What is he aching to do? What are we all aching to do? What do we want?โ She didnโt know. She yawned. She was sleepy. It was too much. Nobody could tell. Nobody would ever tell. It was all over. She was eighteen and most lovely, and lost.
Jack KerouacAnd what does the rain say at night in a small town, what does the rain have to say? Who walks beneath dripping melancholy branches listening to the rain? Who is there in the rainโs million-needled blurring splash, listening to the grave music of the rain at night, September rain, September rain, so dark and soft? Who is there listening to steady level roaring rain all around, brooding and listening and waiting, in the rain-washed, rain-twinkled dark of night?
Jack Kerouac...but I preferred reading the American landscape as we went along. Every bump, rise, and stretch in it mystified my longing.
Jack Kerouac...notice how he will come to manhood with his own particular soul bespeaking itself through the windows which are his eyes, and such lovely eyes surely do prophesy and indicate the loveliest of souls.
Jack KerouacI ate apple pie and ice creamโit was getting better as I got deeper into Iowa, the pie bigger, the ice cream richer. There were the most beautiful bevies of girls everywhere I looked in Des Moines that afternoonโthey were coming home from high schoolโbut I had no time for thoughts like thatโฆSo I rushed past the pretty girls, and the prettiest girls in the world live in Des Moines.
Jack Kerouac