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

first time in my life.
But Ah, at first there were fine days and nights, right after Monsanto
drove me to Monterey and back with two boxes of a full grub list and left me
there alone for three weeks of solitude, as we'd agreed - So fearless and
happy I even spotted his powerful flashlight up at the bridge the first
night, right thru the fog the eerie finger reaching the pale bottom of that
high monstrosity, and even spotted it out over the farmless sea as I sat by
caves in the crashing dark in my fisherman's outfit writing down what the
sea was saying - Worst of all spotting it up at those tangled mad
cliffsides 'where owls hooted ooraloo - becoming acquainted and swallowing
fears and settling down to life in the little cabin with its warm glow of
woodstove and kerosene lamp and let the ghosts fly their asses off... The
Bhikku's home in his woods, he only wants peace, peace he will get - Tho
why after three weeks of perfect happy peace and adjustment in these strange
woods my soul so went down the drain when I came back with Dave Wain and
Romana and my girl Billie and her kid, I'll never know - Worth the telling
only if I dig deep into everything.
Because it was so beautiful at first, even the circumstance of my
sleeping bag suddenly erupting feathers in the middle of the night as I
turned over to sleep on, so I curse and have to get up and sew it by
lamplight or in the morning it might be empty of feathers... And as I bend
poor mother head over my needle and thread in the cabin, by the fresh fire
and in the light of the kerosene lamp, here come those damned silent black
wings flapping and throwing shadows all over my little home, the bloody
bat's come in my house - Trying to sew a poor patch on my old crumbly
sleepingbag (mostly ruined by my having to sweat out a fever inside of it in
a hotel room in Mexico City in 1957 right after the gigantic earthquake
there), the nylon all rotten almost from all that old sweat, but still soft,
tho so soft I had to cut out a piece of old shirt flap and patch over the
rip - I remember looking up from my middle of the night chore and saying
bleakly "They, yes, have bats in Mien Mo valley'... But the fire crackles,
the patch gets sewn, the creek gurgles and thumps outside - A creek having
so many voices it's amazing, from the kettledrum basin deep bumpbumps to the
little gurgly feminine crickles over shallow rocks, sudden choruses of other
singers and voices from the log dam, dibble dabble all night long and all
day long the voices of the creek amusing me so much at first but in the
later horror of that madness night becoming the babble and rave of evil
angels in my head - So not minding the bat or the rip finally, ending up
cant sleep because too awake now and it's 3 A. M. so the fire I stoke and I
settle down and read the entire Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde novel in the
wonderful little handsized leather book left there by smart Monsanto who
also must've read it with wide eyes on a night like that - Ending the last
elegant sentences at dawn, time to get up and fetch water from gurgly creek
and start breakfast of pancakes and syrup And saying to myself "So why fret
when something goes wrong like your sleepingbag breaking in the night, use
self reliance'... "Screw the bats" I add. Marvelous opening moment in fact
of the first afternoon I'm left alone in the cabin and I make my first meal,
wash my first dishes, nap, and wake up to hear the rapturous ring of silence
or Heaven even within and throughout the gurgle of the creek - When you say
AM ALONE and the cabin is suddenly home only because you made one meal and