Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg by Jack Kerouac Page A

picture on the beach there is a man embracing a woman front-wise, naked, and this is all I want to do—nothing else. So please don’t bother me with your verbiage. Write me a big verbal letter. I don’t believe anything I say.
    However, I believe in love. I love Ray Smith. I also love Pauline, my mother, Lucien (in a way), Bill and you (in a way), little children, and finally I love everything about little children. Goombye. Chinaman.
    There is a false note throughout this letter that hides from you the real me, which is simply the madman-child I am . . . and forgive me for saying you are full of shit, in fact. I don’t know what to think or say, Allen, and so it begins . . . that is, why think? why say? let me just be. You were right sending me the picture. Let us be gods saying nothing much, just standing like the two men on the beach looking at the ocean. There is too much talk nowadays, isn’t there? Yet you and Neal hate me for not-talking and for “dignity” as you called it. ah, well, ah, well, ah, well, ah, well, ah, well, ah ah ah
    I don’t have to tell you what I believe, because you don’t believe in belief, and neither do I, but I do believe . . . (I really do).
    I believe in shelter from the cold, and good food, and drinks, and many women all around, the interplay of the sexes, and much happy meaningless talk, and tales, and books, and Dickensy joy. I even believe in your existence. I believe that soon we will all die, go mad, give up, drop off. I believe in children and everything (see how false that sentence?) I believe that when I talk to you I feel I have to be false. Thus the hysteria of the subway. I used to be more truthful to you when I used to glare at you and call you names. Now I pretend to believe like you and to be like you. I don’t.
    I believe that I have to continually remind you of my love for women and children only because I feel (perhaps inaccurately) that you hate women and children. I believe (perhaps wrongly) that you are a cosmic queer and hate everything but men, and hate men, therefore, the most, and hate me the most (as you hate Neal, how you must hate Neal.) I believe in shelter from the cold. I have rages, too, and hang up from the phone and will continue to do so. Barbara and I are lions, we meet at the watering-place of the lions and don’t notice the fawns, the giraffes ([Alan] Harrington) or the weasels ([John Clellon] Holmes) or the panda bears (Marian [Holmes])—or the cardinal birds ([Alan] Wood-Thomas) or the cats. bla bla bla bla bla. This is all hysteria and I wonder why I have to be hysterical with you, when I used to be old-brotherish. You see how honest-dishonest I am? You see how good-bad the world? You see how we must shelter ourselves from the cold-warmth?
    you see how we must shelter ourselves?
you see how we must?
you see how?
you see?
you?
me?
who?
what?
I don’t un-stan’
I am speaking to you as I would like to speak to everyman
No one else would take this shit but you
Thank you
    Finally, when we’re all honest, we will cut down our sentences as above and end up saying nothing. With our new deep voices we will simply say—“mooo.” or “shmooo.” or “beeee”—or “faaaa.” and we’ll all know. And our belief will have become us. Then everybody will walk around gravely like gods—like in the picture, you see. The two gods looking at the sea will say, “Beeee.” The other will say, “Roooo.” And the man facing the woman will say, “Geeee.” and she’ll say—“Chaaaaa.” And food will taste more delicious than now, orgasms will last longer, warmth will be sweeter, children won’t cry, fruit will grow quicker. Finally, out of his mind, God himself will appear and have to admit that we did it alright alright.
    Excuse me again for trying to be mad . . . Roooo . . . like you; I am your crazy pal.
    Now that I have more or