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Керуак, Джек - Керуак - Биг Сир (engl)

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дРЕХ хЕНЪВХ. чСФ зСН (engl)



     Big Sur, Unmistakably Autobiographical, Big Sur, Jack Kerouac's Ninth Novel, Was Written As The "king Of The Beats" Was Ap-, Proaching Middle-age And Re flects His Struggle To Come To Terms With His Own Myth. The Magnificent And Moving Story. Of jack duluoz, a man blessed by great talent and cursed with an urge towards self-destruction, big sur is at once ker


     Unmistakably autobiographical, Big Sur, Jack Kerouac's ninth novel, was written as the "King of the beats" was approaching middle-age and reflects his struggle to come to terms with his own myth. The magnificent and moving story. Of jack duluoz, a man blessed by great talent and cursed with an urge towards self-destruction, big sur is at once kerouac's toughest and his most humane work. JACK KEROUAC was born in 1922 in Lowell, Massachusetts, the youngest of three children in a French-Canadian family. In high school he was a star player on the local football team, and went on to win football scholarships to Horace Mann (a New York prep school) and Columbia College. He left Columbia and football in his sophomore year, joined the Merchant Marines and began the restless wanderings that were to continue for the greater part of his life. His first novel, The Town and the City, was published in 1950. On the Road, although written in 1951 (in a few hectic days on a scroll of newsprint), was not published until 1957 -- it made him one of the most controversial and bestknown writers of his time. Publication of his many other books, among them The Subterraneans, Doctor Sax and Desolation Angels, followed.

     Jack Kerouac died in 1969, in St Petersburg, Florida, at the age of forty-seven.


     My work comprises one vast book like Proust's except that my remembrances are written on the run instead of afterwards in a sick bed. Because of the objections of my early publishers I was not allowed to use the same personae names in each work. On the Road, The Subterraneans, The Dharma Bums, Doctor Sax, Maggie Cassidy, Tristessa, Desolation Angels, Visions of Cody and the others including this book Big Sur are just chapters in the whole work which I call The Duluoz Legend. In my old age I intend to collect all my work and re-insert my pantheon of uniform names, leave the long shelf full of books there, and die happy. The whole thing forms one enormous comedy, seen through the eyes of poor Ti Jean (me), otherwise known as Jack Duluoz, the world of raging action and folly and also of gentle sweetness seen through the keyhole of his eye. JACK KEROUAC
1


