Jack Kerouac, Big Sur, 1962

we go roaming the genghiz khan clouds of soft love and hope and anybody who’s never done this is crazy – because a new love affair always gives hope, the irrational mortal loneliness is crowned, that thing i saw (that horror of snake emptiness) when i took the deep iodine deathbreath on the big sur beach is now justified and hosannah’d and raised up like a sacred urn to heaven in the mere fact of the taking off of clothes and clashing wits and bodies in the inexpressibly nervously sad delight of love – don’t let no old fogies tell you otherwise, and on top of that nobody in the world even ever dares to write the true story of love, it’s awful, we’re stuck with a 50% incomplete literature and drama – lying mouth to mouth, kiss to kiss in the pillowdark, loin to loin in unbelievable surrenduring sweetness so distant from all our mental fearful abstractions it makes you wonder why men have termed god antisexual somehow – the secret underground truth of mad desire hiding under fenders under buried junkyards throughout the world, never mentioned in newspapers, written about haltingly and like corn by authors and painted tongue in cheek by artists, agh, just listen to tristan and isolde by wagner and think of him in a bavarian field with his beloved naked beauty under the fall leaves.

— jack kerouac, big sur, 1962

via only on de mairt 

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