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I loved the way he kissed me, as if he had to, as if he'd go crazy if he didn't and had nearly waited too long. ↗
...the cross of popular evangelicalism is not the cross of the New Testament. It is, rather, a new bright ornament upon the bosom of a self-assured and carnal Christianity whose hands are indeed the hands of Abel, but whose voice is the voice of Cain. The old cross slew men; the new cross entertains them. The old cross condemned; the new cross amuses. The old cross destroyed confidence in the flesh; the new cross encourages it. The old cross brought tears and blood; the new cross brings laughter. The flesh, smiling and confident, preaches and sings about the cross; before the cross it bows and toward the cross it points with carefully staged histrionics--but upon that cross it will not die, and the reproach of that cross it stubbornly refuses to bear. ↗
Hey, I'm still the walking wounded, you know," he protested. "You were shot on the other side," Rosie said drily. "And since when do you and Dalton agree on anything?" "We are men." Pip and Dalton straightened up. "We settle out differences through fighting and drink." He held up the fine crystal tumbler, then frowned at it. "Though maybe not in this kind of glass. ↗
A poet is a blind optimist. The world is against him for many reasons. But the poet persists. He believes that he is on the right track, no matter what any of his fellow men say. In his eternal search for truth, the poet is alone. He tries to be timeless in a society built on time. ↗
#beat #early-stories-and-other-writings #jack-kerouac #optimist #prose-poetry
I've Got Him! You've got to keep at her. Forget all your training--she's fought you a thousand times." "Don't presume to run my team, you little tart-" (Colossus throws Emma at Danger) "Yes. I see how it works. Normally, I wouldn't have done that. ↗
Evening by evening Among the Brookside rushes, Laura bow'd her head to hear, Lizzie veil'd her blushes: Crouching close together In the cooling weather, With clasping arms and cautioning lips, With tingling cheeks and fingertips. "lie close," Laura said, Pricking up her golden head: "We must not look at Goblin men, We must not buy their fruits: who knows upon the soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots?" "Come buy," call the Goblins Hobbling down the glen ↗
Säjer att jag rymt hit för din skull men ljuger förstås det låter vackrare då ville bara att du skulle ta bort nåldynan från badrummet ställa in kanske mjölk i kylen låtsas att vi lever lika mycket båda två stängde dörren för längesen om mej och du bänder loss brädorna men kommer inte in du förstår älskling jag har kilat fast alla öppningar med frusna tårar avbrutna morrhår död hud och blodiga kräkningar har byggt berg utanför av uppsprättade drömmar och klätt in hela trappuppgången i tomhet och du kommer aldrig igenom man kommer aldrig igenom men inimej kom inimej och där nånstans låt mej liksom leva bara ↗
The great error consists in supposing that poetry is an unnatural form of language. We should all like to speak poetry at the moment when we truly live, and if we do not speak it, it is because we have an impediment in our speech. It is not song that is the narrow or artificial thing, it is conversation that is a broken and stammering attempt at song. When we see men in a spiritual extravaganza, like Cyrano de Bergerac, speaking in rhyme, it is not our language disguised or distorted, but our language rounded and made whole. ↗
