The Sea is My Brother

ALSO BY JACK KEROUAC

THE DULUOZ LEGEND

Visions of Gerard

Doctor Sax

Maggie Cassidy

The Sea is My Brother:

The Lost Novel

Vanity of Duluoz

On the Road

Visions of Cody

The Subterraneans

Tristessa

Lonesome Traveler

Desolation Angels

The Dharma Bums

Book of Dreams

Big Sur

Satori in Paris

POETRY

Mexico City Blues

Scattered Poems

Pomes All Sizes

Heaven and Other Poems

Book of Blues

Book of Haikus

Book of Sketches

OTHER WORK

The Town and the City

The Scripture of the Golden

Eternity

Some of the Dharma

Old Angel Midnight

Good Blonde & Others

Pull My Daisy

Trip Trap (with Albert Saijo and

Lew Welch)

Pic

The Portable Jack Kerouac

Selected Letters: 1940–1956

Selected Letters: 1957–1969

Atop an Underwood: Early

Stories and Other Writings

Door Wide Open (with Joyce

Johnson)

Orpheus Emerged

Departed Angels: The Lost

Paintings

Windblown World: Journals

1947–1954

Beat Generation: A Play

On the Road: The Original

Scroll

Wake Up: A Life of the Buddha

You’re a Genius All the Time:

Belief and Technique for

Modern Prose

And the Hippos Were Boiled in

Their Tanks (with William S.

Burroughs)

JACK KEROUAC

The Sea is My Brother

The Lost Novel

Expanded Critical Edition

Edited by Dawn M. Ward

for The Jack Kerouac Estate

DA CAPO PRESS

A Member of the Perseus Books Group

Copyright © 2011 by John Sampas, The Estate of Stella Kerouac

Introduction and editorial matter © Dawn M. Ward for The Jack Kerouac Estate, 2011

The Sea is My Brother copyright © John Sampas, The Estate of Stella Kerouac, 2011

Letters of Jack Kerouac copyright © John Sampas, The Estate of Stella Kerouac, 1995

Letters and poems of Sebastian Sampas copyright © John Sampas, 2011

Photographs and Sebastian’s diary copyright © John Sampas, 2011

‘The Brothers’ and an excerpt from The Sea is My Brother first appeared in Paul Marion

(ed.), Atop an Underwood: Early Stones and Other Writings by Jack Kerouac

(Viking/Penguin, 1999), copyright © John Sampas, The Estate of Stella Kerouac, 1999

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored

in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic,

mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written

permission of the publisher. For information,

address Da Capo Press, 44 Farnsworth Street, 3rd Floor, Boston, MA 02210.

Cataloging-in-Publication data for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

First Da Capo Press edition 2013

Reprinted by arrangement with Penguin Classics, an imprint of Penguin Books

ISBN: 978-0-306-82180-6

E-Book ISBN: 978-0-306-82247-6

Published by Da Capo Press

A Member of the Perseus Books Group

www.dacapopress.com

Da Capo Press books are available at special discounts for bulk purchases

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Contents

List of Illustrations

Guide to Names

Part I The Sea is My Brother

Introduction

Part II Early Writings

The Brothers

[Detective Story]

The Journal of an Egotist

I Resort to Another Barroom

Eighty-eight Cents Worth of New York

Washington in 1941

Part III Kerouac and the Young Prometheans

Introduction

Acknowledgments

Bibliography

List of Illustrations

1.Jack’s passport, issued August 20, 1942

2.Jack’s passport picture

3.Jack’s discharge certificate from the SS Dorchester, October 5, 1942

4.Weird Self-Portrait at Sea, from Jack’s journals at sea

5.Merchant Mariner title-page

6.Jack at age 14, in Lowell

7.The first page of Jack’s untitled novella about Detective Ken Harris

8.Leo and Gabrielle Kerouac in Ozone Park, 1945

9.Jack c. 1930

10.Jack’s first communion at age 13

11.Bartlett Junior High School class of 1937

12.Jack, Bartlett Junior High School class picture, 1936

13.Jack’s track medals, won at Lowell High School, 1938–9

14.Jack, Lowell High School football team, c. 1938

15.Sebastian, Lowell High School, Captain in Brigade, 1939–40

16.Jack in his Horace Mann Prep School uniform, 1939

17.Jack playing baseball at Horace Mann, 1940

18.MS page of Sebastian’s letter to Jack, February 23, 1941

19.MS of Jack’s postcard to Sebastian, September 29, 1941

20.MS of first and second pages of Jack’s letter to Sebastian [fall of 1941]

21.Jack in Merchant Marine uniform with his mother Gabrielle and his sister Nin (Carolyn) in WAC’s uniform, 1942

22.Jack and Nin in uniform

23.Sebastian in U.S. Army uniform, 1943

24.Sebastian’s military journal, given to him by his mother Maria and his older brother Charles before he left for basic training

25.Record made by Sebastian and sent to Jack, recorded at the USO Club

26.Charles, Stella, and Sebastian Sampas, in front of the family home in Lowell, 1943

27.Emerson College Yearbook for 1944, honoring Sebastian

28.Jack’s desk at his home in St. Petersburg, Florida, as it was when he died in 1969

29.Jack and Stella after they were married in 1966

Guide to Names

There are many variations of Jack and Sebastian’s names as well as their long list of nicknames for each other and their friends. It would be cumbersome to footnote them individually so I have provided this list.

Jack Kerouac – Jean, John, Zagg, Zaggus, Zagguth, Zaggo, Duc, Baron De Bretagne, and mad master of Columbia

Sebastian Sampas – Sam, Sabby, Sabbas, Sebastean, Sambati, Prince of Crete

George J. Apostolos – George, G.J., Fouch, Fouchi

Joseph Beaulieu – Scott, Scotty

William Chandler – Bill, Billy, Bill on the Hill

George Constantinides – Constantinides

Jim Dorne – Jim, O’Dea, Jimmy

John MacDonald – Ian, Yann

Doris Miller – Dvari

Cornelius Murphy – Connie

Ronald Salvas – Salvey

PART I

The Sea is My Brother

Introduction

The first major work by Jack Kerouac, The Sea is My Brother was written in the spring of 1943 and until now has never been published in its entirety. Its importance to this early period of Jack’s life is indisputable, and it is the pivotal point in his writing career where he works diligently night and day writing by hand this first novel. The Sea is My Brother is the highlight of this collection and as the best introduction to Jack as a young writer it has been presented in its own section. A short novel of 158 pages it is the most serious of the works that Jack wrote during this period of his life. Along with other unpublished writings found in Part II of this collection, one can see readily the power of his speech and the development of his visualization. Shortly after he wrote The Sea is My Brother, Jack began The Town and the City, published in 1950, which launched his career as a writer. These two novels, both based on his real-life experiences, are part of the writing method he started to develop in 1943 that he dubbed “Supreme Reality.” He describes The Sea is My Brother in letters to Sebastian Sampas and mails him excerpts to read (see Part III) as well as sharing it with other friends from Lowell, Massachusetts.

Jack began this work not long after his first tour as a Merchant Marine on the SS Dorchester in the late summer–October 1942, during which he kept a journal detailing the gritty daily routine of life at sea. Inspired by the trip, which was an example of Jack’s love for adventure, and the character traits of his fellow shipmates, the journals were spontaneous sketches of those experiences that were later woven into his novel.

The journal titled “Voyage to Greenland” is dated 1942 and subtitled “GROWING PAINS or A MONUMENT TO ADOLESCENCE” and begins with a poem dated April 17, 1949, several years after The Sea is My Brother was written.

Jack’s passport, issued August 20, 1942

Jack’s passport picture

Jack’s discharge certificate from the SS Dorchester, October 5, 1942

All life is but a skull-bone and

A rack of ribs through which

we keep passing food & fuel –

just so’s we can burn so

furious beautiful.

The first entry, dated Saturday July 18, 1942, describes his first night on deck of the Dorchester, the meal he ate (five lamb chops), and contains this passage written early the next morning:

I sat in a deck chair, awhile after and bethought me about several things. How should I write this journal? Where is this ship bound for, and when? What is the destiny of this great grey tub? I signed on Friday, or yesterday, and do not begin work till Monday morning. . . . I could have gone home to say goodbye – but goodbyes are so difficult, so heart-rending. I haven’t the courage, or perhaps the hardness, to withstand the tremendous pathos of this life. I love life’s casual beauty – I fear its awful strength.

Early on in the “Voyage to Greenland” journal there is evidence of Jack’s plans for the observations he was making. On page 12 he notes that “Up to now, I’ve refrained from introducing any characters in this journal, for fear I should be mistaken due to a brief acquaintance with those in question, and should be forced to rescind previous opinions and judgments.” Jack continues that although the journal would create an “acceptable log” he felt it should “tell the story within the story.” He says that he shall “perhaps one day want to write a novel about the voyage,” and he would be able to find all the details: “a true writer never forgets character studies, and never will.” He does, however, note these character studies later that day.

August 2

CHARACTER STUDIES

Here is some data on my scullion mates, and others: Eatherton is just a good-hearted kid from the “tough” section of Charleston, Mass, who tries to live up to his environment, but fails, for his smile is too boyish, too puckish. He is a veteran seaman already, and berates me for being a despicable “college man” who “reads books all the time and knows nothing about life itself.” Don Graves is an older boy, quite handsome, with a remarkable sense of wit and tomfoolery that often befuddles me. He is able to toy with people’s emotions, for he undeniably possesses a strong, moving personality. He’s 27 years old, and I believe he looks upon me with some mixed pity and head-shaking – but no compassion. He has little of that, and no learning; but considerable earthy judgment and native ability, and a sort of appeal that is quiet and sure. Eddie Moutrie is a cussing little bastard, full of venom and dark, haggard beauty, often tenderness. I envision him now, smoking with his contemptuous scowl, turned away, yelling derision at me in a rough, harsh voice, returning his gaze with blank and tender eyes.