     The church is blowing a sad windblown "Kathleen" on the bells in the skid row slums as I wake up all woebegone and goopy, groaning from another drinking bout and groaning most of all because I'd ruined my "secret return" to San Francisco by getting silly drunk while hiding in the alleys with bums and then marching forth into North Beach to see everybody altho Lorenz Monsanto and I'd exchanged huge letters outlining how I would sneak in quietly, call him on the phone using a code name like Adam Yulch or Lalagy Pulvertaft (also writers) and then he would secretly drive me to his cabin in the Big Sur woods where I would be alone and undisturbed for six weeks just chopping wood, drawing water, writing, sleeping, hiking, etc., etc. -- But instead I've bounced drunk into his City Lights bookshop at the height of Saturday night business, everyone recognized me (even tho" I was wearing my disguise-like fisherman's hat and fishermen coat and pants waterproof) and "t'all ends up a roaring drunk in all the famous bars the bloody "King of the Beatniks" is back in town buying drinks for everyone -- Two days of that, including Sunday the day Lorenzo is supposed to pick me up at my "secret" skid row hotel (the Mars on 4th and Howard) but when he calls for me there's no answer, he has the clerk open the door and what does he see but me out on the floor among bottles, Ben Fagan stretched out partly beneath the bed, and Robert Browning the beatnik painter out on the bed, snoring... So says to himself "I'll pick him up next weekend, I guess he wants to drink for a week in the city (like he always does, I guess)" so off he drives to his Big Sur cabin without me thinking he's doing the right thing but my God when I wake up, and Ben and Browning are gone, they've somehow dumped me on the bed, and I hear "I'll Take You Home Again Kathleen" being bellroped so sad in the fog winds out there that blow across the rooftops of eerie old hangover Frisco, wow, I've hit the end of the trail and cant even drag my body any more even to a refuge in the woods let alone stay upright in the city a minute -- It's the first trip I've taken away from home (my mother's house) since the publication of "Road" the book that "made me famous" and in fact so much so I've been driven mad for three years by endless telegrams, phonecalls, requests, mail, visitors, reporters, snoopers (a big voice saying in my basemerit window as I prepare to write a story: ARE YOU BUSY? ) or the time the reporter ran upstairs to my bedroom as I sat there in my pajamas trying to write down a dream -- Teenagers jumping the six-foot fence I'd had built around my yard for privacy -- Parties with bottles yelling at my study window "Come on out and get drunk, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy! "... A woman coming to my door and saying "I'm not going to ask you if you're Jack Duluoz because I know he wears a beard, can you tell me where I can find him, I want a real beatnik at my annual Shindig party" -- Drunken visitors puking in my study, stealing books and even pencils... Uninvited acquaintances staying for days because of the clean beds and good food my mother provided... Me drunk practically all the time to put on a jovial cap to keep up with all this but finally realizing I was surrounded and outnumbered and had to get away to solitude again or die -- So Lorenzo Monsanto wrote and said "Come to my cabin, no one'll know, " etc., so I had sneaked into San Francisco as I say, coming 3000 miles from my home in Long Island (Northport) in a pleasant roomette on the California Zephyr train watching America roll by outside my private picture window, really happy for the first time in three years, staying in the roomette all three days and three nights with my instant coffee and sandwiches -- Up the Hudson Valley and over across New York State to Chicago and then the Plains, the mountains, the desert, the final mountains of California, all so easy and dreamlike compared to my old harsh hitch hikings before I made enough money to take transcontinental trains (all over America high school and college kids thinking "Jack Duluoz is 26 years old and on the road all the time hitch hiking" while there I am almost 40 years old, bored and jaded in a roomette bunk crashin across that Salt Flat) -- But in any case a wonderful start towards my retreat so generously offered by sweet old Monsanto and instead of going thru smooth and easy I wake up drunk, sick, disgusted, frightened, in fact terrified by that sad song across the roofs mingling with the lachrymose cries of a Salvation Army meeting on the corner below "Satan is the cause of your alcoholism, Satan is the cause of your immorality, Satan is everywhere workin to destroy you unless you repent now" and worse than that the sound of old drunks throwing up in rooms next to mine, the creak of hall steps, the moans everywhere Including the moan that had awakened me, my own moan in the lumpy bed, a moan caused by a big roaring Whoo Whoo in my head that had shot me out of my pillow like a ghost.


     2


     And I look around the dismal cell, there's my hopeful rucksack all neatly packed with everything necessary to live in the woods, even unto the minutest first aid kit and diet details and even a neat little sewing kit cleverly reinforced by my good mother (like extra safety pins, buttons, special sewing needles, little aluminum scissors)... The hopeful medal of St Christopher even which she'd sewn on the flap... The survival kit all in there down to the last little survival sweater and handkerchief and tennis sneakers (for hiking) -- But the rucksack sits hopefully in a strewn mess of bottles all empty, empty poor boys of white port, butts, junk, horror... "One fast move or I'm gone, " I realize, gone the way of the last three years of drunken hopelessness which is a physical and spiritual and metaphysical hopelessness you cant learn in school no matter how many books on existentialism or pessimism you read, or how many jugs of vision producing Ayahuasca you drink, or Mescaline take, or Peyote goop up with -- That feeling when you wake up with the delirium tremens with the fear of eerie death dripping from your ears like those special heavy cobwebs spiders weave in the hot countries, the feeling of being a bent back mudman monster groaning underground in hot steaming mud pulling a long hot burden nowhere, the feeling of standing ankledeep in hot boiled pork blood, ugh, of being up to your waist in a giant pan of greasy brown dishwater not a trace of suds left in it... The face of yourself you see in the mirror with its expression of unbearable anguish so haggard and awful with sorrow you cant even cry for a thing so ugly, so lost, no connection whatever with early perfection and therefore nothing to connect with tears or anything: it's like William Seward Burroughs" "Stranger" suddenly appearing in your place in the mirror -- Enough! "One fast move or I'm gone" so I jump up, do my headstand first to pump blood back into the hairy brain, take a shower in the hall, new T-shirt and socks and underwear, pack vigorously, hoist the rucksack and run out throwing the key on the desk and hit the cold street and walk fast to the nearest little grocery store to buy two days of food, stick it in the rucksack, hike thru lost alleys of Russian sorrow where bums sit head on knees in foggy doorways in the goopy eerie city night I've got to escape or die, and into the bus station In a half hour into a bus seat, the bus says "Monterey" and off we go down the clean neon hiway and I sleep all the way, waking up amazed and well again smelling sea air the bus driver shaking me "End of the line, Monterey. " -- And by God it is Monterey, I stand sleepy in the 2 A. M. seeing vague little fishing masts across the street from the bus driveway. Now all I've got to do to complete my escape is get 14 miles down the coast to the Raton Canyon bridge and hike in.


