient Indians who must have inhabited this canyon for thousands
of years, how even as far back as the loth century this valley must have
looked the same, just different trees: these ancient Indians simply the
ancestors of the Indians of only recently say 1860... How they've all died
and quietly buried their grievances and excitements How the creek may have
been an inch deeper since logging operations of the last sixty years have
removed some of the watershed in the hills back there... How the women
pounded the local acorns, acorns or shmacorns, I finally found the natural
nuts of the valley and they were sweet tasting - And men hunted deer - In
fact God knows what they did because I wasn't here - But the same valley, a
thousand years of dust more or less over their footsteps of A. D. 960 - And
as far as I can see the world is too old for us to talk about it with our
new words - We will pass just as quietly through life (passing through,
passing through) as the 10th century people of this valley only with a
little more noise and a few bridges and dams and bombs that wont even last a