August 2

MORE

They are good kids, but cannot understand me, and are thus enraged, bitter, and full of hidden wonder. Then there is the chef, a fat colored man with prominent buttoxes [sic] who loves to play democratic and often peels potatoes with us. His face is fat and sinuous, touched with childish propriety. His face seems to say: “Now, we are here, and things are in all due harmony and order.” He has grown fat on his own foods. He sits at our mess table, wearing a fantastic cook’s cap, and picks delicately with fat greasy hands at his food. All things are in order with the chef. He is the antithesis of Voltaire, the child of Leibniz.

Then there’s Glory, the giant negro cook, whose deep voice can always be heard in its moaning softness above the din of the galley. He is a man among men – gentle, impenetrable, yet a leader. The glory that is Glory . . .

“Shorty” is a withered, skinny little man without teeth and a little witch jaw. He weighs about 90 pounds, and when he’s mad, he threatens to throw us all through the portholes.

“Hazy” is a powerfully built, ruddy

August 2

LES MISERABLES

Youth who works, eats, and sleeps, and rarely speaks. He’s always in his bunk, sleeping, smiling when Eatherton farts toward his face: then turns over back to his solitary, sleepy world.

“Duke” Ford is a haggard youth who has been torpedoed off Cape Hatteras, and who carries the shrapnel marks of the blast in his neck. He is a congenial sort but the frenzied mark of tragedy still lingers in his eyes; and I doubt whether he’ll ever forget the 72 hours on the life raft, and the fellow with bloody stumps at his shoulders who jumped off the raft in a fit of madness and committed suicide in the Carolinian sea . . .

Then there’s the rather stupid Paul, an awkward, almost idiotic youth, the butt of all the leg-pullers in the crew. They are making a mess of the tenderness his mother must have taught him. His voice is a strange mixture of kindness, despair, and futile attempts at snarling pseudo-virility. It is pathetic to see this poor lad in the midst of callous fools and stupid bums . . . for most of the crew is just that, and I shall not write of them except

August 2

VAL, THE LADIES’ CHOICE

as a man body in this narrative. They have no manners, no scruples, and spend their leisure time gambling in the dining room, their dull countenances glowing with ancient cruelty under the golden lights. O Satan! Mephisto! Judas! O Benaiah! O evil eyes that glint beneath the lights! O clink of silver! O darkness, O death, O hell! Sheathed knives and chained wallets: lustful, grabbing, cheating, killing, hating, laughing in the lights . . .

Jack’s journal ends on August 19, 1942 shortly after reaching Greenland. The last entries are a short story entitled “ ‘WHAT PRICE SEDUCTION?’ OR A 5 CENT ROMANCE IN ONE REEL A SHORT SHORT STORY – ‘THE COMMUNIST,’ ” two poems, a descriptive character piece called “PAT,” and a set of notes called “JACK KEROUAC FREE VERSE, FOUR PARTS.” This poem written when out to sea encompasses many of the daily frustrations expressed in the journal about being different from the rest of the crew.

WHEN I WAS OUT TO SEA

Once, when I was out to sea,

I knew a lad who’s famous now.

His name is sung in America,

And carried far to other lands.

But when I knew him, far back now,

He was a lad with lonely eyes.

The bos’un laughed when Laddie wrote:

“Truth Brothers!” in his diary.

“You daggone little pansy!”

Roared the heavyset rough bos’un.

“You don’t know what life be,

You with all your sissy books!

Look at me! I’m rough and I’m tough,

And I got lots to teach ye!”

So the bos’un jeered, and the bos’un snarled,

And he set him down to drudgery.

And the boy, he and his poetry,

He wanted to stand bow-watch

And brood into the sea,

But the bos’un laughed, and snarled,

And set him down to drudgery.

Down in the hold, ‘mid fetidity . . .

Then one night, a wild dark night,

The lad stood by the heaving bow

And the storm beat all about him.

The bos’un he laughed and set right out

To put him down to drudgery,

That sissy lad of poetry . . .

With wind and sky all scattered wide,

A grim, dreary night for fratricide!

-JK

Jack disembarks the Dorchester but continues to think of the sea as a symbol for the integration of his friends and the promise of brotherhood. After a brief return to Columbia University he moves back to Lowell with his parents and gets a job at a garage on Middlesex Street and begins to laboriously hand write this novel.

The Sea is My Brother is an intricate character study which repeatedly reflects Jack’s correspondence with Sebastian over the years 1940–43 (see Part III). Jack’s own conflict between his intellectual and his blue-collar friends is embodied in the two main characters, Bill Everhart and Wesley Martin, for example in Chapter One, where at their first meeting: “Everhart studied the stranger; once, when Wesley glanced at Everhart and found him ogling from behind the fantastic spectacles, their eyes locked in combat, Wesley’s cool and non-committal, Everhart’s a searching challenge, the look of the brazen skeptic.”

Jack made several attempts at the first chapter,[1] and in one working versions are some enlightening notes concerning the development of the characters around what he felt was his own dual personality.

Soon, I knew I was too old to persist in my boyhood ways. Reluctantly, I gave it up. (Someday, I’ll explain to you the details of this world – they are enormous in number and complex to a point of maturity.)

Thus on the one side, the solitary boy brooding over his “rich inner life”; and on the other, the neighborhood champ shooting pool down at the club. I’m convinced I shouldn’t have picked up both these personalities had I not been an immense success in the two divergent personality-worlds. It is a rare enough occurrence . . . and none of the Prometheans seem to have these two temperaments, save, perhaps, Constantinides.

Naturally enough, my worldly side will wink at the wenches, blow foam off a tankard, and fight at the drop of a chip. My schzoid self, on another occasion, will sneer, slink away, and brood in some dark place.

I’ve gone to all this trouble, outlining my dual personality, for a purpose besides egocentricity. In my novel, you see, Everhart is my schzoid self, Martin the other; the two combined run the parallel gamut of my experience. And in both cases, the schzoid will recommend Prometheanisms (if I may coin the phrase), and the other self (Wesley Martin) will act as the agent of stimulus –

And as in all my other works, “The Sea is My Brother” will assert the presence of beauty in life, beauty, drama, and meaning. . . .

There is a little of Jack in both of these characters, but one can find elements of Sebastian’s personality as well. Everhart, an English professor at Columbia University, often pontificates endlessly to the group of friends much like Sebastian was known to do with the Prometheans. Sebastian’s search for the meaning and the humanity of life is also Everhart’s primary intellectual pursuit, and both are seeking adventure to expand their scholarly lives. Sebastian writes to Jack in February 1941 after meeting a Merchant Marine: “I want to see Paris – He told me of Paris and the palpitating (that word is used correctly) paramours of Paris. The Grandeurs of Versailles – Southern France – The Riviera – of South America, of Cuba, Hawaii – the soft South Seas.” Everhart, in a similar way, sees the opportunity to ship out with Wesley: “Port Said! Alexandria! The Red Sea! There’s your East . . . I’m going to see it!”

However, the majority of Everhart’s character is derived from Jack’s own experiences. Everhart’s intellectual pursuits, for example, can be achieved with very little risk; for he lives with his father, brother, and sister much like Jack. Everhart’s desire to experience something more real and stimulating echoes Jack’s recent rebellious voyage on the Dorchester and his dropping out of Columbia. Therefore, Everhart’s decision to take a leap-of-faith symbolizes in many ways Jack’s desire to turn away momentarily from his intellectual self and use his perceptive nature to inspire his work. Jack notes this need for real experiences in his journal: “My mother is very worried over my having joined the Merchant Marine, but I need money for college, I need adventure, of a sort (the real adventure of rotting wharves and seagulls, winey waters and ships, ports, cities, and faces & voices); and I want to study more of the earth, not out of books, but from direct experience” (Voyage to Greenland journal note, dated July 20, 1942).

The character Martin on the other hand is already free of any intellectual burdens. Jack refers to him as his “worldly side,” that is free to come and go with no strings attached. A wanderer of the world, Martin goes from port to port taking in the experiences without fear or commitment. In Jack’s letter to Sebastian in November of 1942 (p. 318), he tries to convince him to ship out with him, explaining that he wanted to go back to sea in the Merchant Marines, and his words reflect Martin’s character: “But I believe that I want to go back to sea . . . for the money, for the leisure and study, for the heart-rending romance, and for the pith of the moment.” Jack’s notes on one working copy of the novel reinforce his intention to include every aspect of his worldly experiences: “Into this book, ‘The Sea is My Brother’ I shall weave all the passion and glory of living, its restlessness and peace, its fever and ennui, its mornings, noons and nights of desire, frustration, fear, triumph, and death. . . .”

In the same letter to Sebastian, Jack lays out the internal soul-searching dilemma that The Sea is My Brother is attempting to resolve:

I am wasting my money and my health here at Columbia . . . it’s been one huge debauchery. I hear of American and Russian victories, and I insist on celebrating. In other words, I am more interested in the pith of our great times than in dissecting “Romeo and Juliet” . . . . at the present, understand. . . . Don’t you want to travel to the Mediterranean ports, perhaps Algiers, to Morocco, Fez, the Persian Gulf, Calcutta, Alexandria, perhaps the old ports of Spain; and Belfast, Glasgow, Manchester, Sidney, New Zealand; and Rio and Trinidad and Barbados and the Cape; and Panama and Honolulu and the far-flung Polynesians . . . I don’t want to go alone this time. I want my friend with me . . . my mad poet brother.

The references to wasting his money at Columbia parallel Everhart’s own internal questioning: “What was he doing with his life?” and become his impetus for shipping out with Martin. Talk of comrades and brotherhood, topics which had been deeply considered in Jack and Sebastian’s correspondence, are an integral part of this novel and help to resolve Jack’s battle with his changing political views. His infatuation when he was younger with the idea of the Prometheans and the Progressive Movements gives way to his more critical nature which began to develop after his induction into the Navy. He writes from the Navy barracks: “Though I am skeptical about the administration of the Progressive movement, I shall withhold all judgments until I come in direct contact with these people – other Communists, Russians, politicians, etc., leftists artists, leaders, workers, and so forth” (letter to Sebastian, mid-March, 1943).

