Go Jack Go...!!! - On the Road
On The Road - by Jack Kerouac
Jack, The Book and The Legend
Kerouac explodes, “. . . burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the centerlight pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’ ” (Road 6). It was after writing On The Road where life is “kicks” that Jack decided that “All life is suffering” (12) in The Dharma Bums as the Buddhist rucksack vagabond, resulting from the days of “a thousand ‘Yeses” (Bums 2) of Dean Moriarty with Sal On The Road. Kerouac’s writing style constantly draws contrast between illusion and reality. This timelessness is seen in Kerouac’s search for profound truth. Through the eyes of Dean or Sal, Kerouac attempts to give us the surreal spiritual inbetweeness, which spans the people and the landscape of America. “Gee,” Dean says from off the precipice like a sermon on the mount, “I wish there was something I could give her! Think of it . . . with all the bottom below. She’ll never leave here and know anything about the outside world,” (Beat 38). And then through a little Indian girl’s eyes, “ . . . ’Look at those eyes!’ breathed Dean. They were like the eyes of the Virgin Mother . . . with sorrowful and hypnotic gleam,” (Beat 39). To know the timelessness of Kerouac’s poetic tongue, we need to read entire passages which whip along like poetic butter off the tongue.
Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady, a.k.a. Sal and Dean Moriarty
The wandering spirit of time in both novels begins as Go! “On we sped” (Beat 21) in On The Road across 50 states in record time. “Go ahead . . .” (13), “ . . . we gotta go” (25) and “ . . . go, go go” (28) and “. . . Mexico . . . Ohio . . . Chicago . . . Negro . . . (and) . . . Oh, man . . . !” (Beat 13,25,28), becoming the meditative “Oh!” in The Dharma Bums finding quiet recluse spots like Desolation Peak to give us a sense of being at the top of it all and seeing the whole continent pass through time in one grand breathtaking sweep. Characters are transported through time recklessly. The “vapid” landscape rushes by us quickly as a speeding car or train. It is this great sense of vastness and “vapitude” that bridges the distance between place and time. Like a spiritual warrior Ray Smith (Bums) dances Wu-li twists along the winding roadways and freight routes of America. Great freight trains like the “Santa Fe . . . the Zipper, (and the) . . . great Midnite Ghost express” (Bums) travel through time like ghosts leaving behind a trail of the supernatural with the sense of constant movement. The Dharma Bums begins with the words, “Hopping a freight” and ends “. . . down the trail back to this world”, which is exactly where we go! If Sal (Road) is not following some highway in the sky, the character of Smith (Bums) is hopping rides or working his way up some mountain path to thin air searching for enlightenment, the lay of constant landscape or the music of a feeling or mood, of an entire restless generation. “One night in a meditation vision Avalokitesvara the Hearer and Answerer of Prayer said to me ‘You are empowered to remind people that they are utterly free’ . . . to prove that we’ve all been wrong, to prove that the proving itself was nil . . .” (Bums 240), Jack wrote of Desolation Peak where Ray Smith is fire stationed.
Jack’s writing is tranced with many hypnotic poetic descriptions of places, people or happenings that transport us beyond the immediacy of the written page and into the wilderness of the common man to influence a whole other world of underground Leninists and Troskyites of junkie politics to the musical poems of a Charlie Parker meltdown, “Once there was Louis Armstrong . . .” two pages on and “ . . . Dean and I were there with beers" (Beat 26-28) and into the “beat generation”, a term which Jack with John Clellan Holmes would boldly define.
"After 1957 On the Road sold a trillion Levis and a million espresso machines, and also sent countless kids on the road...the alienation, the restlessness, the dissatisfaction were already there waiting when Kerouac pointed out the road." ~ William Burroughs
Right-click on link to open new window:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jej5d2kYjuQ
The beat was on, the heartbeat of America in all cultural dimensions, like some lonely Jesus trying to drag you down and out of purgatory, which is where you were back then. In Jack’s Book, Luanne Henderson describes a trip through Texas where “we all took our clothes off . . . and we were all cavorting naked through the ruins” when “we saw a car approaching . . . Jack and I sprinted across the highway to get back in the car . . . Neal struck this magnificent pose up on one of these concrete platforms . . . You could see this old woman on the passenger side pointing . . . Neal did have a beautiful body. ‘Isn’t that a magnificent statue? And the way it’s held up through the years when all this deterioration was around it” (Jack’s Book 137-8).
