Letter from Neal Cassady to Jack Kerouac (March 7, 1947) Dear Jack: I am sitting in a bar on Market St. I'm drunk, well, not quite, but I soon will be. I am here for 2 reasons; I must wait 5 hours for the bus to Denver & lastly but, most importantly, I'm here (drinking) because, of course, because of a woman & what a woman! To be chronological about it : I was sitting on the bus when it took on more passengers at Indianapolis, Indiana -- a perfectly proportioned (beautiful, drunk) gargled & stammered NO! (Paradox of expression, after all, how can one stammer No!!?) She sat -- I sweated -- She started to speak, I knew it would be generalities, so to tempt her I remained silent. She (her name Patricia) got on the bus at 8 PM (Dark!) I didn't speak until 10 PM -- in the intervening 2 hours I not only of course, determined to make her, but, how to DO IT. I naturally can't quote the conversation verbally, however, I shall attempt to give you the gist of it from 10 PM to 2 AM. Without the slightest preliminaries of objective remarks (what's your name? where are you going? etc.) I plunged into a completely knowing, completely subjective, personal & so to speak "penetrating her core" way of speech; to be shorter (since I'm getting unable to write) by 2 AM I had her swearing eternal love, complete subjectivity to me & immediate satisfaction. I, anticipating even more pleasure, wouldn't allow her to blow me on the bus, instead we played, as they say, with each other. Knowing her supremely perfect being was completely mine (when I'm more coherent, I'll tell you her complete history & psychological reason for loving me) I could concieve of no obstacle to my satisfaction, well "the best laid plans of mice & men go astray" and my nemesis was her sister, the bitch. Pat had told me her reason for going to St. Louis was to see her sister; she had wired her to meet her at the depot. So, to get rid of the sister, we peeked around the depot when we arrived at St. Louis at 4 AM to see if she (her sister) was present. If not, Pat would claim her suitcase, change clothes in the rest room & she and I proceed to a hotel room for a night (years?) of perfect bliss. The sister was not in sight, so She (not the capital) claimed her bag & retired to the toilet to change ---- long dash ---- This next paragraph must, of necessity, be written completely objectively -- Edith (her sister) & Patricia (my love) walked out of the ****house hand in hand (I shan't describe my emotions). It seems Edith (bah) arrived at the bus depot early & while waiting for Patricia, feeling sleepy, retired to the head to sleep on a sofa. That's why Pat & I didn't see her. My desperate efforts to free Pat from Edith failed, even Pat's terror & slave-like feeling toward her rebelled enough to state she must see "someone" & would meet Edith later, all failed. Edith was wise; she saw what was happening between Pat & I. Well, to summarize: Pat & I stood in the depot (in plain sight of the sister) & pushing up to one another, vowed to never love again & then I took the bus to Kansas City & Pat went home, meekly, with her dominating sister. Alas, alas ---- In complete (try & share my feeling) dejection, I sat, as the bus progressed toward Kansas City. At Columbia, Mo. a young (19) completely passive (my meat) virgin got on & shared my seat ... In my dejection over losing Pat, the perfect, I decided to sit on the bus (behind the driver) in broad daylight & seduce her, from 10:30 AM to 2:30 PM I talked. When I was done, she (confused, her entire life upset, metaphysically amazed at me, passionate in her immaturity) called her folks up emotion finding release in this young virgin (& she was) who is, by the way, a school teacher! Imagine, she's had 2 years of Mo. St. Teacher's College & now teaches Jr. High School. (I'm beyond thinking straightly). I'm going to stop writing. Oh, yes, to free myself for a moment from my emotions, you must read 'Dead Souls' parts of it (in which Gogol shows his insight) are quite like you. I'll elaborate further later (probably?) but at the moment I'm drunk and happy (after all, I'm free of Patricia already, due to the young virgin. I have no name for her. At the happy note of Les Young's 'jumping at Mesners' (which I'm hearing) I close till later. To my Brother Carry On! N.L. Cassady
Shoqatat e gazetareve dhe shoqata "MJAFT", protestuan pasditen e djeshme para Ministrise se Rendit Publik ndaj ngjarjes se ndodhur mbremjen e se martes, kur kryeredaktori i kanalit televiziv "Vizion Plus", Ilir Babaramo, u godit nga ministri i Rendit Publik, Luan Rama, ndersa ai ishte i ftuar ne nje aktivitet te organizuar nga shtabi elektoral i Partise Socialiste ne ambjentet e "Rozafa Palace". Dhjetra anetare te Shoqatave te gazetareve dhe shoqates "MJAFT", u mblodhen para Ministrise se Rendit Publik ne shenje proteste kunder dhunes se ushtruar nga ministri Rama ndaj gazetarit Ilir Babaramo. Shumica e protestuesve, kryesisht anetare te shoqates "Mjaft" dhe gazetare te mediave shqiptare, mbanin ne duar parrulla te ndryshme me ane te te cilave kerkonin doreheqjen e ministrit Rama. Protestuesit protestuan per rreth 10 minuta para Ministrise
se Rendit Publik ndersa me pas u shperndane qetesisht per t'u rimbledhur serish sot ne nje tjeter proteste paqesore
"Brave New World", Huxley ----------------------------------
"But I like the inconveniences."