The Sea is My Brother represents Jack’s transition as a writer, as he tells Sebastian in a letter, dated March 15, 1943: “I am writing 14 hours a day, 7 days a week . . . I know you will like it, Sam; it has compassion, it has a certain something that will appeal to you (brotherhood, perhaps).”

My editorial comments are presented in italics, with details in the notes (not in italics) to help clarify and explain references. The placement of hyphens, dashes, ellipses, apostrophes, etc., have only been standardized for readability. I have corrected spelling errors unless these seem to be intentional (e.g. “lead” for “led”; most are marked with “[sic]”) and have included some editorial elements and additional punctuation brackets, and where material is missing, illegible, or otherwise obscured, I have shown this with empty brackets [ ]. Spacing and line breaks have been preserved where the emphasis of the words would be affected; otherwise the margins, indents, and line spacing have been standardized. Where Jack Kerouac and Sebastian Sampas have edited their own material by crossing out and rewriting, I have only included their final version unless the context is unclear or words appear to be missing. Dating has been approximated on many of the letters and some of the short stories and is based on references within the text and other materials from the archive. All source material is noted in the bibliography. Kerouac’s archive can be found in the Berg Collection, New York Public Library, and Sampas’s works are in a private family archive in Lowell, Massachusetts.

D.M.W.

Weird Self-Portrait at Sea, from Jack’s journals at sea

Merchant Mariner title-page

The Sea is My Brother

CHAPTER ONE

The Broken Bottle

A young man, cigarette in mouth and hands in trousers’ pockets, descended a short flight of brick steps leading to the foyer of an uptown Broadway hotel and turned in the direction of Riverside Drive, sauntering in a curious, slow shuffle.

It was dusk. The warm July streets, veiled in a mist of sultriness which obscured the sharp outlines of Broadway, swarmed with a pageant of strollers, colorful fruit stands, buses, taxis, shiny automobiles, Kosher shops, movie marquees, and all the innumerable phenomena that make up the brilliant carnival spirit of a midsummer thoroughfare in New York City.

The young man, clad casually in a white shirt without tie, a worn gabardine green coat, black trousers, and moccasin shoes, paused in front of a fruit stand and made a survey of the wares. In his thin hand he beheld what was left of his money – two quarters, a dime, and a nickel. He purchased an apple and moved along, munching meditatively. He had spent it all in two weeks; when would he ever learn to be more prudent! Eight hundred dollars in fifteen days – how? where? and why?

When he threw the apple core away, he still felt the need to satisfy his senses with some [ ] dawdle or other, so he entered a cigar store and bought himself a cigar. He did not light it until he had seated himself on a bench on the Drive facing the Hudson River.

It was cool along the river. Behind him, the energetic thrum of New York City sighed and pulsed as though Manhattan Island itself were an unharmonious wire plucked by the hand of some brazen and busy demon. The young man turned and swept his dark, curious eyes along the high rooftops of the city, and down toward the harbor where the island’s chain of lights curved in a mighty arc, sultry beads in the midsummer mist strung in confused succession.

His cigar held the bitter taste he had wanted in his mouth; it felt full and ample between his teeth. On the river, he could distinguish faintly the hulls of the anchored merchant ships. A small launch, invisible except for its lights, glided a weaving path alongside the dark freighters and tankers. With quiet astonishment he leaned forward and watched the floating points of light move slowly downriver in liquid grace, his almost morbid curiosity fascinated by what might have seemed commonplace to another.

This young man, however, was no ordinary person. He presented a fairly normal appearance, just above average height, thin, with a hollow countenance notable for its prominence of chin and upper lip muscles, and expressive mouth lined delicately yet abundantly from its corners to the thin nose, and a pair of level, sympathetic eyes. But his demeanor was a strange one. He was accustomed to hold his head high, so that whatever he observed received a downward scrutiny, an averted mien that possessed a lofty and inscrutable curiosity.

In this manner, he smoked his cigar and watched the Drive saunterers pass by, for all outward purposes at peace with the world. But he was broke and he knew it; by tomorrow he would be penniless. With a shade of a smile, which he accomplished by raising a corner of his mouth, he tried to recall how he had spent his eight hundred dollars.

The night before, he knew, had cost him his last hundred and fifty dollars. Drunk for two consecutive weeks, he had finally achieved sobriety in a cheap hotel in Harlem; from there, he recalled, he had taken a cab to a small restaurant on Lenox Avenue where they served nothing but spare ribs. It was there he’d met that cute little colored girl who belonged to the Young Communists League. He remembered they’d taken a taxi down to Greenwich Village where she wanted to see a certain movie. . . . wasn’t it “Citizen Kane”? And then, in a bar on MacDougall Street, he lost track of her when he met up with six sailors who were broke; they were from a destroyer in dry-dock. From then on, he could remember riding in a taxi with them and singing all kinds of songs and getting off at Kelly’s Stables on 52nd Street and going in to hear Roy Eldridge and Billie Holliday. One of the sailors, a husky dark-haired pharmacist’s mate, talked all the time about Roy Eldridge’s trumpet and why he was ten years ahead of any other jazz musician except perhaps two others who jammed Mondays at Minton’s in Harlem, Lester somebody[1] and Ben Webster; and how Roy Eldridge was really a phenomenal thinker with infinite musical ideas. Then they had all rode to the Stork Club, where another sailor had always wanted to go, but they were all too plastered to be admitted in, so they went to a dime-a-dance joint where he had bought up a roll of tickets for the gang. From there they had gone to a place in the East Side where the Madame sold them three quarts of Scotch, but when they were finished, the Madame refused to let them all sleep there and kicked them out. They were sick of the place and the girls anyway, so they rode uptown and west to a Broadway hotel where he paid for a double suite of rooms and they finished the Scotch and flopped off in chairs, on the floor, and on the beds. And then, late the next afternoon he woke up and found three of the sailors sprawled about in a litter of empty bottles, sailor caps, glasses, shoes, and clothing. The other three had wandered off somewhere, perhaps in search of a bromo seltzer or tomato juice.

Then he had dressed up slowly, after taking a leisurely shower, and strolled off, leaving the key at the desk and making a request to the hotelkeeper not to disturb his slumbering buddies.

So here he sat, broke except for fifty cents. Last night had cost $150 or so, what with taxis, drinks around, hotel bills, women, cover charges, and everything else; his good time was over for this time. He smiled as he remembered how funny it was when he woke up a few hours previous, on the floor between a sailor and an empty quart bottle, and with one of his moccasins on his left foot and the other on the bathroom floor.

Casting away his cigar butt, he rose and moved on across the Drive. Back on Broadway he walked slowly uptown taking in the small shoe stores, radio repair shops, drugstores, newsstands, and dimly lit bookstores with a calm and curious eye.

In front of a fruit stand he stopped in his tracks; at his feet, a small cat mewed up at him in a plaintive little cry, its pink bud of a mouth opened in a heart shape. The young man stooped down and picked up the cat. It was a cute little kitten with grey-striped fur and a remarkably bushy tail for its age.

“Hello, Tiger,” he greeted, cupping the little face in his hand. “Where do you live, huh?”

The kitten mewed a reply, its fragile little frame purring in his hand like a delicate instrument. He caressed the tiny head with his forefinger. It was a minute shell of a skull, one that could be crushed between thumb and forefinger. He placed the tip of his nose against the little mouth until the kitty playfully bit it.

“Ha ha! A little tiger!” he smiled.

The proprietor of the fruit stand stood in front rearranging his display.

“This is your cat?” inquired the young man, walking over with the kitten.

The fruit man turned a swarthy face.

“Yes, that is my wife’s cat.”

“He was on the sidewalk,” said the young stranger. “The street’s no place for a kitty, he’ll get run over.”

The fruit man smiled: “You are right; he must have wandered away from the house.” The man glanced up above the fruit store and shouted: “Bella!”

A woman presently came to the window and thrust her head out: “Hah?”

“Here’s your cat. He almost got lost,” shouted the man.

“Poom-poom!” cooed the woman, espying the kitten in the young man’s hands. “Bring it up Charley; he’ll get hurt in the street.”

The man smiled and took the cat from the stranger’s hands; its weak little claws were reluctant to change hands.

“Thank you!” sang the woman from above.

The young man waved his hand.

“You know women,” confided the fruitseller, “they love little cats . . . they always love the helpless things. But when it comes to men, you know, they’ll want them cruel.”

The young stranger smiled thinly.

“Am I right?” laughed the man, slapping the youth on the back and reentering his store with the kitten, chuckling to himself.

“Maybe so,” mumbled the youth to himself. “How the hell should I know?”

He walked five more blocks uptown, more or less aimlessly, until he reached a combination bar and cafeteria, just off the Columbia University campus. He walked in through the revolving doors and occupied an empty stool at the bar.

The room was crowded with drinkers, its murky atmosphere feverish with smoke, music, voices, and general restlessness known to frequenters of bars on summer nights. The young man almost decided to leave, until he caught sight of a cold glass of beer the bartender was just then setting before another patron. So he ordered himself a glass. The youth exchanges stares with a girl named Polly, who sits in a booth with her own friends.

They stared at each other for several seconds in the manner just described; then, with a casual familiarity, the young man spoke to Polly: “Where you going?”

“Where am I going?” laughed Polly, “I’m not going anywhere!”

But while she laughed at the stranger’s unusual query, she could not help but wonder at his instant possessiveness: for a second, he seemed to be an old friend she had forgotten many years ago, and who had now chanced upon her and resumed his intimacy with her as though time were no factor in his mind. But she was certain she had never met him. Thus, she stared at him with some astonishment and waited for his next move.

