By Jack Kerouac
Written over the process 3 days and 3 nights, The Subterraneans was once generated out of an analogous type of ecstatic flash of proposal that produced one other one in all Kerouac's early classics, at the street. Centering round the tempestuous breakup of Leo Percepied and Mardou Fox—two denizens of the Nineteen Fifties San Francisco underground—The Subterraneans is a story of darkish alleys and smoky rooms, of artists, visionaries, and adventurers latest outdoors mainstream America's field of regard.
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Extra info for The Subterraneans
But their logical order is also sometimes broken, precisely because it lacks an emotional odour. Words rot at unconscious commands from the brain. All words for no matter what type of mental operation, in particular those which trigger off the mind's most common and active responses. A slender belly. A belly of fine powder, like a picture. An exploded grenade at the base of the belly. The grenade casts a fleecy circulation, rising like tongues of fire, cold fire. The circulation catches the belly, turns it over.
It gies one the feeling of an eternal horizon. As for me, I have described this painting with tears in my eyes, for I am deeply affected by it. I feel my thoughts spread out before it as onto an ideal, ultimate area, only an area whose form could be brought into reality. It is a godsend to me. And every one of my fibres unravels and finds its place in a predetermined slot. It is as if I were returning to my origins, I sense the location and arrangement of my mind. The person who painted this canvas is the greatest painter in the world.
But where the object or obstacle are entirely missing, the mind carries straight on, defective. And everything disintegrates in immense contingency. Perhaps I am judging you from too abstract a point of view, at the same time as with too personal a bias. None the less, it seems to me your case can largely be explained by the considerations I have just enumerated in a little too much detail, and it falls into the overall scheme I have tried to set out. As long as you let your mental power pour into the absolute, it is buffeted by cross-currents, riddled with incapability, exposed to ravaging blasts which throw it into confusion.
The Subterraneans by Jack Kerouac