     3


     "One fast move or I'm gone" so I blow $8 on a cab to drive me down that coast, it's foggy night tho sometimes you can see stars in the sky to the right where the sea is, tho you cant see the sea you can only hear about it from the cabdriver -- "What kinda country is it around here? I've never seen it. " 'Well, you cant see it tonight -- Raton Canyon you say, you better be careful walkin around there in the dark. " 'Why? "

     "Well, just use your lamp like you say... "

     And sure enough when he lets me off at the Raton Canyon bridge and counts the money I sense something wrong somehow, there's an awful roar of surf but it isnt coming from the right place, like you'd expect it to come from "over there" but it's coming from "under there" -- I can see the bridge but I can see nothing below it -- The bridge continues the coast highway from one bluff to another, it's a nice white bridge with white rails and there's a white line runnin down the middle familiar and highway like but something's wrong -- Besides the headlights of the cab just shoot out over a few bushes into empty space in the direction where the canyon's supposed to be, it feels like being up in the air somewhere tho I can see the dirt road at our feet and the dirt overhang on the side

     "What in the hell is this? " -- I've got the directions all memorized from a little map Monsanto's mailed me but in my imagination dreaming about this big retreat back home there'd been something larkish, bucolic, all homely woods and gladness instead of all this aerial roaring mystery in the dark -- When the cab leaves I therefore turn on my railroad lantern for a timid peek but its beam gets lost just like the car lights in a void and in fact the battery is fairly weak and I can hardly see the bluff at my left -- As for the bridge I cant see it anymore except for graduating series of luminous shoulder buttons going off further into the low sea roar... The sea roar is bad enough except it keeps bashing and barking at me like a dog in the fog down there, sometimes it booms the earth but my God where is the earth and how can the sea be underground! -- "The only thing to do, " I gulp, "is to put this lantern shinin right in front of your feet, kiddo, and follow that lantern and make sure it's shinin on the road rut and hope and pray it's shinin on the ground that's gonna be there when it's shinin, " in other words I actually fear that even my lamp will carry me astray if I dare to raise it for a minute from the ruts in the dirt road -- The only satisfaction I can glean from this roaring high horror of darkness is that the lamp wobbles huge dark shadows of its little rim stays on the overhanging bluff at the left of the road, because to the right (where the bushes are wiggling in the wind from the sea) there aint no shadows because there aint no light can take hold -- So I start my trudge, pack aback, just head down following my lamp spot, head down but eyes suspiciously peering a little up, like a man in the presence of a dangerous idiot he doesn't want to annoy The dirt road starts up a little, curves to the right, starts down a little, then suddenly up again, and up By now the sea roar is further back and at one point I even stop and look back to see nothing -- "I'm gonna put out my light and see what I can see" I stay rooted to my feet where they're rooted to that road Fat lotta good, when I put out the light I see nothing but the dim sand at my feet. Trudging up and getting further away from the sea roar I get to feel more confident but suddenly I come to a frightening thing in the road, I stop and hold out my hand, edge forward, it's only a cattle crossing (iron bars imbedded across the road) but at the same time a big blast of wind comes from the left where the bluff should be and I spot that way and see nothing. "What the hell's going on! " "Fol-low the road, " says the other voice trying to be calm so I do but the next instant I hear a rattling to my right, throw my light there, see nothing but bushes wiggling dry and mean and just the proper high canyonwall kind of bushes fit for rattlesnakes too -- (which it was, a rattlesnake doesnt like to be awakened in the middle of the night by a trudging humpback monster with a lamp). But now the road's going down again, the reassuring bluff reappears on my left, and pretty soon according to my memory of Lorry's map there she is, the creek, I can hear her lappling and gabbing down there at the bottom of the dark where at least I'll be on level ground and done with booming airs somewhere above -- But the closer I get to the creek as the road dips steeply, suddenly, almost making me trot forward, the louder it roars, I begin to think I'll fall right into it before I can notice it... It's screaming like a raging flooded river right below me -- Besides it's even darker down there than anywhere! There are glades down there, ferns of horror and slippery logs, mosses, dangerous plashings, humid mists rise coldly like the breath of death, big dangerous trees are beginning to bend over my head and brush my pack -- There's a noise I know can only grow louder as I sink down and for fear how loud it can grow I stop and listen, it rises up crashing mysteriously at me from a raging battle among dark things, wood or rock or something cracked, all smashed, all wet black sunken earth danger -- I'm afraid to go down there -- I am affrayed in the old Edmund Spenser sense of being frayed by a whip, and a wet one at that -- A slimy green dragon racket in the bush -- An angry war that doesnt want me pokin around -- It's been there a million years and it doesnt want me clashing darkness with it -- It comes snarling from a thousand crevasses and monster redwood roots all over the map of creation -- It is a dark clangoror in the rain forest and doesnt want no skid row bum to carry to the sea which is bad enough and waitin back there -- I can almost feel the sea pulling at that racket in the trees but there's my spotlamp so all I gotta do is follow the lovely sand road which dips and dips in rising carnage and suddenly a flattening, a sight of bridge logs, there's the bridge rail, there's the creek just four feet below, cross the bridge you woken bum and see what's on the other shore. Take one quick peek at the water as you cross, just water over rocks, a small creek at that.