He did nothing; he merely turned back to his beer and drank a meditative draught. Polly, bewildered by this illogical behavior, sat for a few minutes watching him. He apparently was satisfied with just one thing, asking here where she was going. Who did he think he was? . . . it was certainly none of his business. And yet, why had he treated her as though he had always known her, and as though he had always possessed her?

With an annoyed frown, Polly left the booth and went to the young stranger’s side. She did not reply to the inquiries shouted after her by her friends; instead, she spoke to the young man with the curiosity of a child.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Wesley.”

“Wesley what?”

“Wesley Martin.”

“Did I ever know you?”

“Not that I know of,” he answered calmly.

“Then,” began Polly, “why did you? . . . why? . . . how do you . . . ?”

“How do I do what?” smiled Wesley Martin, raising a corner of his mouth.

“Oh hell!” cried Polly, stamping an impatient foot. “Who are you?”

Wesley maintained his amused shadow of a smile: “I told you who I was.”

“That’s not what I mean! Look, why did you ask me where I was going? That’s what I want to know.”

“Well?”

“Well for God’s sake don’t be so exasperating – I’m asking you, you’re not asking me!” By this time Polly was fairly shouting in his face; this amused Wesley, for he was now staring at her wide-eyed, with his mouth open, in a fixed, sustained glee which was all at once as mirthless as it was tremendously delighted. It seemed as though he were about to burst into guffaws of laughter, but he never did; he only stared at her with roguish stupefaction.

At a point where Polly was ready to be hurt by this uncomplimentary attitude, Wesley squeezed her arm warmly and returned to his beer.

“Where are you from?” pressed Polly.

“Vermont,” mumbled Wesley, his attention fixed on the bartender’s operations at the tap.

“What’re you doing in New York?”

“I’m on the beach,” was the reply.

“What’s that mean?” persisted Polly in her child’s wonder.

“What’s your name?” posed Wesley, ignoring her question.

“Polly Anderson.”

“Polly Anderson – Pretty Polly,” added Wesley.

“What a line!” smirked the girl.

“What’s that mean?” smiled Wesley.

“Don’t give me that stuff . . . you all try to act so innocent it’s pitiful,” commented Polly. “You mean men don’t have lines in Vermont? Don’t try to kid me, I’ve been there.”

Wesley had no comment to make; he searched in his pockets and drew out his last quarter.

“Want a beer?” he offered Polly.

“Sure – let’s drink them at my table; come on over and join the party.”

Wesley purchased the beers and carried them over to the booth, where Polly was directing a new seating arrangement. When they had seated themselves side by side, Polly introduced her new friend briefly as “Wes.”

“What do you do, feller?” inquired the man addressed as Everhart, who sat in the corner peering slyly through horn-rimmed glasses toward Wesley.

Wesley glanced briefly at his interrogator and shrugged. This silence fascinated Everhart; for the next few minutes, while the party regained its chatty frolic, Everhart studied the stranger; once, when Wesley glanced at Everhart and found him ogling from behind the fantastic spectacles, their eyes locked in combat, Wesley’s cool and non-committal, Everhart’s a searching challenge, the look of the brazen skeptic.

As the night now wore on, the girls and George Day in particular became exceedingly boisterous; George, whose strange fancy had thought of something, was now laughing with a painful grimace; he was trying to relate the object of his mirth, but when he would reach the funny part of the incident which amused him so, and was about to impart the humor to the rest of them, he would suddenly convulse in laughter. The result was infectious: the girls screamed, Everhart chuckled, and Polly, head on Wesley’s shoulder, found herself unable to stop giggling.

Wesley for his part, found George’s dilemma as amusing as he had Polly’s impatience earlier in the evening, so that now he stared with open-mouthed, wide-eyed astonishment at the former, an expression of amusement as droll in itself as anything its wearer would ever wish to see.

For the most part, Wesley was not drunk: he had by now consumed five glasses of beer, and since joining the party in the booth, five small glasses of straight gin which Everhart had cheerfully offered to pay for. But the atmosphere of the bar, its heavy smoke and odor of assorted hard liquors and beer, its rattle of sounds, and the constant loud beat of music from the nickelodeon[2] served to cloud his senses, to hammer them into muffled submission with a slow, delirious, exotic rhythm. Enough of this, and Wesley was as good as drunk; he usually could drink much more. Slowly, he began to feel a tingle in his limbs, and he found his head swaying occasionally from side to side. Polly’s head began to weigh heavily on his shoulder. Wesley, as was his wont when drunk, or at least almost drunk, began to hold a silence as stubborn as the imperturbability which accompanied it. Thus, while Everhart spoke, Wesley listened, but chose to do so in strict, unresponsive silence.

Everhart, now quite intoxicated, could do nothing but talk; and talk he did, though his audience seemed more concerned with maintaining the ridiculous gravity of drunkards. No one was listening, unless it was Wesley in his oblique manner; one of the girls had fallen asleep.

“What do I tell them when they want to know what I want to do in life?” intoned Everhart, addressing them all with profound sincerity. “I tell them only what I won’t do; as for the other thing, I do not know, so I do not say.”

Everhart finished his drink hastily and went on: “My knowledge of life is negative only: I know what’s wrong, but I don’t know what’s good . . . don’t misinterpret me, fellows and girls . . . I’m not saying there is no good. You see, good means perfection to me . . .”

“Shut up, Everhart,” interposed George drunkenly.

“. . . and evil, or wrong, means imperfection. My world is imperfect, there is no perfection in it, and thus no real good. And so I measure things in the light of their imperfection, or wrong; on that basis, I can say what is not good, but I refuse to dawdle about what is supposed good. . . .”

Polly yawned loudly; Wesley lit up another cigarette.

“I’m not a happy man,” confessed Everhart, “but I know what I’m doing. I know what I know when it comes to John Donne and the Bard; I can tell my classes what they mean. I would go so far as to say I understand Shakespeare thoroughly – he, like myself, was aware of more imperfection than is generally suspected. We agree on Othello, who, but for his native gullibility and naiveté, would find in Iago a harmless little termite’s spite, as weak and impotent as it is inconsequential. And Romeo, with his fanciful impatience! And Hamlet! Imperfection, imperfection! There is no good; there is no basis for good, and no basis for moral. . . .”

“Stop grating in my ear!” interrupted George, “I’m not one of your stupid students.”

“Blah!” added one of the girls.

“Yes!” sang Everhart. “A high hope for a low heaven! Shakespeare said that in ‘Loves Labours Lost!’ [sic] Ay! There it is! A low heaven, and high-hoped men . . . but fellows and girls, I can’t complain: I have a good post in the University, as we are fond to call it; and I live happily with my aged father and impetuous young brother in a comfortable apartment; I eat regularly, I sleep well; I drink enough beer; I read books and attend innumerable cultural affairs; and I know a few women. . . .”

“Is that so!” cried George, leaning his head to sleep through the monologue.

“But that is all beside the point,” decided Everhart. “The revolution of the proletariat is the only thing today, and if it isn’t, then it is something allied with it – Socialism, international anti-Fascism. Revolt has always been with us, but we now find it in force. The writing of this war’s peace will be full of fireworks . . . there are two definitions for postwar peace: The good peace and the sensible peace. The sensible peace, as we all know, is the business man’s peace; but of course the business man wants a sensible peace based on the traditions of America – he’s a business man, he’s in business! This the radicals overlook: they forget the business man depends as much on business as the radicals depend on private support . . . take each away from each and the two classes disappear as classes. The business man wants to exist too – but naturally he’s prone to exist at the expense of others, and so the radicals are not blind to wrong. What I want to know is, if the radicals do not approve of economic liberalism, or laissez-faire, or private enterprise. . . .”

“Or what you will!” added George.

“Yes . . . if so, what do the radicals approve of? Plenty, of course: I respect their cognizance of wrong, but I fail to see the good they visualize; perfect states, as is the case with the younger and whackier radicals. But the older ones, with their quiet talk about a country where a man can do his work and benefit from this work; where he can also exist in cooperative security rather than in competitive hysteria – these older radicals are a bit more discerning, but I still doubt if they know what’s good: they only know what’s wrong, like me. Their dreams are beautiful, but insufficient, improbable, and most of all short of the mark.”

“Why is that so?” Everhart asked himself. “It is so because the progressive movement makes no provision for the spirit: it’s strictly a materialistic movement, it is limited. True, a world of economic equality and cooperative cheer might foster greater things for the spirit – resurgences in culture, Renaissances – but, in the main, it’s a materialistic doctrine, and a shortsighted one. It is not as visionary as the Marxists believe. I say, spiritual movements for the spirit! And yet, fellow and gentlewomen, who can deny Socialism? Who can stand up and call Socialism an evil, when in the furthest reaches of one’s conscience, one knows it is morally true? But is it a Good? No! It is only a rejection, shall we say, of the no-Good . . . and until it proves otherwise, in the mill of time, I will not embrace it fervently, I will only sympathize with it. I must search on . . .”

“Search on!” cried George, waving his arm dramatically.

“And in the process, I shall be free: if the process denies me freedom, I will not search on. I shall be free at all times, at all costs: the spirit flourishes only in the free.”

“Time marches on!” suggested Polly wearily.

“Do you know something?” posed Everhart.

“Yes I do!” announced George.

“The socialists will fight for freedom, win and write the peace – in this war or the next, and they will die having lived for the inviolable rights of man. And then will come the Humanists, when the way will have been paved for them, and these Humanists – great scientists, thinkers, organizers of knowledge, teachers, leaders . . . in short, builders, fixers, developers . . . shall lay down the foundations, in the days of no-war, for the future world of never-war. The Humanists will work and pave the way for the final and fabulous race of men, who will come on the earth in an era which the world has been bleeding toward for centuries, the era of universal peace and culture. This final, fabulous, and inevitable race of men will have nothing to do but practice culture, lounge around in creative contemplation, eat, make love, travel, converse, sleep, dream, and urinate into plastic toilets. In brief, the Great Romanticists will have arrived in full force, free to fulfill all of the functions of humanity, with no other worry in the world except that Englishmen still prefer Shakespeare while the world reads Everhart!”