Right-click on lonk to open page in new window:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jBILjdzkpzU
The bawdy antics of On The Road become the “bodhi” antics of the mind in The Dharma Bums, the car becomes a rucksack and silence becomes the horn that Jack uses to Blow! The Blow! and Go! of Road step down to Slow! and Oh! in Bums and then the amoral You Know! as time moves on. We learn that if you want to be transported the world is full of sudden means and that’s where poetry comes in. Descriptive poetry such as “In downtown Mexico City thousands of hipsters in floppy straw hats and long lapel jackets over bare chests padded along . . . selling crucifixes and weed . . . kneeling in beat chapels . . . burlesque shows in sheds . . . rubble with open sewers . . . little doors led to closet size bars . . . the ancient lake of the Aztec . . . coffee mixed with rum and nutmeg. Mambo blared . . . Hundreds of whores . . . their sorrowful eyes . . . in a frenzy and a dream . . . wandering singing guitarists . . . old men on corners blowing trumpets . . . sour stink of pulque saloons . . . the streets were alive . . . Beggars slept wrapped in advertising posters torn off fences . . . Whole families . . . sat on the sidewalk, playing little flutes and chuckling in the night . . . boiled heads of cows . . . newspaper napkins . . . the great and final wild uninhibited Fellahin-childlike city . . . hanging zombie-like . . . a ragged and holy tour that lasted till dawn . . . for nothing ever ended” (Beat 42). Kerouac’s lines of run-on sentences of one line paragraphs of novel length are in themselves a drug. One single sentence lasting two and a half pages begins “So we were at the red Drum . . .” (Beat 43) describes cowboys and people, Chicago and jazz, “the bop generation . . . the Russian dark sad door of Heavenly Lane . . . the silence of the subterraneans . . . great tenormen shooting junk . . . great young poets . . . Dostoevski’s Petersburg slums . . . boom blam the tremendous sound . . in the arms of my love . . . going up the narrow musty stairs like in a hovel, and her door” (Beat 46). "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." ~ somewhere in time. . . The poetry transports the reader to an other worldliness, the world of Jack and that, is that! On the Road burns in effigy, the energy of youth at the time after the Wars, a whole generation of lost men with lost souls portrayed in the character of Dean Moriarty to the music of Charlie Parker, which is where Jack gets some of his stylings. The book begins “I first met Dean” and ends “I think of Dean Moriarty,” running the engine of the continent in a borrowed sedan. Again this sense of magnitude, the vast endless landscape of life, offered in poetic prosaic descriptions, would challenge the parameter of waking minds into forthcoming generations.
Kerouac goes beyond life into the minds, psyche and behavior of those restless corpuscles who are the drunk, bum, prostitute, sex addict and junkies of “America the free,” to which Jack coined the title “Naked Lunch” of the Burroughs drug heap along with Ginsberg in Tangiers, prompting Burroughs to get it published, even helping edit to the song of Naked Lunch, “that frozen moment when everyone sees what’s on the end of every fork.” (Lunch ). Jack was in touch with this heartbeat of America and calls up his associations with the likes of William S. Burroughs in reverie. For as his nakedness, William. S. Burroughs, pointed out, “we are all junkies naked in our feast devouring everything with a hunger of the spirit,” more or less to sum up the creative spirit of a disillusioned America. This was evidenced by personal comments of the people who knew them. Burroughs “carried a gun holster, and he used to shoot those Benzedrine capsule with an air gun.” Al and Helen Hinkle describe how they observed Burroughs “. . . take these Benzedrine plastic things and set ‘em up and shoot them with a gun . . . He’d line up her Benzedrine capsules and sit on the couch and: pyoo! pyoo! pyoo! Then he had a shoulder holster and a side arm. The first day Jack was there he and Bill got out there in the front yard, and they strap on guns, playing fast draw. Jack had one of the kid’s cap guns,” (Jack’s Book 134-6). Like some cosmic cop trying to get his kicks for which Burrough’s wife, Joan, paid for their sins in real life with a bullet to the brain when, ironically, Burroughs misfires in a drug induced William Tell episode.
Accidental death in Dharma Bums has Neal’s girlfriend, Rosie, frantically pleading, “there’s going to be a big new revolution of police” (Bums 110) and claiming “they’ll arrest everybody in North Beach and even everybody in Greenwich Village and then Paris and then finally they’ll have everybody in jail, you don’t know, it’s only the beginning” (Bums 111). Nobody seemed to take her seriously until it was too late. Kerouac seems to have this sense for the obscene. By this I mean the obtuse scene where life in all its raw splendour, unrestrained, comes jumping out at you in the tradition of the cosmic poets of the 20th Century. The Beat goes on, embedded in the minds of modern poets and musicians, as Jim Morrison later decreed in live concert, “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to get my kicks before the whole shithouse goes up in flames!”
"Goodbye Jack... Kerouac... "
And so it is, this west coast energy of timeless time was flagged in the days of Charlie Parker. The world was accelerating to break free of the ocean of social and political tyranny, a process which prevails to this day in search for our place and meaning in the wave that is America, “ . . . this includes Indians too,” sings Eric Burdon, “on a warm San Franciscan night.” Everyone playing their Buddhist solos in reverence to the wandering spirit, resting on some desolate outpost, somewhere in some desolate plain in the desert of the heart stripping our clothes, naked as stone statues exposed to the cold and hot extreme mountain of burning desire to the cities of the mind, the world began to Howl in the words of Allan Ginsberg, at the Six Gallery in San Francisco, and Kerouac “exploding like spiders” (Beat 15) in the pathways of the righteous, and Ginsberg again “looking for an angry fix” (Beat 62) like a needle shooting heroin into the arm of America. In the mind of Jack the Buddha and the epithet of “Blow! Blow! Go!” beyond mèmere and homemade apple pie, beyond hope to that lonely little heart called Spuzzum, which for all we know lies somewhere beyond Hope” (sic mine). Heart spasms, mind spasms, time spasms, huge chasms stretch across 3,000 miles of tumbleweed and mountain streams to mom, always home for wayward sons, the mother of lost boys all searching for someone fuelled by the European heritage of Romantic centuries of Dante, Blake and Proust in aware America, coming from a flash in the dark past into the orgasmic bright atomic minds of the present century. Faster than a speeding bullet, the careening car of time, the mystery ghost flat car and the lonely mountain trail lie in wait for anyone who is willing to partake.
Sexist, yah, chauvinist, maybe... black boredom, never! Timeless. . . yass . . .ya-a-a-ss . . . !
Jack Kerouac's own design for a book cover of “On The Road” (Never used) from a selection of Kerouac Book Covers
Right-click on links to open page in new window:
Kerouac Book Covers
http://mysite.wanadoo-members.co.uk/jkbooks/index.html
More Beat Than You Can Beat Off To...
http://orthogonal.wordpress.com/2006/12/
BIBLIOGRAPHY
The Portable Beat Reader. Anne Charters. 1992. Penguin. N.Y. NY.
Jack Kerouac, On The Road, The Dharma Bums, The Subterraneans. Jack Kerouac. 1993. Grove Press, Penguin. N.Y. NY.
Jack’s Book, An Oral Biography of Jack Kerouac. Barry Gifford, Lawrence Lee. 1978. St. Martin’s Press. N.Y. NY.
97103634
Author, Lucan Charchuk, 1998
Doctor Sax
"Doctor Sax is spoken by Grateful Dead lyricist & poet Robert Hunter, who frankly sounds too healthy for a character that seems to have been based in part on Kerouac’s roommate during the penning of Sax, William S. Burroughs... Doctor Sax, various vamps & wizard wives, and of course the Great World Snake that comes to threaten the world until it is carried off by a giant bird
SURROUNDED BY MY DOVES! MY DOVES, MY YOUNG AND SILLY DOVES!...... BIRDS OF PARADISE COMING TO SAVE MANKIND!
