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

washed your firstmeal dishes - Then nightfall, the religious vestal
lighting of the beautiful kerosene lamp after careful washing of the mantle
in the creek and carefuldrying with toilet paper, which spoils it by
specking it so you again wash it in the creek this time just let the mantle
drip dry in the sun, the late afternoon sun that disappears so quickly
behind those giant high steep canyon walls... Nightfall, the kerosene lamp
casts a glow in the cabin, I go out and pick some ferns like the ferns of
the Lankavatara Scripture, those hairnet ferns, "Look sirs, a beautiful
hairnet! " - Late afternoon fog pours in over the canyon walls, sweep,
cover the sun, it gets cold, even the flies on the porch are as so sad as
the fog on the peaks - As daylight retreats the flies retreat like polite
Emily Dickinson flies and when it's dark they're all asleep in trees or
someplace - At high noon they're in the cabin with you but edging further
towards the open doorsill as the afternoon lengthens, how. "strangely
gracious - There's the hum of the bee drone two blocks away the racket of
it you'd think it was right over the roof, when the bee drone swirls nearer
and nearer (gulp again) you retreat into the cabin and wait, maybe they got
a message to come and see you all two thousand of em - But getting used to
the bee drone finally which seems to happen like a big party once a week...
And so everything eventually marvelous.
Even the first frightening night on the beach in the fog with my
notebook and pencil, sitting there crosslegged in the sand facing all the
Pacific fury flashing on rocks that rise like gloomy sea shroud towers out
of the cove, the bingbang cove with its seas booming inside caves and
slapping out, the cities of seaweed floating up and down you can even see
their dark leer in the phosphorescent seabeach nightlight... That first
night I sit there and all I know, as I look up, is the kitchen light is on,
on the cliff, to the right, where somebody's just built a cabin overlooking
all the horrible Sur, somebody up there's having a mild and tender supper
that's all I know... The lights from the cabin kitchen up there go out like
a little weak lighthouse beacon and ends suspended a thousand feet over the
crashing shore - Who would build a cabin up there but some bored but hoary
old adventurous architect maybe got sick of running for congress and one of
these days a big Orson Welles tragedy with screaming ghosts a woman in a
white nightgown'll go flying down that sheer cliff - But actually in my
mind what I really see is the kitchen lights of that mild and tender maybe
even romantic supper up there, in all that howling fog, and here I am way
below in the Vulcan's Forge itself looking up with sad eyes - Blanking my
little Camel cigarette on a billion year old rock that rises behind my head
to a height unbelievable - The little kitchen light on the cliff is only on
the end of it, behind it the shoulders of the great sea hound cliff go
rising up and back and seeping inland higher and higher till I gasp to think
"Looks like a reclining dog, big friggin shoulders on that sonofabitch" -
Riseth and sweepeth and scareth men to death but what is death anyway in all
this water and rock. I fix up my sleeping bag on the porch of the cabin but
at 2 A. M. the fog starts dripping all wet so I have to go indoors with wet
sleepingbag and make new arrangements but who cant sleep like a log in a
solitary cabin in the woods, you wake up in the late morning so refreshed
and realizing the universe namelessly: the universe is an Angel - But easy
enough to say when you've had your escape from the gooky city turn into a