George looked up briefly from his position under the table, where he had gone in search of an errant dime: “Why Bill, why didn’t you tell me you were going to be a writer.”

Bill Everhart waved an nonchalant palm: “After all this, don’t you think I’d make a splendid writer?”

George made a wry face: “Stick to teaching. I think you’d make a smelly writer. Besides, Everhart, you’re a hopeless pedagogue, and academic pain in the neck, and an officious little odious pendant [sic].”

“In short, Bill,” added Polly with a dry smile, “you’re a louse.”

“And a bull-slinger to boot,” said George. “A little knick-knack pouting on the shelf of time,” snuffing down his nose with obvious relish, “and a nub on the face of things.”

Polly began to giggle again, her long white neck craned downward revealing the fragile crucifix chain she wore. Wesley gazed at her affectionately, and placing his hand about the back of her neck, he turned her face toward his and kissed the surprised, parted lips. He found them instantly responsive and frankly passionate. Polly laughed and buried her face in his lapel, her bobbed hair a lavish brown pillow for his leaning cheek.

“Day, I still think you’re a scullion,” accused Everhart.

“Oh for gossakes [sic] stop this crazy talk! I’m tired. Let’s go!” This was spoken by Eve, the girl who had fallen asleep. She turned to her companion, yawning: “Aren’t you tired, Ginger?”

Ginger, who had maintained a bored silence most of the night, except to occasionally exchange kisses with her escort, Everhart, now yawned an affirmative reply.

“Hell no! We were supposed to get stinking drunk tonight,” objected Polly from Wesley’s shoulder. “We haven’t done any drinking!”

“Well, let them get a bottle . . . I want to get out of this place, we’ve been here long enough,” said Eve, removing a small mirror from her purse . . . “Oh heck, I look fiendish!”

“You haven’t said much tonight, feller,” said Ginger, smiling toward Wesley teasingly. She was rewarded with a thin, curving smile.

“Isn’t he cute!” cried Polly, delighted.

Wesley lifted his hand playfully, as if to strike her.

“Where do you want to go now?” asked George of Eve.

“Oh let’s go up. We can play the portable and dance. Besides, I’ve got a pair of rayons to wash for tomorrow morning.”

“I thought you washed them this afternoon!” said Ginger.

“I started to read a True Story Magazine and forgot all about them.”

“Dopey!”

“Let’s be frolicsome!” suggested Everhart, slapping the table. “I want to get blind loaded.”

“You are already, shortypants,” said Ginger. “Eve, will you wash my silk stockings while you’re at it . . . I need them for tomorrow night.”

“I will if you pick up my toaster at Macy’s tomorrow.”

“Oh but I have to model tomorrow afternoon from two till four,” protested Ginger, turning fullbody toward the other. They both reflected for a few moments while George Day yawned. “But you can pick it up after!” cried Eve.

Ginger pondered for a moment.

“It’s only five blocks downtown from your place,” supplied Polly, growing interested in the affairs of her world.

“But I have to get my permanent, Polly,” affirmed Ginger with a trace of desperation.

“You will still have time.”

“Sure!” chimed in Polly.

Ginger was trapped, and she knew it; she was trapped by the insistent logic of woman-kind, as surely as she had trapped others in her moments.

“Oh all right, I guess I can,” she concluded reluctantly. The other two girls leaned back, satisfied.

Wesley, who had been watching and listening, while the other two men were in reverie, now also leaned back in satisfaction. He gazed at Polly and wondered about her: she had been behaving unusually well all night, to his thinking, but now she had betrayed her colors. Polly was a woman! But when he squeezed her arm, and Polly touched her lips to his chin, quietly saying “Boo!” and tweaking his nose, he decided women had their virtues.

“Where and when do we go?” spoke George.

“To the place,” said Eve, picking up her handbag with long shiny fingers. “One of you two get a quart.”

“I’ll get it,” mumbled Everhart. “By God, I’ll get two quarts.”

“Let’s go,” cried Polly.

In the cool night street, Polly hung from Wesley’s arm and shuffled a dance step while Everhart crossed Broadway to a liquor store. The others chatted and laughed; all admitted their insobriety to one another, except Wesley, who shrugged uncertainly; they laughed.

On the way to Eve’s and Ginger’s, they were all very gay and marched down the side street linked six abreast while Everhart sang the Marseilleise.[3] Near an alley, Day stopped the whole group and pledged their health with one of the quarts. They all followed suit, Wesley taking at one lift of the bottle what sure must have been a half pint of the whisky.

“You from Tennessee?” drawled Ginger while the others giggled in amazement.

“Hell no, woman!” answered Wesley with a sheepish grin.

They laughed raucously and proceeded on down the street. From then on, Wesley was aware of only three things: that he drank two more enormous draughts from the bottle; that he was in New York at night, because they were walking in a steep canyon between tall corniced buildings that leaned crazily, and the stars were very far away from all this, nodding, aloof, cool up there overhead, and sternly sober; and finally, that he discovered he was holding an empty quart bottle as they climbed the stoop to the apartment, so he turned around and hurled it far up the empty street, and when the glass shattered and the girls screamed, he wanted to tell them that was what he thought of all the talk they had made tonight.

CHAPTER TWO

New Morning

When Wesley woke up, he wasn’t surprised that he didn’t know where he was. He sat on the edge of the bed and was annoyed because he could see all of his clothes except the socks. After having put on his shirt, trousers, and coat he squatted on the floor barefooted and peered under the bed. His socks were not there.

He left the bedroom, glancing briefly at the sleeping Polly on his bed, and roamed through the apartment searching for his socks. He went into the bathroom, with its steamy smell of soap, and rummaged around in a welter of silk underthings, hanging rayon stockings, and castoff slips. They were not to be found; as a last resort, he peeked under the bathtub. Not there.

He rubbed his teeth with his forefinger, threw water on his face, sneezed two or three times, and shuffled off into the parlor carrying his moccasins.

Everhart was sitting by the window reading a Reader’s Digest.

“Where the hell are my socks?” Wesley want to know.

“Oh hello Wes! How do you feel?” greeted Bill, adjusting his glasses to peer at Wesley.

Wesley sat down and put on his moccasins over his bare feet.

“Lousy,” he admitted.

“I feel likewise . . . how about a bromo? I made myself one in the pantry.”

“Thanks.”

They went into the pantry where a fragile blue-pink light streamed in from the morning street. Everhart prepared the sedative while Wesley inspected the contents of the refrigerator, picking himself out a cold orange.

“We’re the only ones up,” chatted Everhart. “George sleeps late all the time. Eve left for work this morning . . . I can’t say as I envy her after what she drank last night.”

“Eve your girl?” inquired Wesley.

Everhart handed him the bromo: “I was with her last night; George was with Ginger.”

Wesley drank down the sedative.

“Eve works at Heilbroner’s,[1] she gets off at noon. Ginger’ll have to get up soon herself – she’s a model. Boy! What a night . . .”

Everhart followed Wesley back into the parlor.

“Is Polly awake yet?” Bill asked.

Wesley shrugged: “Wasn’t when I got up.”

“You certainly are the boy with the women,” laughed Everhart, turning on the radio. “She was all over you last night; rare thing for Polly.”

“Cute kid,” reflected Wesley. He walked over to the window and sat on the ledge; pushing open a side pane, he glanced down at the street. It was a cool, sunny morning. The brownstone buildings, reminders of an older New York, stood in deep brown against a sky of magic blue; a pink-winged breeze breathed in through the open window. A faint sea-tang filled the new morning.

The radio began to play a Bing Crosby ballad. Wesley swept his gaze down the street and saw the Hudson in the clear distance, a mirrored sheen specked with merchant ships.

Everhart was standing beside him: “What do you do, Wes?”

Wesley pointed toward the ships on the river.

Everhart gazed in the same direction: “You’re a merchant seaman are you?”

Wesley nodded as he offered his friend a cigarette; they lit up in silence.

“How is it?” inquired Everhart.

Wesley turned his brown eyes on Bill: “I try to make it my home,” he said.

“Lonely sort of business, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” admitted Wesley, emitting a double tendril of smoke from his nose.

“I always thought about the sea and ships and that sort of thing,” said Everhart, his eyes fixed on the distant ships. “Get away from all this baloney.”

They heard women’s laughter from the bedrooms, rich bursts of confidential mirth that precipitated a sheepish grin on Everhart’s face: “The gals are up; now what in heavens are they laughing about?”

“Women always laugh that way,” smiled Wesley.

“Isn’t it the truth?” agreed Everhart. “Gets my goat oftentimes; wonder if they’re laughing at me . . .”

Wesley smiled at Everhart: “Why should they man?”

Everhart laughed as he removed his heavy glasses to polish them; he looked quite younger without them: “Tell you one thing, though; no finer sound in the morning than women laughing in the next room!”

Wesley opened his mouth and widened his eyes in his characteristic silent laughter.

“Whose apartment is this?” Wesley presently asked, throwing his cigarette butt in the street below.

“It’s Eve’s,” responded Everhart, adjusting his spectacles. “She’s a drunkard.”

From the next room Polly’s voice called out in a hurt way: “Is my Wesley gone away?”

“No he’s still here,” called back Everhart.

“That’s my honey!” asserted Polly from the next room.

Wesley smiled from his seat at the window. Everhart approached him: “Why don’t you go on in?”

“Had enough. That’s all I been doing for two weeks,” confided Wesley.

Everhart laughed heartily. At the radio, he tuned for a while until he found a satisfactory program.

“Battle Hymn of the Republic,” informed Everhart. “Great old tune, isn’t it? What does it make you think of?”

They both listened for awhile, until Wesley made his answer; “Abe Lincoln and the Civil War, I guess.”

