Suppose we suddenly wake up and see that what we thought to be this and that, ain't this and that at all?

We wandered in a frenzy and a dream (301).

Yeah," I said, "but you're an artist. You don't believe in decency and honesty and gratitude. Where shall we eat?

The taste of rain -- Why kneel?

The bus roared through Indiana cornfields that night; the moon illuminated the ghostly gathered husks; it was almost Halloween. I made the acquaintance of a girl and we necked all the way to Indianapolis. She was nearsighted. When we got off to eat I had to lead her by the hand to the lunch counter. She bought my meals; my sandwiches were all gone. In exchange I told her long stories.

I promise I shall never give up, and that I'll die yelling & laughing.

The Beat Generation, that was a vision that we had, John Clellon Holmes and I, and Allen Ginsberg in an even wilder way, in the late forties, of a generation of crazy, illuminated hipsters suddenly rising and roaming America, serious, bumming and hitchhiking everywhere, ragged, beatific, beautiful in an ugly graceful new way.