As Sax puts it." ~
More Jack Shite
Right-click on links to open page in new window:
Johnny Depp Reading Jack Shite
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qzIsVfZoI1A
Doctor Sax
http://ronsilliman.blogspot.com/search/label/Jack%20Kerouac
Jack, The Book and The Legend
Kerouac explodes, “. . . burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the centerlight pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’ ” (Road 6). It was after writing On The Road where life is “kicks” that Jack decided that “All life is suffering” (12) in The Dharma Bums as the Buddhist rucksack vagabond, resulting from the days of “a thousand ‘Yeses” (Bums 2) of Dean Moriarty with Sal On The Road. Kerouac’s writing style constantly draws contrast between illusion and reality. This timelessness is seen in Kerouac’s search for profound truth. Through the eyes of Dean or Sal, Kerouac attempts to give us the surreal spiritual inbetweeness, which spans the people and the landscape of America. “Gee,” Dean says from off the precipice like a sermon on the mount, “I wish there was something I could give her! Think of it . . . with all the bottom below. She’ll never leave here and know anything about the outside world,” (Beat 38). And then through a little Indian girl’s eyes, “ . . . ’Look at those eyes!’ breathed Dean. They were like the eyes of the Virgin Mother . . . with sorrowful and hypnotic gleam,” (Beat 39). To know the timelessness of Kerouac’s poetic tongue, we need to read entire passages which whip along like poetic butter off the tongue.
Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady, a.k.a. Sal and Dean Moriarty
The wandering spirit of time in both novels begins as Go! “On we sped” (Beat 21) in On The Road across 50 states in record time. “Go ahead . . .” (13), “ . . . we gotta go” (25) and “ . . . go, go go” (28) and “. . . Mexico . . . Ohio . . . Chicago . . . Negro . . . (and) . . . Oh, man . . . !” (Beat 13,25,28), becoming the meditative “Oh!” in The Dharma Bums finding quiet recluse spots like Desolation Peak to give us a sense of being at the top of it all and seeing the whole continent pass through time in one grand breathtaking sweep. Characters are transported through time recklessly. The “vapid” landscape rushes by us quickly as a speeding car or train. It is this great sense of vastness and “vapitude” that bridges the distance between place and time. Like a spiritual warrior Ray Smith (Bums) dances Wu-li twists along the winding roadways and freight routes of America. Great freight trains like the “Santa Fe . . . the Zipper, (and the) . . . great Midnite Ghost express” (Bums) travel through time like ghosts leaving behind a trail of the supernatural with the sense of constant movement. The Dharma Bums begins with the words, “Hopping a freight” and ends “. . . down the trail back to this world”, which is exactly where we go! If Sal (Road) is not following some highway in the sky, the character of Smith (Bums) is hopping rides or working his way up some mountain path to thin air searching for enlightenment, the lay of constant landscape or the music of a feeling or mood, of an entire restless generation. “One night in a meditation vision Avalokitesvara the Hearer and Answerer of Prayer said to me ‘You are empowered to remind people that they are utterly free’ . . . to prove that we’ve all been wrong, to prove that the proving itself was nil . . .” (Bums 240), Jack wrote of Desolation Peak where Ray Smith is fire stationed.
Jack’s writing is tranced with many hypnotic poetic descriptions of places, people or happenings that transport us beyond the immediacy of the written page and into the wilderness of the common man to influence a whole other world of underground Leninists and Troskyites of junkie politics to the musical poems of a Charlie Parker meltdown, “Once there was Louis Armstrong . . .” two pages on and “ . . . Dean and I were there with beers" (Beat 26-28) and into the “beat generation”, a term which Jack with John Clellan Holmes would boldly define.
"After 1957 On the Road sold a trillion Levis and a million espresso machines, and also sent countless kids on the road...the alienation, the restlessness, the dissatisfaction were already there waiting when Kerouac pointed out the road." ~ William Burroughs
Click to viewRight-click on link to open new window:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jej5d2kYjuQ
The beat was on, the heartbeat of America in all cultural dimensions, like some lonely Jesus trying to drag you down and out of purgatory, which is where you were back then. In Jack’s Book, Luanne Henderson describes a trip through Texas where “we all took our clothes off . . . and we were all cavorting naked through the ruins” when “we saw a car approaching . . . Jack and I sprinted across the highway to get back in the car . . . Neal struck this magnificent pose up on one of these concrete platforms . . . You could see this old woman on the passenger side pointing . . . Neal did have a beautiful body. ‘Isn’t that a magnificent statue? And the way it’s held up through the years when all this deterioration was around it” (Jack’s Book 137-8).