Ginger swept into the room and gasped: “My Gawd! Will you look at this room!” It was, indeed, a sorry sight: chairs were turned over, bottles, glasses, and cocktail mixers were strewn everywhere, and a vase had been broken near the couch. “I’ll have to improve this mess somewhat before I go to work,” she added, more or less to herself. “How do you feel Shortypants?” she asked of Everhart. Then, without a pause for his response: “Wes! You look absolutely tip-top there? Haven’t you got a big head?”

Wesley nodded toward Everhart: “He gave me a bromo. I feel right fine.”

“Right fine,” echoed Everhart. “I heard that expression last time . . .”

“George is still sleeping!” interrupted Ginger, bustling around picking up the bottles and things. “He’s a lazy old slop.”

“Last time I heard ‘right fine’ was down in Charlotte, North Carolina,” continued Everhart. “They also used to say, when you wanted to know where something was, that it was ‘right yonder,’ I thought you were from Vermont, Wes?”

“I am,” smiled Wesley. “I been all over this country though; spent two years in the south. Them expressions just come to me.”

“Been to California?” asked Everhart.

“All over the place – forty-three states. I guess I missed Dakota, Missouri, Ohio and a few others.”

“What were you doing, just loafing around?” inquired Everhart.

“I worked here and there.”

“My goodness, it’s already ten o’clock!” discovered Ginger. “Let’s eat some breakfast right away! I’ve got to beat it!”

“Do you have any eggs?” asked Everhart.

“Oh, hell, no! Eve and I finished them yesterday morning.”

Polly entered the room in Ginger’s bathrobe, smiling after a shower: “I feel better,” she announced. “Mornin’ Wesley!” She walked to his side and puckered her lips: “Kiss me!” Wesley planted a brief kiss on her lips, then slowly blew a cloud of smoke into her face.

“Give me a drag!” demanded Polly, reaching for his cigarette.

“I’ll go down and buy some eggs and fresh coffee buns,” Everhart told Ginger. “Make some fresh coffee.”

“Okay!”

“Coming with me, Wes?” called Everhart.

Wesley ruffled Polly’s hair and rose to his feet: “Right!”

“Come right back,” said Polly, peering slant-eyed through a cloud of cigarette smoke with a small seductive smile.

“Back right soon!” cried Everhart, slapping Wesley on the back.

In the automatic elevator, they could still hear the strains of the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” coming from Eve’s radio.

“That song makes you think of Abe Lincoln and the Civil War,” remembered Everhart. “It does me too, but it also makes me mad. I want to know what the hell went wrong, and who it was inflicted the wrong.” The elevator stopped on the ground floor and slid open its doors. “That old cry ‘America! America’ What in heavens happened to its meaning. It’s as though an America is just that – America – a beautiful word for a beautiful world – until people just simply come to its shores, fight the savage natives, develop it, grow rich, and then lean back to yawn and belch. God, Wes, if you were an assistant instructor in English Literature as I am, with its songs, songs ever saying: ‘Go on! Go on!’ and then you look over your class, look out of the window, and there’s your America, your songs, your pioneer’s cry to brave the West – a roomful of bored bastards, a grimy window facing Broadway with its meat markets and barrooms and God knows the rest. Does this mean frontiers from now on are to be in the imagination?”

Wesley, it is to be admitted, was not listening too closely: he was not quite certain as to what his friend rambled on about. They were now in the street. Ahead, a colored man was busy disposing of a black pile of coal down a hole in the sidewalk: the coal flashed back the sun’s morning brilliance like a black hill studded with gems.

“It certainly does,” Everhart assured himself. “And there is promise in that: but no more romance! No more buckskins and long rifles and coonskins and hot buttered rum at Fort Dearborn,[2] no more trails along the river, no more California. That state is the end of it; if California had stretched around the world back to New England, we might have driven west eternally, rediscovering and rebuilding and moving on until civilization would assume the aspects of a six-day bike race with new possibilities at each bend. . . .”

Wesley, walking around the coal pile with his talkative friend, addressed the man with the shovel.

“Hey there, Pops! Don’t work too hard!”

The man looked up and smiled happily: “Watch out there, man!” he shouted with whooping delight, leaning on his shovel. “You is talkin’ out mah league – I doan split no gut! Hoo hoo hoo!”

“That’s the ticket, Pops!” said Wesley, looking back with a smile.

“I swear to God,” resumed Everhart, adjusting his glasses, “if this were 1760 I’d be on my way West with the trappers, explorers, and the huntsmen! I’m not rugged, the Lord knows, but I want a life with purpose, with a driving force and a mighty one at that. Here I am at Columbia, teaching – what of it? I accomplish nothing; my theories are accepted and that’s all there is to it. I have seen how ideas are accepted and set aside for reference . . . that is why I gave up writing a long time ago. I’m thirty-two now; I wouldn’t write a book for a million. There’s no sense to it. Those lynx-eyed explorers – they were the American poets! The great unconscious poets who saw hills to the westward and were satisfied and that was that: they didn’t have to rhapsodize, their very lives did that with more power than a Whitman! Do you read much, Wes?”

The were now on Broadway, strolling along the spacious pavement; Wesley stopped to peel his orange over a city refuse basket, and after a pause during which he frowned with dark pity, he said: “I used to know a young seaman by the name of Lucian Smith; he used to try to make me read, because I never did do much reading.” He dropped the last peel in the basket with a slow, thoughtful flourish. “Luke finally made me read a book; he was a good kid and I wanted to make him feel as though he done me a favor. So I read the book he gave me.”

“What was it?”

“Moby Dick,” recollected Wesley.

“By Herman Melville,” added Everhart, nodding his head.

Wesley tore the orange in two and offered a half to his friend. They walked on, eating. “So I read Moby Dick; I read it slow, about five pages a night, because I knew the kid would ask me questions about it.”

“Did you like it?” Everhart asked.

Wesley spat out an orange grain, the same grave frown on his countenance: “Yeah,” he answered.

“What did the Smith kid ask you about it?” persisted Everhart.

Wesley turned his troubled face on the interrogator and stared for a few moments.

“All kinds of questions,” he finally told him. “All kinds. He was a bright kid.”

“Do you remember any of his questions?” Everhart smiled, conscious of his inquisitiveness.

Wesley shrugged: “Not offhand.”

“Where is he now?”

“The kid?”

“Yes . . .”

Wesley’s frown disappeared; in its place, an impassive, almost defiant stoniness manifested itself in his averted face.

“Lucian Smith, he went down.”

Everhart shot a scowling look toward his companion: “You mean he was torpedoed and drowned?” Everhart said this as though incredulous of such a thing; he rushed on: “He’s dead now? When did it happen? Why did . . . where was it?”

Wesley thrust his hand in his back pocket, saying: “Off Greenland last January.” He produced his seaman’s wallet, a large flat affair with a chain attached. “Here’s his picture,” he announced, handing Bill a small snapshot: “Smith’s a good kid.”

Everhart, taking the snapshot, was going to say something, but checked himself nervously. A sad face gazed out at him from the photograph, but he was too confused to make anything further of it: Wesley’s brooding presence, the sounds of the street gathering tempo for a new day, the gay sunshine’s warmth, and the music from a nearby radio store all seemed to remove this pinched little face with the sad eyes to a place far off, lonely, and forgotten, to unreal realm that was as inconsequential as the tiny bit of celluloid paper he held between his fingers. Bill handed back the picture and could say nothing. Wesley did not look at the picture, but slid it back into his wallet, saying: “Where do we buy the eggs?”

“Eggs . . .” echoed Everhart, adjusting his spectacles slowly. “Up ahead two blocks.”

On the way back, laden with packages, they said very little. In front of a bar, Wesley pointed toward it and smiled faintly: “Come on, man, let’s go in and have a little breakfast.”

Everhart followed his companion into the cool gloom of the bar, with its washed aroma and smell of fresh beer, and sat near the window where the sun poured in through the French blinds in flat strips. Wesley ordered two beers. Everhart glanced down and noticed his friend wore no socks beneath his moccasin shoes; they rested on the brass rail with the calm that seemed part of his whole being.

“How old are you, Wes?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“How long have you been going to sea?”

The beers were placed before them by a morose bartender; Bill threw a quarter on the mahogany top of the bar.

“Six years now,” answered Wesley, lifting the golden glass to the sun and watching the effervescence of many minute bubbles as they shot upward.

“Been leading a pretty careless life, haven’t you?” Everhart went on. “Port debaucheries, then back to sea; and on that way . . .”

“That’s right.”

“You’d never care to plant some roots in society, I suppose,” mused the other.

“Tried it once, tried to plant some roots, as you say . . . I had a wife and a kid coming, my job was a sure thing, we had a house.” – Wesley halted himself and drank down the bitter thoughts. But he resumed: “Split up after the kid died stillborn, all that sort of guff: I hit the road, bummed all over the U.S.A., finally took to shipping out.”

Everhart listened sympathetically, but Wesley had said his piece.

“Well,” sighed Bill slapping the bar, “I find myself, at thirty-two, an unusually free and fortunate man; but honestly I’m not happy.”

“So what!” countered Wesley. “Bein’ happy’s O.K. in its place; but other things count more.”

“That’s the sort of statement I should make, or anyone of the creative artists whose works I talk on,” considered the other, “but as for you, a doubtlessly devil-may-care roué with a knack for women and a triple capacity for liquor, it seems strange. Aren’t you happy when you’re blowing your pay in port?”

Wesley waved a disgusted hand: “Hell no! What else can I do with money? I ain’t got no one to send it to but my father and one of my married brothers, and when that’s done, I still got too much money – I throw it away, practically. I’m not happy then.”

“When are you happy?”

“Never, I guess; I get a kick out of a few things, but they don’t last; I’m talkin’ about the beach now.”

“Then you are happy at sea?”

“Guess so . . . I’m home then anyway, and I know my work and what I’m doin’. I’m an A.B.,[3] see . . . but as to bein’ happy at sea, I don’t really know. Hell, what is happiness nohow?” Wesley asked with a trace of scorn.

“No such thing?” suggested Bill.

“You hoppin’ skippin’ Goddamn right!” asserted Wesley, smiling and shaking his head.

