JACK KEROUAC



 

That wild eager picture of me on the cover of On the Road where I look so Beat goes back much further than 1948 when John Clellon Holmes (author of Go and The Horn) and I were sitting around trying to think up the meaning of the Lost Generation and the subsequent Existentialism and I said "You know, this is really a beat generation" and he leapt up and said "That's it, that's right!"  It goes back to the 1880's when my grandfather Jean-Baptiste Kerouac used to go out on the porch in big thunderstorms and swing his kerosene lamp at the lightning and yell "Go ahead, ho, if you're more powerful than I am strike me and put the light out!" while the mother and the children cowered in the kitchen.  And the light never went out.  Maybe since I'm supposed to be the spokesman of the Beat Generation (I am the originator of the term, and around it the term and the generation have taken shape) it should be pointed out that all this "Beat" guts therefore goes back to my ancestors who were Bretons who were the most independent group[ of nobles in all old Europe and kept fighting Latin France to the last wall (although a big blond bosun on a merchant ship snorted when I told him my ancestors were Bretons in Cornwall, Brittany, "Why, we Wikings used to swoop down and steal your nets!").  Breton, Wiking, there is no doubt about the Beat Generation, at least the core of it, being a swinging group of new American men intent on joy....  Irresponsibility?  Who wouldn't help a dying man on an empty road?  No and the Beat Generation goes back to the wild parties my father used to have at home in the 1920's and nobody could sleep for blocks around and when the cops came they always had a drink.  It goes back to the wild and raving childhood of playing the Shadow under windswept trees of New England's gleeful autumn, and the howl of the Moon man on the sandbank until we caught him in a tree (he was an "older" guy of 15), the maniacal laugh of certain neighbourhood madboys, the furious humour of the whole gangs playing basketball till long after dark in the park, it goes back to those crazy days before World War II when teenagers drank beer on Friday nights at Lake ballrooms and worked off their hangovers playing baseball on Saturday afternoon followed by a dive in the brook-- and our fathers wore straw hats like W. C. Fields.  It goes back to the completely senseless babble of  the Three Stooges, the ravings of the Marx Brothers (the tenderness of Angel Harpo at harp, too).
It goes back to the inky ditties of old cartoons (Krazy Kat with the irrational brick) -- to Laurel and Hardy in the Foreign Legion -- to Count Dracula and his smile to Count Dracula shivering and hissing back before the cross -- to the Golem horrifying the persecutors of the Ghetto  -- to the quiet sage in a movie about India, unconcerned about the plot-- to the giggling old Tao Chinaman trotting down the sidewalk of old Clark Gable Shanghai -- to the holy old Arab warning the hotbloods that Ramadan is near.  To the Werewolf of London a distinguished doctor in his velour smoking jacket smoking his pipe over a lamplit tome on botany and suddenly hairs grown on his hands, his cat hisses and he slips out into the night with a cape and a slanty cap like the caps of people in breadlines-- to Lamont Cranston so cool and sure suddenly becoming the frantic Shadow going mwee hee hee ha ha in alleys of New York imagination.  To Popeye the sailor and the Sea Hag and the meaty gunwales of boats, to Cap'n Easy and Wash Tubbs screaming with ecstasy over canned peaches on a cannibal isle, to Wimpy looking X-eyed for a juicy hamburger such as they make no more.  To Jiggs ducking before a household of furniture flying through the air, to Jiggs and the boys at the bar and the corned beef and cabbage of old woodfence noons -- to King Kong his eyes looking into the hotel window with tender huge love for Fay Wray -- nay, to Bruce Cabot in mate's cap leaning over the rail of a fogbound ship saying "Come aboard."  It goes back to when grapefruits were thrown at crooners and harvestworkers at bar-rails slapped burlesque queens on the rump.  To when fathers took their sons to the Twi League game. To the days of Babe Callahan on the waterfront, Dick Barthelmess camping under a London streetlamp.  To dear old Basil Rathbone looking for the Hound of the Baskervilles (a dog big as the Gray Wolf who will destroy Odin) -- to dear old bleary Doctor "Watson with a brandy in his hand,  To Joan Crawford her raw shanks in the door of the waterfront dive.  To train whistles of steam engines out above the moony pines.  To Maw and Paw in the Model A clanking on to get a job in California selling used cars making a whole lotta money.  To the glee of America, the honesty of America, the honesty of oldtime waiters in line at the Brooklyn Bridge in Winterset, the funny spitelessness of old big-fisted America like the big Boy Williams saying "Hoo?  Hee?  Huh?" in a movie about Mack Trucks and slidingdoor lunchcarts.  To Clark Gable, his certain smile, his confident leer.  Like my grandfather this America was invested with wild selfbelieving individuality and this had begun to disappear around the end of World War II with so many great guys dead (I can think of half a dozen from my own boyhood groups) when suddenly it began to emerge again, the hipsters began to appear gliding around saying "Crazy, man."

--from The Origin of the Beat Generation
  Playboy, June 1959

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