"We don't," said the Controller. "We prefer to do things comfortably."
"But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin."
"In fact," said Mustapha Mond, "you're claiming the right to be unhappy."
"All right then," said the Savage defiantly, "I'm claiming the right to be unhappy."
"Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphillis and cancer; the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen tomorrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind." There was a long silence.
"I claim them all," said the Savage at last.
Mustapha Mond shrugged his shoulders. "You're welcome," he said.
meqe pronari i qoskes eshte fans i ktyne gjonave ja dhe nje artikull:
Good Al, But That's With A "W"
Everyone knows Allen Ginsberg was a great poet. Did he also have ESP? Here is a poem he wrote in 1949:
Sweet Levinsky in the night Sweet Levinsky in the light do you giggle out of spite, or are you laughing in delight Sweet Levinsky, sweet Levinsky
In other lines, Ginsberg asks if Levinsky trembles when the cock crows and employs such words as dissemble, tearful and fearful. The Levinsky in the poem is actually Leon Levinsky, a relatively minor character in Jack Kerouac's first novel, The Town and the City.
Sihf sa irenteasnte kjo iejda. Thheut qe ehste bere nje sduitm nga nje uinersvitet ne Aglni, qe nuk ka suhme rdenesi ne cafre rrdhae i ve grmeat ne fajle. Gjjea e rndesiehsme etshe qe grema e prae dhe e fdnuit te jnee ne vdenin e dhuur. Pesja tejter mnud te jtee lmesh, dhe parp e lxoen pa poblrem. Kjo naqge ne nuk i lxejome te gjthia grmeat nje nga nje, por flajet si te trea.
Itnreseante e ??
Shef sa khoe te lrie kam une ne pnue ? qe mrreem me froumin gjthie dtien...
Gjeta diku kete poezine..thashe se mos ju pelqej.Sidomos Pronarit
"Memedhe quhet toka ku te iken per lesh koka ku kam dashur meme e ate, ku te grijne fajdet parate ku kam fis e ku kam fare, ku s'ka drita por pishtare ku te mbyt pluhri tallashi, ku kercet e pret kallashi ku ka diamant e ar por s'gjen uje as per tu lare ku ka plehra togje-togje dhe qindra parti per lloqe. Memedhe esht nje cop toke qe te ben dhe me dhimje koke ku po shemben kombinate dhe hajdute ngrene pallate ku ligjin ben kontrabanda dhe nje pjese punojne ne banda ku po ****et me dollare varret e gjysherve te pare ku ka rruge e trotuare jo per njeres por gomare ku pipine ben ne breke se ste le jevgu pa leke. Memedhe quhet toka ku kurkush shqip s'kuptoka ku bejn cmos shesin dhe dhembet vec te ikin nga syte kembet ku nje Miss prish virgjerine vec te ndroje nenshtetsine. Kur per kunj tjetri te zhvesh dhe polici rri e qesh ku nje vrases a gomar ka me vlere se nje shkrimtar ku ngroh veze revulucioni me dipllome prostutucioni ku ne muaj merr 100 mije leke dhe s'blen dote nje pale breke Memedhe eshte shqiperia ku se pyt nenen e bija ku c'kish bere demokraciae fshiu meritrokracia ku gjithcka lind nga asgjeja ku te merr shpirtin TVSH-ja ku te grijne te bejne sallate jo me larg por ne gjykate. Ku zihen burrat si gjelat kush e kush te rrembeje thelat ku dhurojne edhe grate per nje vend n'administrate. Militant, ish-sekretar per kolltuk ne vije te pare. Memedhe eshte dhe milioni,benci,vila telefoni, femra whisky rehatia, vetem per ata qe i ka xhan partia !"
te shtunen te koncerti qe me çoi guçja ne nje moment me erdhi te shkoj ne banje, dhe kur ul dorezen Skin ishte nga ana tjeter e halese, shkembeva nje buzeqeshje dhe perfundova duke bere shurren siper piklave te shurres te skin-it. Nuk eshte komplet si histori fansash!!!!