Bill called for two more beers.

“My old man is a bartender in Boston,” confided Wesley. “He’s a great old buck.”

“My old man used to be a shipyard worker,” Everhart supplied, “but now he’s old and feeble; he’s sixty-two. I take care of him and my kid brother financially, while my married sister, who lives in my place with her crum of a husband, feeds and cares [for] them. The kid goes to public school – he’s a doughty little brat.”

Wesley listened to this without comment.

“I’d like to make a change; spread my wings and see if they are ready for flight,” confessed Bill. “know something? . . . I’d like to try the Merchant Marine for a spell!”

“How about your draft status?” Wesley asked.

“Just registered so far, unless my notification came in this morning’s mail,” pondered Bill. “But by heavens I really would like the idea!” Everhart lapsed into a musing silence while the other lit up a cigarette and inspected the glowing tip. He could use a little money, considering that the old man would soon require a hernia operation. What was it the doctor had said? . . . seven months? And the kid might want to go to Columbia in five or six years.

“How much money can you make on a trip?” asked Bill at length.

Wesley, with a mouthful of beer, held it for a moment, tasting it with relish.

“Well,” he answered, “depends. You’d make a bit less as ordinary seaman. The Russian run would net you around fourteen hundred bucks in five or six months, with pay, sea bonus, port bonus, and overtime. But a short run, like the Iceland or coastwise to Texas or South American run wouldn’t add up to that much in one trip.”

Well, two or three short trips, or one long one would certainly make a tidy sum. Everhart, who made thirty dollars a week at Columbia, sharing the rent with his sister’s husband, had always had enough money, but never enough to realize any savings or lay the foundations for future security. He often managed to make a few extra dollars tutoring private students at examination time. But since 1936, when he was awarded his master’s degree in English and was fortunate enough to land an assistant professorship in the university, he had more or less coasted along, spending whatever money he kept for himself and living out a life of harangue with students, professors, and people like George Day; living, in short, a casually civilized New York City existence. He had studied hard and proved a brilliant student. But the restlessness which had festered in his loquacious being through the years as assistant professor in English, a vague prod in the course of his somehow sensationless and self-satisfied days, now came to him in a rush of accusal. What was he doing with his life? He had never grown attached to any woman, outside of the gay and promiscuous relations he carried on with several young ladies in the vicinity of his circle. Others at the university, he now considered with a tinge of remorse, had grown properly academic, worn good clothes with the proud fastidiousness of young professors, gotten themselves wives, rented apartments on or near the campus, and set about to lead serious, purposeful lives with an eye to promotions and honorary degrees and a genuine affection for their wives and children.

But he had rushed around for the past six years clad in his cloak of genius, an enthusiastic young pendant [sic] with loud theories, shabby clothing, and a barefaced conviction in the art of criticism. He’d never paused to appraise anything but the world. He had never really paid any attention to his own life, except to use his own freedom as a means to discuss the subject of freedom. Yes, he was Everhart who had told his classes, one triumphant morning when the snow lashed against the windows, that art was the revolt of the free. . . .

Theories! Lectures! Talk! Thirty dollars per week; home in the evening, while the old man snored in his chair, correcting papers and preparing lecture notes; down at the bar with George Day, studying for his master’s, talking over beers and making wry observations on everything; plays, concerts, operas, lectures; rushing around carrying books shouting hellos to everyone; weekend wild parties with various acquaintances; then back to Sunday – the Times, those fine dinners of his sister’s, arguments at the table with her radio store owner of a husband, damn his smug hide, and a movie with Sonny at night in the Nemo, full of Columbia College students throwing things from the balcony. Then back to Monday morning, a class, a quick lunch at the Sandwich shop, reference work in the afternoon seated in the library, a quick beer before supper, and a lecture by Ogden Nash in McMillin at eight-thirty. Then back to the bar for a quick beer, long discussions with the boys – Day, Purcell, Fitzgerald, Gobel, Allen . . . as drunken a mob of pseudo-scholars as he was ever privileged to behold – and finally home to a dying old father, a busybody sister, a self-appointed humorist of a brother-in-law, a noisy kid brother, and a horrible looking poodle dog.

Bah! Then Everhart retires, placing his horn-rimmed glasses on the dresser, and stretches his pudgy frame in the bed and wonders what the hell it’s all leading to!

Well, now it had come to this; at thirty-two, a queer-looking assistant professor, known amiably around the whole place as “Shortypants.” The price of trying to be unpretentious! Do like the others, radiate professorial dignity, and they will call you William or Professor Everhart. To hell with it!

Lost? That poet’s word . . .

“Thinkin’ of shipping out?” Wesley interrupted the other’s reverie.

Everhart directed a scowl toward him, still lost in his own thoughts; but he finally answered: “If only for a change, yes.”

“Let’s have another beer,” suggested Wesley.

Everhart had to laugh: “We’d better be getting back, the girls are waiting for the eggs and us.”

Wesley waved a scoffing hand.

They had more beer; and more. In forty-five minutes or so, they each consumed eight glasses of cold, needling ale. They decided to go back. Everhart felt decidedly tingling by this time. All through breakfast he told them all he was shipping out with Wesley, repeating his decision at measured intervals. George Day, who had by this time risen, sat eating his breakfast with an ill-tempered scowl, munching quite noisily and with no acknowledgement of the presence of the others.

Everhart, feeling quite gay from the beer, slapped George on the back and invited him to go shipping in the Merchant Marine with him. George turned up a drawn, rather gloomy countenance, and with the help of an already dour face, heavy with tired flesh, he made it known that he was averse to the suggestion.

Ginger drew a toast from the grill and laughed: “Don’t you have a class this morning, Georgie?”

Day mumbled something that sounded like “Ancient History of the Near East and Greece.”

“Poof!” scoffed Everhart, flourishing his fork, “Come with me and see the Near East.”

George snuffed briefly down his nose and muttered through a mouthful of toast: “You don’t think, do you Everhart, I’m taking the course because I want to know something about the Near East. The Near East is as dear to me as a glass of milk.”

“Ha!” shouted Everhart. “Port Said! Alexandria! The Red Sea! There’s your East . . . I’m going to see it!”

George belched quietly, excusing himself after a moment of afterthought.

Polly, perched on Wesley’s lap, ruffled his hair and wanted to know if he had a cigarette. While Wesley drew a package from his coat pocket, the girl bit his ear and breathed warmly into it.

“Now, now Polly!” giggled Ginger.

After breakfast, Ginger shooed them all out and locked the door. She had worn a brown suit with stitched seams and double slit pockets in the jacket; beneath it she wore a casual sport shirt.

“This is the suit I have to model this morning,” she chattered to all in general. “Twelve ninety-five. Don’t you think it’s cute?”

“No frills, no flubs!” commented Everhart.

“Could I get one cheap?” demanded Polly from Wesley’s arm. “See how much you can get it for; I’ll give you the money. I think it’s classic!”

They were now in the street. George Day, very tall and shambling, dragged along behind them, not quite capable of maintaining any sort of morning dignity. Polly strode beside Wesley chatting gayly, while Ginger and Everhart talked through one another about what ever occurred to their minds. Near the 110th Street subway entrance Ginger left them. “Oh look!” cried George, pointing toward a bar across the street. Ginger, ready to cross the street, turned: “You go to your class, Day!” She ran off across the street for her subway, her trim little heels clacking a rapid staccato. “How,” George wanted to know in general, “can a woman with legs like that be so cruel?” Near 114th Street, George left them with a brief “Goodbye kids” and shuffled off toward his class, hands dug reluctantly in his pockets.

“A gentleman and a pseudo-scholar,” Everhart observed. A group of girls in slacks walked by in the warm sunlight, laden with tennis rackets and basketballs, their multi-colored heads of hair radiant in the morning glitter. Wesley appraised them with a frank stare. When one of the girls whistled, Polly whistled back. Near a small cigar store, a tall curly haired youth and another shorter one with glasses, paid their respects to Polly with a rhythmic whistle that kept in time with her long, loose stride. Polly whistled back to them.

They turned down 116th Street toward the Drive.

“I’d better be getting home or my aunt will brain me,” said Polly, laughing on Wesley’s lapel.

“Where do you live?” asked Wesley.

“On the Drive, near the Delta Chi house,” she told him. “Look, Wes, where are you going now?”

Wesley turned to Everhart.

“He’s coming with me,” said the latter. “I’m going home and breaking the news to the folks. I don’t have to ask them, but I want to see if it’s all right with them.”

“Bill, are you really joining the Merchant Marine? I thought you were just drunk!” confessed Polly with a laugh.

“Why not?” barked Everhart. “I want to get away from all this for awhile.”

“What about the University?” Polly supplied.

“That’s no problem; all I have to do is ask for a vacation. I’ve been at it for six years without a break; they’ll certainly grant me the request.”

Polly returned her attention to Wesley: “Well, Wes, I’m expecting you to call on me at six tonight - no, I make it seven, I have to get a manicure at Mae’s. We’ll have another wild time. Do you know any good places we could hit tonight?”

“Sure,” smiled Wesley, “I always have a right big time down in Harlem; I got some friends there, some boys I used to ship with.”

“That’s swell!” sang Polly. “We can go there; I’d like to see a show before, though; let’s go downtown to the Paramount and see Bob Hope.”

Wesley shrugged: “Suits me, but I’m broke just now.”

“Oh the hell with that, I can get some money from my aunt!” cried Polly. “What about you Bill? Want me to call Eve for you? I don’t think she’s doing anything tonight; Friday today, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” mused Bill. “We’ll see about tonight; I’ll call you up. I have to see Dean Stewart this afternoon about my leave.” Everhart’s face, wrinkled in thought and indecision, was turned toward the river. He could see a line of underwear strung along the aft deck of a tanker, and a tiny figure standing motionless beside the four-inch gun on a turret.

“I can see someone on that tanker,” smiled Bill, pointing toward the distant anchored ship. “Why isn’t he ashore having a good time?” They all gazed down the street toward the tanker.

