Why was Ginsberg, Kerouac et al so smitten by this mentally ill moron? I dont understand why they look at him as some kind of spiritual/godlike figure in their writings. He's literally just a crazy dysfunctional drug addict
Why was Ginsberg, Kerouac et al so smitten by this mentally ill retard?
start with the greeks
No
They were dumb coomer weirdos and he was an alpha jock that gave them the time of day.
This, unironically.
Is this achievable if you have thin frame?
Obviously. You're going to have to spend years eating though.
years eating? as opposed to what? years not eating?
As opposed to eating until you’re full and then stopping, twice a day. He means eating a lot. Three times more than you usually do. 3 square meals a day plus 3 meals in between. Lots of protein
They were relentlessly handsome. I could have saved them.
didnt Cassady and Ginsberg frick?
All of them were pooftas
teenage cassady used to frick women in their homes for his lunch between stealing cars
>coomer weirdos
>"I actually got so drunk I wrapped myself around the toilet bowl of the Scollay Square Cafe and got pissed and puked on all night long by a thousand sailors and seamen and when I woke up in the morning and found myself all covered and caked and unspeakably dirty I just like a good old Boston man walked down to the Atlantic Avenue docks and jumped into the sea."
Kerouac and Neal Cassady were unironic chads. Kerouac got into Columbia via football scholarship. He wasn't some rich old money type like Lucien Carr or Burroughs or even Ginsberg. He's just a chad that he got into a prestigious university. Kerouac unfortunately got weirder and weirder throughout his life and his last appearances in public basically is what happens after decades of alcohol and drug abuse.
kerouac was from a strictly working class background, lowell is a factory town and his mother worked industrial jobs her entire life even after he got famous
Imagine the sex
They liked the spontaneous prose style that he used in long rambling letters which was a huge influence on Kerouac’s style, and they saw him as an avatar of Whitmanic hobo American freedom. With Ginsberg it was a homosexual thing as he was always drawn to younger straight jock types. By the time he was hanging out with the Merry Pranksters, Cassady seemed like a total burnout and sounds like a moron on recordings but his early writing has some appeal.
When you read about guys like antinous cassady rimbaud and vachee among many others you realise homosexual psychic vampires are an unironic reality in our world.
Fricking awesome
Yeah, the American tradition has always suspected that the ubermensch is a hobo. And why not? Who has freed themselves from the herd more? Kerouac is enamored with this idea at the beginning of On the Road but has lost a good deal of by the end - it's kind of what the book is about.
>TO JACK KEROUAC
>June 12, 1959
>San Quentin
>DEAR BRO. JACKSON;
>With ears forever flapping faster than Stan’s once did, can only pin them back, applying the emotion causing their wiggle towards creating the opposite one aroused when watching him do it, on this Glorious Flag Day but one year after conviction in that marsupial Court where also heard orations honoring the 1st Law Day wise Ike inaugurated to offset Vile Red Mayday, refuting usual Man OFF Street agreeing with News Item: Making gifts to cops soliciting them is wrong, by saying, in such happy gratitude that less than 340 of the 430 days now spent behind bars count on the nearly 2,000 it’s my privilege to pay Society, that giving those 3 offbrand cigarettes to that cop who asked for them so pleadingly proper did finally free me from that ludicrous lifetime job & the even funnier family it supported so could concentrate entirely on really important things like at which wall to stare in the 4½ × 7½ × 9½ ft cell I share with a gunman.
>Thanks for your kindness; written in exactly 12 minutes.
>Too slow?
>I could hardly reach outside to work on the screen—since the window opened outward—but I pushed and making a helluva noise, split the screen enough to open the window. Now the impossible compressing of my frame for the squeeze. I thought if I could get my head through I could make it; I just was able to, by bending the tough metal bar the slightest c**thair (in those days I cleaned and jerked 220 lbs.) and of course, I almost tore off my pride-and-joy as I wiggled out into the cold November air. I was damn glad I was only on the second floor, if I’d been higher I would have been hungup in space for sure. So I dropped into the bushes bordering the walk along the side of the building, and hid there shivering and gloating with glee. There was a film of snow on the ground, but this didn’t bother anything except my feet until some man parked his car in the alley garage and came walking past my hideaway, then, much of my naked body got wet as I pressed against the icy ground so he wouldn’t see me. This made me seek better shelter sine it was about 9 P.M.—I’d been in the cold an hour—and a whole string of rich bastards with cars might be putting them away. I waited until no one was in sight then dashed down the walk to the alley and leaped up and grabbed the handy drainpipe of a garage and pulled myself up. The window I’d broken out of overlooked my new refuge and if anyone went in that bathroom they’d see the havoc wrought the place and be looking out to see me. This fear had just formed—I was too cold to be jolly now—when I saw Mary at last come into view. She had my pants, shoes, and coat, but not my T-shirt and socks, having skipped those small items as she bustled about in front of the cause of my predicament “straightening up.” The woman had only noticed my belt and Mary had said she had a leather class in school and was engraving it. When I’d bashed out the window Mary had heard the crashing about, (the old lady must have been deaf; while I was escaping kept talking about Thanksgiving turkey!) ***and had come in the bathroom to clean up, close the window and otherwise coverup. I out on my clothes and chattering uncontrollably from my freezeout walked with Mary to the Oasis Café for some hot coffee.
neal cassady was the chad meme come to life
>He's literally just a crazy dysfunctional drug addict
Can be said of all members of the Beat Generation.
correct thats why i dont look up to any of them
They're just mentally ill morons and literal pedophiles
You have to watch the movie Kill Your Darlings.
"I AM God" - Nick from Sam Hyde
"Get a real job"