Right-click on lonk to open page in new window:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jBILjdzkpzU
The bawdy antics of On The Road become the “bodhi” antics of the mind in The Dharma Bums, the car becomes a rucksack and silence becomes the horn that Jack uses to Blow! The Blow! and Go! of Road step down to Slow! and Oh! in Bums and then the amoral You Know! as time moves on. We learn that if you want to be transported the world is full of sudden means and that’s where poetry comes in. Descriptive poetry such as “In downtown Mexico City thousands of hipsters in floppy straw hats and long lapel jackets over bare chests padded along . . . selling crucifixes and weed . . . kneeling in beat chapels . . . burlesque shows in sheds . . . rubble with open sewers . . . little doors led to closet size bars . . . the ancient lake of the Aztec . . . coffee mixed with rum and nutmeg. Mambo blared . . . Hundreds of whores . . . their sorrowful eyes . . . in a frenzy and a dream . . . wandering singing guitarists . . . old men on corners blowing trumpets . . . sour stink of pulque saloons . . . the streets were alive . . . Beggars slept wrapped in advertising posters torn off fences . . . Whole families . . . sat on the sidewalk, playing little flutes and chuckling in the night . . . boiled heads of cows . . . newspaper napkins . . . the great and final wild uninhibited Fellahin-childlike city . . . hanging zombie-like . . . a ragged and holy tour that lasted till dawn . . . for nothing ever ended” (Beat 42). Kerouac’s lines of run-on sentences of one line paragraphs of novel length are in themselves a drug. One single sentence lasting two and a half pages begins “So we were at the red Drum . . .” (Beat 43) describes cowboys and people, Chicago and jazz, “the bop generation . . . the Russian dark sad door of Heavenly Lane . . . the silence of the subterraneans . . . great tenormen shooting junk . . . great young poets . . . Dostoevski’s Petersburg slums . . . boom blam the tremendous sound . . in the arms of my love . . . going up the narrow musty stairs like in a hovel, and her door” (Beat 46). "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." ~ somewhere in time. . . The poetry transports the reader to an other worldliness, the world of Jack and that, is that! On the Road burns in effigy, the energy of youth at the time after the Wars, a whole generation of lost men with lost souls portrayed in the character of Dean Moriarty to the music of Charlie Parker, which is where Jack gets some of his stylings. The book begins “I first met Dean” and ends “I think of Dean Moriarty,” running the engine of the continent in a borrowed sedan. Again this sense of magnitude, the vast endless landscape of life, offered in poetic prosaic descriptions, would challenge the parameter of waking minds into forthcoming generations.
Kerouac goes beyond life into the minds, psyche and behavior of those restless corpuscles who are the drunk, bum, prostitute, sex addict and junkies of “America the free,” to which Jack coined the title “Naked Lunch” of the Burroughs drug heap along with Ginsberg in Tangiers, prompting Burroughs to get it published, even helping edit to the song of Naked Lunch, “that frozen moment when everyone sees what’s on the end of every fork.” (Lunch ). Jack was in touch with this heartbeat of America and calls up his associations with the likes of William S. Burroughs in reverie. For as his nakedness, William. S. Burroughs, pointed out, “we are all junkies naked in our feast devouring everything with a hunger of the spirit,” more or less to sum up the creative spirit of a disillusioned America. This was evidenced by personal comments of the people who knew them. Burroughs “carried a gun holster, and he used to shoot those Benzedrine capsule with an air gun.” Al and Helen Hinkle describe how they observed Burroughs “. . . take these Benzedrine plastic things and set ‘em up and shoot them with a gun . . . He’d line up her Benzedrine capsules and sit on the couch and: pyoo! pyoo! pyoo! Then he had a shoulder holster and a side arm. The first day Jack was there he and Bill got out there in the front yard, and they strap on guns, playing fast draw. Jack had one of the kid’s cap guns,” (Jack’s Book 134-6). Like some cosmic cop trying to get his kicks for which Burrough’s wife, Joan, paid for their sins in real life with a bullet to the brain when, ironically, Burroughs misfires in a drug induced William Tell episode.
