Jack Kerouac did what he most wanted to do. He wrote great prose. He became the writer he wanted to be.
Legend adheres to artists whose deaths seem the corollaries of their works.
I was always aware that Jack loved women not only for their bodies but for the stories that came into being as they interacted with him-they were part of his “road,” the infinite range of experience that always had to remain open to fuel his work.
We derive a lot of the reality of ourselves through interactions with others.
Nothing ever happened except God.
Fame and success put tremendous demands on people. It robs them of their necessary privacy and anonymity. That's hard for even healthy people to deal with.