     And now before me is a dreamy meadowland with a good old corral gate and a barbed wire fence the road running right on left but this where I get off at last. Then I crawl thru the barbed wire and find myself trudging a sweet little sand road winding right thru fragrant dry heathers as tho I'd just popped thru from hell into familiar old Heaven on Earth, yair and Thank God (tho a minute later my heart's in my mouth again because I see black things in the white sand ahead but it's only piles of good old mule dung in Heaven).


     4


     And in the morning (after sleeping by the creek in the white sand) I do see what was so scary about my canyon road walk -- The road's up there on the wall a thousand feet with a sheer drop sometimes, especially at the cattle crossing, way up highest, where a break in the bluff shows fog pouring through from another bend of the sea beyond, scary enough in itself anyway as tho one hole wasnt enough to open into the sea... And worst of all is the bridge! I go ambling seaward along the path by the creek and see this awful thin white line of bridge a thousand unbridgeable sighs of height above the little woods I'm walking in, you just cant believe it, and to make things heart-thumpingly horrible you come to a little bend in what is now just a trail and there's the booming surf coming at you whitecapped crashing down on sand as tho it was higher than where you stand, like a sudden tidal wave world enough to make you step back or run back to the hills -- And not only that, the blue sea behind the crashing high waves is full of huge black rocks rising like old ogresome castles dripping wet slime, a billion years of woe right there, the moogrus big clunk of it right there with its slaverous lips of foam at the base -- So that you emerge from pleasant little wood paths with a stem of grass in your teeth and drop it to see doom... And you look up at that unbelievably high bridge and feel death and for a good reason: because underneath the bridge, in the sand right beside the sea cliff, hump, your heart sinks to see it: the automobile that crashed thru the bridge rail a decade ago and fell 1000 feet straight down and landed upside-down, is still there now, an upside-down chassis of rust in a strewn skitter of sea-eaten tires, old spokes, old car seats sprung with straw, one sad fuel pump and no more people...

     Big elbows of Rock rising everywhere, sea caves within them, seas plollocking all around inside them crashing out foams, the boom and pound on the sand, the sand dipping quick (no Malibu Beach here) -- Yet you turn and see the pleasant woods winding upcreek like a picture in Vermont -- But you look up into the sky, bend way back, my God you're standing directly under the aerial bridge with its thin white line running from rock to rock and witless cars racing across it like dreams! From rock to rock! All the way down the raging coast! So that when later I heard people say "Oh Big Sur must be beautiful! " I gulp to wonder why it has the reputation of being beautiful above and beyond its fearfulness, its Blakean groaning roughrock Creation throes, those vistas when you drive the coast highway on a sunny day opening up the eye for miles of horrible washing sawing.


