Glorious day off today. I didn't even make it to half of the places I wanted to wander through. I finally managed to spend most of my Christmas gift certificates. I spent an hour and a half in McNally Robinson, loving the idea that I could find a book and buy it on the spot without worrying about money. I picked up The Emperor and the Linguist, which is NOT florid historical erotica but rather the story of the translation of the Rosetta Stone. I also finally bought my own copy of Howl, which still hits me just as powerfully as always. I thought I was just overreacting as an adolescent, but apparently not. I'd forgotten just how raw and agonizing it was, but also how beautiful and full of yearning. I challenge anyone to say that poetry is dry, dull and nerdy after reading Ginsberg.
All of this sudden thinking about the Beats reminded me of something that had completely slipped my mind. A few months before I moved out, I was ranting to Rob about Beat lit and Kerouac, trying to explain it to him (never did succeed). I've always seen Kerouac as deeply flawed, almost laughable (one of the many reasons I prefer Ginsberg, but that's a ramble for another day), but he had his moments of literary exquisiteness. As an example, I quoted him my favorite Kerouac lines, the ones that I read as a young teenager that first made me want to live with that kind of passion:
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..."
He listened and just sat there for a couple of minutes. Finally, he said "But I'm not like that at all"
I wanted so badly to argue with him, but all I could say was "No...I suppose you aren't".
I tried so hard to convince myself that I'd just been dumb and idealistic as a teenager and that what I'd once thought I wanted had simply proved silly and impractical, that what I'd found was lasting and deeper than the drunken musings of a dead man...but a part of me couldn't help thinking, "Oh, SHIT."
All of this sudden thinking about the Beats reminded me of something that had completely slipped my mind. A few months before I moved out, I was ranting to Rob about Beat lit and Kerouac, trying to explain it to him (never did succeed). I've always seen Kerouac as deeply flawed, almost laughable (one of the many reasons I prefer Ginsberg, but that's a ramble for another day), but he had his moments of literary exquisiteness. As an example, I quoted him my favorite Kerouac lines, the ones that I read as a young teenager that first made me want to live with that kind of passion:
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..."
He listened and just sat there for a couple of minutes. Finally, he said "But I'm not like that at all"
I wanted so badly to argue with him, but all I could say was "No...I suppose you aren't".
I tried so hard to convince myself that I'd just been dumb and idealistic as a teenager and that what I'd once thought I wanted had simply proved silly and impractical, that what I'd found was lasting and deeper than the drunken musings of a dead man...but a part of me couldn't help thinking, "Oh, SHIT."
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Creaky and rarely used
I tend to find stuff out tangetially, and the only ginsberg I'm familiar with was an Open Letter to America (which may not even be the title) that I accidentally downloaded looking for Tom Waits, iirc. Intriguing.