“Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.” ~ Jack Kerouac
A celebration of creative spirit and wanderlust, novelist and poet Jack Kerouac (1922-1969) was born Jean-Louis Lebris de Kerouac on this day in Lowell, Massachusetts.
The handsome son of French-speaking immigrants from Québec, Jack from a young age jotted down ideas in a spiral notebook.
Sensitive and passionate, he believed in dreams.
“All human beings are also dream beings,” he said. “Dreaming ties all mankind together.”
Words, hope, fire, freedom. All the colors of life.
Like an improvisational jazz musician he let the juices of automatic writing flow, “writing whatever comes into your head as it comes, poetry returned to its origin in the bardic child… wham wham the true blue song of man.”
(ˆ◡ˆ)❀ Leia Afterthoughts… The writer in me digs the Kerouac spiral notebook, word jazz vibe, free-flowing, exodus spirit that I’ve felt so often on the back of my Harley.
Yes. Kerouac is still a romantic devil.