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

hillsides of Greece - And there's my spaghetti... with tomato sauce and my
oil and vinegar salad and my applesauce relishe my dear, and my black coffee
and Roquefort cheese and after-dinner nuts, my dear, all in the woods -
(Ten delicate olives slowly chewed at midnight is something no one's ever
done in luxurious restaurants) - There's the present moment fraught with
tangled woods - There's the bird suddenly quiet on his branch while his
wife glances at him... There's the grace of an axe handle as good as an
Eglevsky ballet... There's 'Mien Mo Mountain" in the fog illumined August
moon mist among other heights gorgeous and misty rising in dimmer tiers
somehow rosy in the night like the classic silk paintings of China and Japan
- There's a bug, a helpless little wingless crawler, drowning in a water
can, I get it out and it wanders and goofs on the porch till I get sick of
watching - There's the spider in the outhouse minding his own business...
There's my side of bacon hanging from a hook on the ceiling of the shack -
There's the laughter of the loon in the shadow of the moon-There's an owl
hooting in weird Bodhidharma trees - There's flowers and redwood logs -
There's the simple woodfire and the careful yet absent-minded feeding of it
which is an activity that like all activities is no-activity (Wu Wei) yet it
is a meditation in itself especially because all woodfires, like snowflakes,
are different every time... Yes, there's the resinous purge of a
flame-enveloped redwood log - Yes the cross-sawed redwood log turns into a
coal and looks like a City of the Gandharvas or like a western butte at
sunset - There's the bhikku's broom, the kettle - There's the laced soft
fud over the sand, the sea - There's all these avid preparations for decent
sleep like the night I'm looking for my sleeping socks (so's not to dirty
the sleepingbag inside) and find myself singing "A donde es me sockiboos? "
- Yes, and down in the valley there's my burro, Alf, the only living being
in sight - There's in mid of sleep the moon appearing - There's universal
substance which is divine substance because where else can it be? - There's
the family of deer on the dirt road at dusk... There's the creek coughing
down the glade - There's the fly on my thumb rubbing its nose then stepping
to the page of my book-There's the hummingbird swinging his head from side
to side like a hoodlum - There's all that, and all my fine thoughts, even
unto my ditty written to the sea "I took a pee, into the sea, acid to acid,
and me to ye" yet I went crazy inside three weeks.
For who could go crazy that could be so relaxed as that: but wait:
there are the signposts of something wrong.

9

The first signpost came after that marvelous day I went hiking, up the
canyon road again to the highway at the bridge where there was a rancher
mailbox where I could dump mail (a letter to my mother and saying in it give
a kiss to Tyke, my cat, and a letter to old buddy Julien addressed to Coaly
Rustnut from Runty Onenut) and as I walked way up there I could see the
peaceful roof of my cabin way below and half mile away in the old trees,
could see the porch, the cot where I slept, and my red handkerchief on the
bench beside the cot (a simple little sight: of my handkerchief a half mile
away making me unaccountably happy) - And on the way back pausing to
meditate in the grove of trees where Alf the Sacred Burro slept and seeing