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

the roses of the unborn in my closed eyelids just as clearly as I had seen
the red handkerchief and also my own footsteps in the seaside sand from way
up on the bridge, saw, or heard, the words "Roses of the Unborn" as I sat
crosslegged in soft meadow sand, heard that awful stillness at the heart of
life, but felt strangely low, as tho premonition of the next day... When I
went to the sea in the afternoon and suddenly took a huge deep Yogic breath
to get all that good sea air in me but somehow just got an overdose of
iodine, or of evil, maybe the sea caves, maybe the seaweed cities,
something, my heart suddenly beating - Thinking I'm gonna get the local
vibrations instead here I am almost fainting only it isn't an ecstatic swoon
by St Francis, it comes over me in the form of horror of an eternal
condition of sick mortality in me - In me and in everyone... I felt
completely nude of all poor protective devices like thoughts about life or
meditations under trees and the "ultimate" and all that shit, in fact the
other pitiful devices of making supper or saying "What I do now next? chop
wood? " - I see myself as just doomed, pitiful - An awful realization that
I have been fooling myself all my life thinking there was a next thing to do
to keep the show going and actually I'm just a sick clown and so is
everybody else... All all of it, pitiful as it is, not even really any kind
of commonsense animate effort to ease the soul in this horrible sinister
condition (of mortal hopelessness) so I'm left sitting there in the sand
after having almost fainted and stare at the waves which suddenly are not
waves at all, with I guess what must have been the goopiest downtrodden
expression God if He exists must've ever seen in His movie career - Eh
vache, I hate to write - All my tricks laid bare, even the realization that
they're laid bare itself laid bare as a lotta bunk - The sea seems to yell
to me GO TO YOUR DESIRE DONT HANG AROUND HERE - For after all the sea must
be like God, God isn't asking us to mope and suffer and sit by the sea in
the cold at midnight for the sake of writing down useless sounds, he gave us
the tools of self reliance after all to make it straight thru bad life
mortality towards Paradise maybe I hope... But some miserables like me don't
even know it, when it comes to us we're amazed - Ah, life is a gate, a way,
a path to Paradise anyway, why not live for fun and joy and love or some
sort of girl by a fireside, why not go to your desire and LAUGH... but I ran
away from the seashore and never came back again without that secret
knowledge: that it didnt want me there, that I was a fool to sit there in
the first place, the sea has its waves, the man has his fireside, period.
That being the first indication of my later flip - But also on the day
of leaving the cabin to hitch hike back to Friscoand see everybody and by
now I'm tired of my food (forgot to bring jello, you need jello after all
that bacon fat and cornmeal in the woods, every woodsman needs jello) (or
cokes) (or something) But it's time to leave, I'm now so scared by that
iodine blast by the sea and by the boredom of the cabin I take 20 dollars
worth of perishable food left and spread it out on a big board below the
cabin porch for the bluejays and the raccoon and the mouse and the whole
lot, pack up, and go - But before I go I realize this isn't my own cabin
(here's the second signpost of my madness), I have no right to hide
Monsanto's rat poison, as I've been doing, feeding the mouse instead, as I
said - So like a dutiful guest in another man's cabin I take the cover off
the rat poison but compromise by simply leaving the box on the top shelf, so