Colleges being nothing but grooming schools for the middle class nonidentity which usually finds it’s perfect expression on the outskirts of the campus in rows of well-to-do houses with lawns and television sets in each living room with everybody looking at the same thing and thinking the same thing at the same time while the Japhies of the world go prowling in the wilderness to hear the voice crying in the wilderness, to find the ecstasy of the stars, to find the dark mysterious secret of the origin of faceless wonderless crapulous civilization.
New memoir about Jack Kerouac and life in Greenwich Village in the late 50s and early 60s…
“Weaver—immortalized in Kerouac’s Desolation Angels as Ruth Heaper—writes this book ‘as an act of atonement’ to Kerouac: ‘I rejected him for the same reason America rejected him: he woke us up in the middle of the night in the long dream of the fifties. He interfered with our sleep.’” (Source, City Lights)
Front cover photograph: Jack Kerouac and Helen Weaver in Greenwich Village, ca. 1963. Photographer unknown.