     5


     It was even frightening at the other peaceful end of Raton Canyon, the east end, where Alf the pet mule of local settlers slept at night such sleepfull sleeps under a few weird trees and then got up in the morning to graze in the grass then negotiated the whole distance slowly to the sea shore where you saw him standing by the waves like an ancient sacred myth character motionless in the sand -- Alf the Sacred Burro" I later called him -- The thing that was frightening was the mountain that rose up at the east end, a strange Burmese like mountain with levels and moody terraces and a strange ricepaddy hat on top that I kept staring at with a sinking heart even at first when I was healthy and feeling good (and I would be going mad in this canyon in six weeks on the fullmoon night of 3 September) -- The mountain reminded me of my recent recurrent nightmares in New York about the "Mountain of Mien Mo" with the swarms of moony flying horses lyrically sweeping capes over their shoulders as they circled the peak a "thousand miles high" (in the dream it said) and on top of the mountain in one haunted nightmare I'd seen the giant empty stone benches so silent in the topworld moonlight as tho once inhabited by Gods or giants of some kind but long ago vacated so that they were all dusty and cobwebby now and the evil lurked somewhere inside the pyramid nearby where there was a monster with a big thumping heart but also, even more sinister, just ordinary seedy but muddy janitors cooking over small woodfires... Narrow dusty holes through which I'd tried to crawl with a bunch of tomato plants tied around my neck -- Dreams -- Drinking nightmares -- A recurrent series of them all swirling around that mountain, seen the very first time as a beautiful but somehow horribly green verdant mist enshrouded jungle peak rising out of green tropical country in 'Mexico" so called but beyond which were pyramids, dry rivers, other countries full of infantry enemy and yet the biggest danger being just hoodlums out throwing rocks on Sundays -- So that the sight of that simple sad mountain, together with the bridge and that car that had flipped over twice or so and landed flump in the sand with no more sign of human elbows or shred neckties (like a terrifying poem about America you could write), agh, HOO HOO of Owls living in old evil hollow trees in that misty tangled further part of the canyon where I was always afraid to go anyhow -- That unclimbably tangled steep cliff at the base of Mien Mo rising to gawky dead trees among bushes so dense and up to heathers God knows how deep with hidden caves no one not even I spose the Indians of the roth century had ever explored -- And those big gooky rainforest ferns among lightningstruck conifers right beside sudden black vine cliff faces rising right at your side as you walk the peaceful path... And as I say that ocean coming at you higher than you are like the harbors of old woodcuts always higher than the towns (as Rimbaud pointed out shuddering) -- So many evil combinations even unto the bat who would come at me later while I slept on the outdoor cot on the porch of Lorenzo's cabin, come circle my head coming real low sometimes filling me with the traditional fear it'll get tangled in my hair, and such silent wings, how would you like to wake up in the middle of the night and see silent wings beating over you and you ask yourself "Do I really believe in Vampires? "... In fact, flying silently around my lamplit cabin at 3 o'clock in the morning as I'm reading (of all things) (shudder) Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde -- Small wonder maybe that I myself turned from serene Jekyll to hysterical Hyde in the short space of six weeks, losing absolute control of the peace mechanisms of my mind for the first time in my life.

     But Ah, at first there were fine days and nights, right after Monsanto drove me to Monterey and back with two boxes of a full grub list and left me there alone for three weeks of solitude, as we'd agreed -- So fearless and happy I even spotted his powerful flashlight up at the bridge the first night, right thru the fog the eerie finger reaching the pale bottom of that high monstrosity, and even spotted it out over the farmless sea as I sat by caves in the crashing dark in my fisherman's outfit writing down what the sea was saying -- Worst of all spotting it up at those tangled mad cliffsides 'where owls hooted ooraloo -- becoming acquainted and swallowing fears and settling down to life in the little cabin with its warm glow of woodstove and kerosene lamp and let the ghosts fly their asses off... The Bhikku's home in his woods, he only wants peace, peace he will get -- Tho why after three weeks of perfect happy peace and adjustment in these strange woods my soul so went down the drain when I came back with Dave Wain and Romana and my girl Billie and her kid, I'll never know -- Worth the telling only if I dig deep into everything.

    

... ... ...
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