Jack Kerouac

It isn't what you do or it isn't what you say, it's what you are.

A pain stabbed my heart, as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world.

What difference does it make after all?--anonymity in the world of men is better than fame in heaven, for what's heaven? what's earth?

Kerouac’s style was too sketchy and rambling for me, I had a sense of his endless paragraphs unfurling like a vast sail across the sea. There was no land to be seen, the shore lost in the hazy distance, the paragraphs blurred into one another until they became a mere background hum, a meaningless white noise.

The only ones for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.

Because he had no place he could stay in without getting tired of it and because there was nowhere to go but everywhere.

Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.

The only people that interest me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like roman candles across the night.

But why think about that when all the golden land's ahead of you and all kinds of unforeseen events wait lurking to surprise you and make you glad you're alive to see?

Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?

Sal, we gotta go and never stop going till we get there.

I was surprised, as always, by how easy the act of leaving was, and how good it felt. The world was suddenly rich with possibility.