'A novel is the only place where two strangers can meet on terms of absolute intimacy. The reader and the writer make the book together. No other art can capture the essential inwardness of human life.'
âPaul Auster
h/t The Paris Review

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d e v o n
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wallacepolsom
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romaâ

@theartofmadeline
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@nogodlikeabook
'A novel is the only place where two strangers can meet on terms of absolute intimacy. The reader and the writer make the book together. No other art can capture the essential inwardness of human life.'
âPaul Auster
h/t The Paris Review

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âGovernments always need enemies, even when they're not at war. If you don't have a real enemy, you make one up and spread the word. It scares the population, and when the people are scared, they tend not to step out of line.â
â Paul Auster
Paul Auster, February 3, 1947 â April 30, 2024.
Uncredited Photographer Beat Poets Allen Ginsberg, Harold Norse, Jack Hirschman, Michael McClure and Bob Kaufman, Caffe Trieste, San Francisco 1975
I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the box house hills and cry. Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery. The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily. Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdustâ âI rushed up enchantedâit was my first sunflower, memories of Blakeâmy visionsâHarlem and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the pastâ and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eyeâ corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb, leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear, Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then! The grime was no manâs grime but death and human locomotives, all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black misâry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirtâindustrialâmodernâall that civilization spotting your crazy golden crownâ and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamosâall these entangled in your mummied rootsâand you there standing before me in the sunset, all your glory in your form! A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze! How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the heavens of the railroad and your flower soul? Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower? when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive? You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower! And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not! So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter, and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jackâs soul too, and anyone whoâll listen, âWeâre not our skin of grime, weâre not dread bleak dusty imageless locomotives, weâre golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our own eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision.
Allen Ginsberg, "Sunflower Sutra," 1955
--
my head felt stabbed
by a crown of thorns but I joked and rode the subway
and ducked into school johns and masturbated
and secretly wrote
                                    of teenage hell
because I was âdifferentâ
the first and last of my kind
smothering acute sensations
in swimming pools and locker rooms
addict of lips and genitals
mad for buttocks
                               that Whitman and Lorca
and Catullus and Marlowe
                                         and Michelangelo
and Socrates admired
and I wrote: Friends,
if you wish to survive
I would not recommend
Love
-- Harold Norse, "I Would Not Recommend Love" 1973
--
I ran down the street and into the house smelled of oregano and shook Mickey Monaco, said C'mon, Balaban's got a breadloaf climbing over old Gruber's fence, he thinks the mad dogs is doves.
But Mickey grew up in the bed till he was too old and besides Balaban was crazy, he sucked his tongue and got left back twice.
So I ran to Joey Bellino's house but his mother's black stocking said Joey was out early shoe shining. And besides a, that Balaban he's a crazy a kid, he suck a the tongue and Joey says he get lefback three times.
So I banged on Bitsy Beller's window yelled he was near the top, the mad dogs waiting down below he thinks is doves.
But when Bitsy stood up he turned into a stiff cue stick. And didn't want nothing to do with nobody cracked upstairs. And Dickie Miller became a semipro. And Howie Fish a doctor. So I ran down the street full of hope
by myself because I was on fire. But I got there too late for Balaban. Two of them had a stretch of skin between their teeth fighting over it,
and the foam of their mouths and Balaban's blood spattered in such a way, the most the greatest picture looked me straight in the eye, made me sit in the gutter and cry,
and when I got up vow to be Balaban from that day on
-- Jack Hirschman, "Balaban" 1969
--
for Jack KerouacÂ
IN LIGHT ROOM IN DARK HELL IN UMBER IN CHROME,
    I sit feeling the swell of the cloud made about by movement
                of arm leg and tongue. In reflections of gold
          light. Tints and flashes of gold and amber spearing
                    and glinting. Blur glassâŚblue Glass,
            black telephone. Matchflame of violet and flesh
                seen in the clear bright light. It is not night
               and night too. In Hell, there are stars outside.
           And long sounds of cars. Brown shadows on walls
                                      in the light
                          of the room. I sit or stand
                wanting the huge reality of touch and love.
           In the turned room. Remember the long-ago dream
         of stuffed animals (owl, fox) in a dark shop. Wanting
            only the purity of clean colors and new shapes
                                    and feelings.
                I WOULD CRY FOR THEM USELESSLY
                  I have ten years left to worship my youth
                     Billy the Kid, Rimbaud, Jean Harlow
 IN DARK HELL IN LIGHT ROOM IN UMBER AND CHROME I
                                                                                           feel the swell of
smoke the drain and flow of motion of exhaustion, the long sounds of cars
                                                                                                    the brown shadows
on the wall. I sit or stand. Caught in the net of glints from corner table to
                                                                                                                     dull plane
from knob to floor, angles of flat light, daggers of beams. Staring at loveâs face.
     The telephone in cataleptic light. Marchflames of blue and red seen in the
                                                                                                                          clear grain.
I see myselfâourselvesâin Hell without radiance. Reflections that we are.
             The long cars make sounds and brown shadows over the wall.
                             I am real as you are real whom I speak to.
                  I raise my head, see over the edge of my nose. Look up
                   and see that nothing is changed. There is no flash
                           to my eyes. No change to the room.
                      Vita NuovaâNo! The dead, dead world.
                    The strain of desire is only a heroic gesture.
                      An agony to be so in pain without release
                            when love is a word or kiss.
-- Michael McClure, "The Chamber" 1961
--
I have folded my sorrows into the mantle of summer night, Assigning each brief storm its allotted space in time, Quietly pursuing catastrophic histories buried in my eyes. And yes, the world is not some unplayed Cosmic Game, And the sun is still ninety-three million miles from me, And in the imaginary forest, the shingled hippo becomes the gray unicorn. No, my traffic is not with addled keepers of yesterdayâs disasters, Seekers of manifest disembowelment on shafts of yesterdayâs pains. Blues come dressed like introspective echoes of a journey. And yes, I have searched the rooms of the moon on cold summer nights. And yes, I have refought those unfinished encounters. Â Â Â Still, they remain unfinished. And yes, I have at times wished myself something different.
The tragedies are sung nightly at the funerals of the poet; The revisited soul is wrapped in the aura of familiarity.Â
-- Bob Kaufman, "I Have Folded My Sorrows" 1965
Robbie Robertson, Michael McClure, Bob Dylan, Allen Ginsberg, 1966

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(via How to Get Into Susan Sontag: An Introductory Guide)
during the filming of Duet for Cannibals
Charles Lloyd, Gabor Szabo, Ron Carter & Tony Williams in a photo session for Lloyd´s second album Of Course, Of Course, released on the Columbia label in November, 1965.
photo: Hank Turner
Dexter Gordon
Kirsten Malone,
Photograph of Dexter Gordon at Jazzhus Montmartre in Copenhagen, Denmark, 1964,
Gelatin silver print from original,
Courtesy Kirsten Malone

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Dexter Gordon, jazz.
saxophonist Dexter Gordon Paris, 1988
photo: Philippe Pierangeli
from Harvey Pekarâs The Beat Generation
Gennadij Ajgi, Russian-Chuvashian poet.
Gennadiy Aygi

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Mark Seliger
Tom Waits