51 Top Jack Kerouac Quotes
I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till i drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.
There was nowhere to go but everywhere, so just keep on rolling under the stars.
One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.
The only truth is music.
My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them.
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We turned at a dozen paces, for love is a duel, and looked at each other for the last time.
And the story of love is a long sad tale ending in graves.
Pain or love or danger makes you real again….
A pain stabbed my heart, as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world.
It always makes me proud to love the world somehow- hate’s so easy compared.
Live, travel, adventure, bless, and don’t be sorry.
Because in the end, you won’t remember the time you spent working in the office or mowing your lawn. Climb that goddamn mountain.
My witness is the empty sky.
Don’t touch me, I’m full of snakes.
Finding Nirvana is like locating silence.
Houses are full of things that gather dust
Something good will come of all things yet
I feel guilty for being a member of the human race.
I’m writing this book because we’re all going to die.
What’s in store for me in the direction I don’t take?
A sociable smile is nothing but a mouth full of teeth.
I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.
Sal, we gotta go and never stop going ’till we get there.’
I don’t know, I don’t care, and it doesn’t make any difference.
Happiness consists in realizing it is all a great strange dream
I’m going to marry my novels and have little short stories for children.
Don’t use the phone. People are never ready to answer it. Use poetry.
As I grew older I became a drunk. Why? Because I like ecstasy of the mind.
The best teacher is experience and not through someone’s distorted point of view”
I saw that my life was a vast glowing empty page and I could do anything I wanted.”
Life must be rich and full of loving–it’s no good otherwise, no good at all, for anyone.
This is the story of America. Everybody’s doing what they think they’re supposed to do.
Offer them what they secretly want and they of course immediately become panic-stricken.
One man practicing kindness in the wilderness is worth all the temples this world pulls.
Great things are not accomplished by those who yield to trends and fads and popular opinion.
Things are so hard to figure out when you live from day to day in this feverish and silly world.
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved.
Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life
The air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great, that I thought I was in a dream.
I was surprised, as always, be how easy the act of leaving was, and how good it felt. The world was suddenly rich with possibility.
because he had no place he could stay in without getting tired of it and because there was nowhere to go but everywhere, keep rolling under the stars…
My whole wretched life swam before my weary eyes, and I realized no matter what you do it’s bound to be a waste of time in the end so you might as well go mad.
But why think about that when all the golden lands ahead of you and all kinds of unforseen events wait lurking to surprise you and make you glad you’re alive to see?
On soft Spring nights I’ll stand in the yard under the stars – Something good will come out of all things yet – And it will be golden and eternal just like that – There’s no need to say another word.
They have worries, they’re counting the miles, they’re thinking about where to sleep tonight, how much money for gas, the weather, how they’ll get there – and all the time they’ll get there anyway, you see.
So therefore I dedicate myself, to my art, my sleep, my dreams, my labors, my suffrances, my loneliness, my unique madness, my endless absorption and hunger because I cannot dedicate myself to any fellow being.
Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together; sophistication demands that they submit to s** immediately without proper preliminary talk. Not courting talk — real straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every moment is precious.
What is that feeling when you’re driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? – it’s the too-huge world vaulting us, and it’s good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.
Down on the lake rosy reflections of celestial vapor appeared, and I said, “God, I love you” and looked to the sky and really meant it. “I have fallen in love with you, God. Take care of us all, one way or the other.” To the children and the innocent it’s all the same.
I realized these were all the snapshots which our children would look at someday with wonder, thinking their parents had lived smooth, well-ordered lives and got up in the morning to walk proudly on the sidewalks of life, never dreaming the raggedy madness and riot of our actual lives, our actual night, the hell of it, the senseless emptiness.
Happy. Just in my swim shorts, barefooted, wild-haired, in the red fire dark, singing, swigging wine, spitting, jumping, running—that’s the way to live. All alone and free in the soft sands of the beach by the sigh of the sea out there, with the Ma-Wink fallopian virgin warm stars reflecting on the outer channel fluid belly waters. And if your cans are redhot and you can’t hold them in your hands, just use good old railroad gloves, that’s all.
I felt like lying down by the side of the trail and remembering it all. The woods do that to you, they always look familiar, long lost, like the face of a long-dead relative, like an old dream, like a piece of forgotten song drifting across the water, most of all like golden eternities of past childhood or past manhood and all the living and the dying and the heartbreak that went on a million years ago and the clouds as they pass overhead seem to testify (by their own lonesome familiarity) to this feeling.
I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn’t know who I was – I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I’d never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn’t know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn’t scared; I was just somebody else some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost.
So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, and all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars’ll be out, and don’t you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all the rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty.
I have lots of things to teach you now, in case we ever meet, concerning the message that was transmitted to me under a pine tree in North Carolina on a cold winter moonlit night. It said that Nothing Ever Happened, so don’t worry. It’s all like a dream. Everything is ecstasy, inside. We just don’t know it because of our thinking-minds. But in our true blissful essence of mind is known that everything is alright forever and forever and forever. Close your eyes, let your hands and nerve-ends drop, stop breathing for 3 seconds, listen to the silence inside the illusion of the world, and you will remember the lesson you forgot, which was taught in immense milky way soft cloud innumerable worlds long ago and not even at all. It is all one vast awakened thing. I call it the golden eternity. It is perfect. We were never really born, we will never really die. It has nothing to do with the imaginary idea of a personal self, other selves, many selves everywhere: Self is only an idea, a mortal idea. That which passes into everything is one thing. It’s a dream already ended. There’s nothing to be afraid of and nothing to be glad about. I know this from staring at mountains months on end. They never show any expression, they are like empty space. Do you think the emptiness of space will ever crumble away? Mountains will crumble, but the emptiness of space, which is the one universal essence of mind, the vast awakenerhood, empty and awake, will never crumble away because it was never born.
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