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

drinking bout and groaning most of all because I'd ruined my "secret return"
to San Francisco by getting silly drunk while hiding in the alleys with bums
and then marching forth into North Beach to see everybody altho Lorenz
Monsanto and I'd exchanged huge letters outlining how I would sneak in
quietly, call him on the phone using a code name like Adam Yulch or Lalagy
Pulvertaft (also writers) and then he would secretly drive me to his cabin
in the Big Sur woods where I would be alone and undisturbed for six weeks
just chopping wood, drawing water, writing, sleeping, hiking, etc., etc. -
But instead I've bounced drunk into his City Lights bookshop at the height
of Saturday night business, everyone recognized me (even tho" I was wearing
my disguise-like fisherman's hat and fishermen coat and pants waterproof)
and "t'all ends up a roaring drunk in all the famous bars the bloody "King
of the Beatniks" is back in town buying drinks for everyone - Two days of
that, including Sunday the day Lorenzo is supposed to pick me up at my
"secret" skid row hotel (the Mars on 4th and Howard) but when he calls for
me there's no answer, he has the clerk open the door and what does he see
but me out on the floor among bottles, Ben Fagan stretched out partly
beneath the bed, and Robert Browning the beatnik painter out on the bed,
snoring... So says to himself "I'll pick him up next weekend, I guess he
wants to drink for a week in the city (like he always does, I guess)" so off
he drives to his Big Sur cabin without me thinking he's doing the right
thing but my God when I wake up, and Ben and Browning are gone, they've
somehow dumped me on the bed, and I hear "I'll Take You Home Again Kathleen"
being bellroped so sad in the fog winds out there that blow across the
rooftops of eerie old hangover Frisco, wow, I've hit the end of the trail
and cant even drag my body any more even to a refuge in the woods let alone
stay upright in the city a minute - It's the first trip I've taken away
from home (my mother's house) since the publication of "Road" the book that
"made me famous" and in fact so much so I've been driven mad for three years
by endless telegrams, phonecalls, requests, mail, visitors, reporters,
snoopers (a big voice saying in my basemerit window as I prepare to write a
story: ARE YOU BUSY? ) or the time the reporter ran upstairs to my bedroom
as I sat there in my pajamas trying to write down a dream - Teenagers
jumping the six-foot fence I'd had built around my yard for privacy -
Parties with bottles yelling at my study window "Come on out and get drunk,
all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy! "... A woman coming to my door
and saying "I'm not going to ask you if you're Jack Duluoz because I know he
wears a beard, can you tell me where I can find him, I want a real beatnik
at my annual Shindig party" - Drunken visitors puking in my study, stealing
books and even pencils... Uninvited acquaintances staying for days because
of the clean beds and good food my mother provided... Me drunk practically
all the time to put on a jovial cap to keep up with all this but finally
realizing I was surrounded and outnumbered and had to get away to solitude
again or die - So Lorenzo Monsanto wrote and said "Come to my cabin, no
one'll know, " etc., so I had sneaked into San Francisco as I say, coming
3000 miles from my home in Long Island (Northport) in a pleasant roomette on
the California Zephyr train watching America roll by outside my private
picture window, really happy for the first time in three years, staying in
the roomette all three days and three nights with my instant coffee and
sandwiches - Up the Hudson Valley and over across New York State to Chicago