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

east end, where Alf the pet mule of local settlers slept at night such
sleepfull sleeps under a few weird trees and then got up in the morning to
graze in the grass then negotiated the whole distance slowly to the sea
shore where you saw him standing by the waves like an ancient sacred myth
character motionless in the sand - Alf the Sacred Burro" I later called him
- The thing that was frightening was the mountain that rose up at the east
end, a strange Burmese like mountain with levels and moody terraces and a
strange ricepaddy hat on top that I kept staring at with a sinking heart
even at first when I was healthy and feeling good (and I would be going mad
in this canyon in six weeks on the fullmoon night of 3 September) - The
mountain reminded me of my recent recurrent nightmares in New York about the
"Mountain of Mien Mo" with the swarms of moony flying horses lyrically
sweeping capes over their shoulders as they circled the peak a "thousand
miles high" (in the dream it said) and on top of the mountain in one haunted
nightmare I'd seen the giant empty stone benches so silent in the topworld
moonlight as tho once inhabited by Gods or giants of some kind but long ago
vacated so that they were all dusty and cobwebby now and the evil lurked
somewhere inside the pyramid nearby where there was a monster with a big
thumping heart but also, even more sinister, just ordinary seedy but muddy
janitors cooking over small woodfires... Narrow dusty holes through which
I'd tried to crawl with a bunch of tomato plants tied around my neck -
Dreams - Drinking nightmares - A recurrent series of them all swirling
around that mountain, seen the very first time as a beautiful but somehow
horribly green verdant mist enshrouded jungle peak rising out of green
tropical country in 'Mexico" so called but beyond which were pyramids, dry
rivers, other countries full of infantry enemy and yet the biggest danger
being just hoodlums out throwing rocks on Sundays - So that the sight of
that simple sad mountain, together with the bridge and that car that had
flipped over twice or so and landed flump in the sand with no more sign of
human elbows or shred neckties (like a terrifying poem about America you
could write), agh, HOO HOO of Owls living in old evil hollow trees in that
misty tangled further part of the canyon where I was always afraid to go
anyhow - That unclimbably tangled steep cliff at the base of Mien Mo rising
to gawky dead trees among bushes so dense and up to heathers God knows how
deep with hidden caves no one not even I spose the Indians of the roth
century had ever explored - And those big gooky rainforest ferns among
lightningstruck conifers right beside sudden black vine cliff faces rising
right at your side as you walk the peaceful path... And as I say that ocean
coming at you higher than you are like the harbors of old woodcuts always
higher than the towns (as Rimbaud pointed out shuddering) - So many evil
combinations even unto the bat who would come at me later while I slept on
the outdoor cot on the porch of Lorenzo's cabin, come circle my head coming
real low sometimes filling me with the traditional fear it'll get tangled in
my hair, and such silent wings, how would you like to wake up in the middle
of the night and see silent wings beating over you and you ask yourself "Do
I really believe in Vampires? "... In fact, flying silently around my
lamplit cabin at 3 o'clock in the morning as I'm reading (of all things)
(shudder) Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde - Small wonder maybe that I myself
turned from serene Jekyll to hysterical Hyde in the short space of six
weeks, losing absolute control of the peace mechanisms of my mind for the