Accidental death in Dharma Bums has Neal’s girlfriend, Rosie, frantically pleading, “there’s going to be a big new revolution of police” (Bums 110) and claiming “they’ll arrest everybody in North Beach and even everybody in Greenwich Village and then Paris and then finally they’ll have everybody in jail, you don’t know, it’s only the beginning” (Bums 111). Nobody seemed to take her seriously until it was too late. Kerouac seems to have this sense for the obscene. By this I mean the obtuse scene where life in all its raw splendour, unrestrained, comes jumping out at you in the tradition of the cosmic poets of the 20th Century. The Beat goes on, embedded in the minds of modern poets and musicians, as Jim Morrison later decreed in live concert, “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to get my kicks before the whole shithouse goes up in flames!”
"Goodbye Jack... Kerouac... "
And so it is, this west coast energy of timeless time was flagged in the days of Charlie Parker. The world was accelerating to break free of the ocean of social and political tyranny, a process which prevails to this day in search for our place and meaning in the wave that is America, “ . . . this includes Indians too,” sings Eric Burdon, “on a warm San Franciscan night.” Everyone playing their Buddhist solos in reverence to the wandering spirit, resting on some desolate outpost, somewhere in some desolate plain in the desert of the heart stripping our clothes, naked as stone statues exposed to the cold and hot extreme mountain of burning desire to the cities of the mind, the world began to Howl in the words of Allan Ginsberg, at the Six Gallery in San Francisco, and Kerouac “exploding like spiders” (Beat 15) in the pathways of the righteous, and Ginsberg again “looking for an angry fix” (Beat 62) like a needle shooting heroin into the arm of America. In the mind of Jack the Buddha and the epithet of “Blow! Blow! Go!” beyond mèmere and homemade apple pie, beyond hope to that lonely little heart called Spuzzum, which for all we know lies somewhere beyond Hope” (sic mine). Heart spasms, mind spasms, time spasms, huge chasms stretch across 3,000 miles of tumbleweed and mountain streams to mom, always home for wayward sons, the mother of lost boys all searching for someone fuelled by the European heritage of Romantic centuries of Dante, Blake and Proust in aware America, coming from a flash in the dark past into the orgasmic bright atomic minds of the present century. Faster than a speeding bullet, the careening car of time, the mystery ghost flat car and the lonely mountain trail lie in wait for anyone who is willing to partake.
Sexist, yah, chauvinist, maybe... black boredom, never! Timeless. . . yass . . .ya-a-a-ss . . . !
Jack Kerouac's own design for a book cover of “On The Road” (Never used) from a selection of Kerouac Book Covers
Right-click on links to open page in new window:
Kerouac Book Covers
http://mysite.wanadoo-members.co.uk/jkbooks/index.html
More Beat Than You Can Beat Off To...
http://orthogonal.wordpress.com/2006/12/
BIBLIOGRAPHY
The Portable Beat Reader. Anne Charters. 1992. Penguin. N.Y. NY.
Jack Kerouac, On The Road, The Dharma Bums, The Subterraneans. Jack Kerouac. 1993. Grove Press, Penguin. N.Y. NY.
Jack’s Book, An Oral Biography of Jack Kerouac. Barry Gifford, Lawrence Lee. 1978. St. Martin’s Press. N.Y. NY.
97103634
Author, Lucan Charchuk, 1998
Doctor Sax
"Doctor Sax is spoken by Grateful Dead lyricist & poet Robert Hunter, who frankly sounds too healthy for a character that seems to have been based in part on Kerouac’s roommate during the penning of Sax, William S. Burroughs... Doctor Sax, various vamps & wizard wives, and of course the Great World Snake that comes to threaten the world until it is carried off by a giant bird
SURROUNDED BY MY DOVES! MY DOVES, MY YOUNG AND SILLY DOVES!...... BIRDS OF PARADISE COMING TO SAVE MANKIND!
As Sax puts it." ~
More Jack Shite
Right-click on links to open page in new window:
Johnny Depp Reading Jack Shite
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qzIsVfZoI1A
Doctor Sax
http://ronsilliman.blogspot.com/search/label/Jack%20Kerouac