Book: On the road. Page 1

I woke up when the sun was red, and it was the only distinct time in my life, the strangest moment when I didn't know who I was: far from home, driven and tortured by travel, in a cheap room I had never seen before, steam whistling outside the window, old hotel wood crackling, footsteps upstairs and all these sad sounds, and I looked at the high ceiling all in cracks, and for fifteen strange seconds I really didn't know who I was. It's not scary; it's just that I'm someone else, some stranger, and my whole life is ghostly, it's a ghost.

World the bottom is full of treasures, only the world turned upside down.

Life is too sad to waste it and to waste on sprees.

Do not teach the old Maestro a new motive.

And then I realized that I love her so much that I want to kill her.

Passed a company of colored women, and one of the young separated from the rest of the parent view, and quickly approached me, "Hello, Joe!" - when suddenly saw in front of her, not Joe, and, blushing, bounced. I'd like to be a Joe. But I was only a, Bacon a Paradise that sad, walking in this frantic darkness, this unbearable sweet night, wishing to exchange worlds with the happy, open-hearted, ecstatic Negroes of America.

I realized I had died and been reborn countless times, but just didn't remember any of them, because the transitions from life to death and back to life are so ghostly easy, a magical action for no reason, just going to sleep and again to Wake up millions of times - that is extremely common and deeply ignorant. I realized that just because stability real deep Mind the ripples of birth and death at all - like the game a breeze on the surface of pure, serene, mirror-like waters. I felt sweet, swinging bliss, like a charge of heroin in the Central vein; like a gulp of wine at the end of the day, that makes you shudder; my feet were trembling. I
thought I would die the next moment. But I didn't die, and walked four miles and gathered up ten long butts and brought them into the room Marylou, and emptied of their tobacco in my old pipe and lit it. I was too young to know what happened.

After a long conversation in the dark living room I put her in her bedroom. It was a nice little girl, simple and true, and was terribly afraid of sex. I told her that the sex is great. I wanted to prove it to her. She let me, but I was too impatient and did not prove anything. She sighed in the dark.

Dean replied that she must have vihuela someone a few dollars and went back to Denver, "whore!". And if so, then we went with him to drink beer, because talk the way we wanted, we could not in the presence of my aunt, who was sitting in the living room and read his newspaper. She gave Dean one look and decided that he - Wal.

Dean sent the occupant of the hut to the kitchen, probably making coffee, and he solved their love problems, because for him sex was the only Holy and important thing in life, no matter how we had to sweat and swear, to even live, and so on. All this was written on it: how he stood, as he shook his head, all the while looking down somewhere, like a young boxer, receiving the coach, as nodding to make you believe that absorb each word, inserting countless "Yes" and "good".

There is always something more you can always make a small step forward - there is no limit.

The fact is that we do not understand their women. And blame them and blame yourself.

Oh I'm so scared of these girls. I could forget everything and rush to her feet, and if she rejected me, then have to go and throw down with the edge of the world.

Dean, ragged in a moth-eaten coat, which was brought specially for the Eastern Morozov, went away one, and the last thing I saw as he rounded the corner of Seventh Avenue, again fixing her gaze on the street, and I surrendered to it again. ... Of antiquity there is no Dean, I thought... and I kept thinking about Dean, about how he sits back down on a train and went three thousand miles over that awful land and not really knowing why he came, but to see me.
...
So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old, broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over new Jersey and sense all that rough land that rolls in one unbelievable huge hump to the West Coast, and the road that leads there, all the people who dream in its unimaginable vastness, and I know that in Iowa now must be crying the children, in the land where children are allowed to cry and tonight the sky will pour star... the evening star probably leans down and pours its shimmering haze on the Prairie, that is just waiting for the arrival of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all rivers, crowned tops and wraps the last Bank, and nobody, nobody knows what happens to all of us, except for the forgotten rags of old age, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty.