Meanwhile I walk in the road at night, in utter darkness, and no one will help me but my own mad self. I want to communicate with Dostoevsky in heaven, and ask old Melville if he's still discouraged, and Wolfe why he let himself die at 38. I don't want to give up. I promise I shall never give up, and that'll die yelling and laughing. And that until then I'll rush around this world I insist is holy and pull at everyone's lapel and make them confess to me and to all. This way I'll really find out something in time.
Time to write, I guess.
Windblown World: The Journals of Jack Kerouac 1947-1954
Happy 100th, love.





