“Too much fuss on the beach for him,” affirmed Wesley in a strange, quiet voice. Everhart shot an inquisitive glance toward his companion.

“Wesley!” commanded Polly, “Pick me up at seven sharp; don’t forget! I’ll be waiting . . .” She backed away with a frown: “Okay?”

“Right,” Wesley answered imperturbably.

“G’bye kids!” sang Polly; moving on down the street.

“So long,” said Everhart, waving briefly.

“Adios,” added Wesley.

Polly turned and shouted: “Seven tonight!”

Bill and Wesley crossed the street, halting while a dairy truck purred past. “I live right up here,” indicated Everhart, pointing up Claremont Avenue. “Christ it’s hot today!”

Wesley, hands in pockets, said nothing. A distinguished looking old gentleman walked by, nodding briefly at Everhart.

“Old man Parsons,” revealed the latter.

Wesley smiled: “I’ll be damned!”

Everhart smote the other on the back and chuckled good-naturedly, reposing his hand for a moment on the thin shoulder: “You’re a rare duck, Wes!”

CHAPTER THREE

We are Brothers, Laughing

Everhart’s home proved to be a dark, rambling hall leading to various rooms on each side. More books, magazines, and pamphlets than Wesley had ever seen were strewn everywhere in bookcases, on shelves, and on tables.

Bill’s sister, a rather unceremonious woman in the midst of her house work, shouted at them over the whining roar of a vacuum cleaner to keep out of the sitting room. They walked down the dim, narrow hall to Bill’s own bedroom, where books were evident in even more quantity and confusion than in the rest of the apartment. A spacious window opened on the green lawns and luxuriously leafed trees of the Barnard College campus, where several of the girl students sat chatting away their summer session.

“Here,” said Everhart, handing Wesley a pair of binoculars, “see if you can detect any compromising postures down there.”

Wesley’s face lit up with silent mirth; binoculars to his eyes, his open mouth widened as the humour of the situation heightened his delight.

“Fine,” he commented briefly, his silent laughter at length beginning to shake his thin frame.

Bill took the binoculars and peered seriously.

“Hmm,” he admitted.

“That you Billy?” a man’s voice called from the next room.

“Yeah!” called Everhart, adding to Wesley: “The old pater . . . wait a second.”

When Bill had gone, Wesley picked up a notebook and glanced briefly through it. On the flyleaf, someone had written: “Give them Tom Wolfe the way he should be given - America’s song in the ‘Angel,’ one of our best songs, growing from thence to satire - the satire of ‘Hill Beyond,’ not simply the bite of a Voltaire but the grandeur and beauty of a Swift; Wolfe, immense gangling freak of a man, striding Swift in our complacent midst!” On another page, figures were inscribed apparently a budget account, subtracting and adding themselves in a confused jumble. Beside the word ‘operation’ stood the sum of five hundred dollars.

Wesley picked up another notebook; it was full of references, sub-references, and notations; a photograph fell out from between the pages. Wesley glanced at it with the minute curiosity of his nature; a man stood before Grant’s Tomb holding the hand of a small boy, while a plump woman stood nearby laughing. Underneath, in ink, a hand had scrawled the identities: Father, Billy, Mother - 1916. Wesley studied the background, where busy little men strode past in the performance of their afternoon duties and ladies stood transfixed in gestures of enthusiasm, laughter, and curiosity.

Wesley replaced the faded brown picture with a slow, hesitant hand. For a long while, he stared sightlessly at the rug on the floor.

“Funny . . .” he muttered quietly.

From the next room, he could hear the low rumble of men’s voices. Down in the street below the open window a baby wailed from its carriage; a girl’s voice soothed in the noon stillness: “Geegee, geegee, stop crying.”

Wesley went to the window and glanced down the street; way off in the distance, the clustered pile of New York’s Medical Center stood, a grave healer surrounded at its hem by smaller buildings where the healed returned. From Broadway, a steady din of horns, trolley bells, grinding gears, and screeching trolley wheels surmounted the deeper, vaster hum from the high noon thoroughfare. It was very warm by now; a crazy haze danced toward the sun while a few of the more ambitious birds chattered in sleepy protest from the green. Wesley took off his coat and slouched into an easy chair by the window. When he was almost asleep, Everhart was talking to him: “. . . well, the old man leaves me my choice. All I have to do now is speak to my brother-in-law and to the Dean. You wait here, Wes, I’ll call the jerk up . . . he’s in his radio repair shop . . .”

Everhart was gone again. Wesley dozed off; once he heard a boy’s voice speaking from the door: “Geez! Who’s dat!”: Later, Everhart was back, bustling through the confusion of papers and books on his desk.

“Where the hell? . . .”

Wesley preferred to keep his eyes closed; for the first time in two weeks, since he had signed off the last freighter, he felt content and at peace with himself. A fly lit on his nose, but he was too lazy to shoo it off; it left a moist little feeling when he twitched it away.

“Here it is!” muttered Everhart triumphantly, and he was off again.

Wesley felt a thrill of anticipation as he sat there dozing: in a few days, back on a ship, the sleepy thrum of the propeller churning in the water below, the soothing rise and fall of the ship, the sea stretching around the horizon, the rich, clean sound of the bow splitting water . . . and the long hours lounging on deck in the sun, watching the play of the clouds, ravished by the full, moist breeze. A simple life! A serious life! To make the sea your own, to watch over it, to brood your very soul into it, to accept it and love it as though only it mattered and existed! “A.B. Martin!” they called him. “He’s a quiet good enough seaman, good worker,” they would say of him. Hah! Did they know he stood on the bow every morning, noon, and night for an hour; did they suspect this profound duty of his, this prayer of thanks to a God more a God than any to be found in book-bound, altar-bound Religion?

Sea! Sea! Wesley opened his eyes, but closed them rapidly. He wanted to see the ocean as he had often seen it from his foc’sle porthole, a heaving world pitching high above the port, then dropping below to give a glimpse of the seasky - as wild and beautiful as the sea - and then the sea surging up again. Yes, he used to lay there in his bunk with a cigarette and a magazine, and for hours he would gaze at the porthole, and there was the surging sea, the receding sky. But now he could not see it; the image of Everhart’s bedroom was etched there, clouding the clean, green sea.

But Wesley had felt the thrill, and it would not leave him: soon now, a spray-lashed day in the gray green North Atlantic, that most rugged and moody of oceans . . .

Wesley reached for a cigarette and opened his eyes; a cloud had come across the face of the sun, the birds had suddenly stopped, the street was gray and humid. An old man was coughing in the next room.

Everhart was back.

“Well!” he said. “Done, I guess . . .”

Wesley passed his hand through the thin black mat of his hair: “What’s done?”

Everhart opened a dresser drawer: “You’ve been sleeping, my beauty. I saw the Dean, and it’s allright with him; he thinks I’m going to the country for a vacation.”

Everhart slapped a laundered shirt in his hand meditatively: “The noble brother-in-law whined until I made it clear I’d be back with enough money to pay up all the half-rents and half-boards in this country for a year. At the end, he was fairly enthusiastic . . .”

“What time is it?” yawned Wesley.

“One-thirty.”

“Shuck-all! I’ve been sleepin’ . . . and dreamin’ too,” said Wesley, drawing deep from his cigarette.

Everhart approached Wesley’s side. “Well, Wes,” he began, “I’m going with you - or that is, I’m shipping out. Do you mind if I follow you along? I’m afraid I’d be lost alone, with all the union hall and papers business . . .”

“Hell no, man!” Wesley smiled. “Ship with me!”

“Let’s shake on that!” smiled the other, proffering his hand. Wesley wrung his hand with grave reassurance.

Everhart began to pack with furious energy, laughing and chatting. Wesley told him he knew of a ship in Boston bound for Greenland, and that getting one’s Seaman’s papers was a process of several hours’ duration. They also planned to hitchhike to Boston that very afternoon.

“Look!” cried Everhart, brandishing his binoculars. “These will be more useful from a deck!” He threw them into the suitcase, laughing.

“You don’t need much stuff,” observed Wesley. “I’m gonna get me a toothbrush in Boston.”

“Well at least I’m going to bring some good books along,” Everhart cried enthusiastically, hurling dozens of Everyman volumes into his pack. “Greenland!” he cried. “What’s it like up there, Wes?”

“I ain’t seen it; that’s why I want to go.”

“I’ll bet it’s a God-forsaken place!”

Wesley flipped his cigarette through the open window: “Never saw Greenland, been to Russia and Iceland; Africa in 1936, eleven ports on the Gold coast; China, India, Liverpool, Gibraltar, Marseilles, Trinidad, Japan, Sidney, hell’s shuck-all, I been all the way to hell and gone and back.”

Sonny Everhart, a boy of ten years, entered and stared at Wesley: “Are you the guy what’s the sailor Bill’s goin’ wit?”

“This is my kid brother,” explained Bill, opening the closet door. “Don’t pay any attention to him; he’s a brat!”

Sonny squared off to box his big brother, but he only waved a playful arm and went back to his packing.

“He thinks he’s tough,” announced Sonny. “One more year and I’ll lick him easy.” To prove this, he vaulted over the back of an easy chair groaning with books and landed on his feet to stand poised and indifferent.

“Let’s feel your muscles,” offered Wesley.

Sonny walked over and flexed his little arm. Wesley wrapped a thin brown hand around it and winked knowingly, nodding toward the older brother.

“Six months most,” he reassured Sonny.

Sonny laughed savagely. Wesley rose to his feet and put on his coat slowly.

“D’jever see a German?” asked Sonny.

Wesley sat down on the edge of the large chair. “Sure,” he said.

“Did he try to shoot you?”

“No; this was before the war,” explained Wesley.

Sonny jumped on the seat, landing on his knees. “Even then!” he cried.

“Nope,” said Wesley.

“D’jever see a submarine?”

“Yup.”

“Where?”

“I seen one off Cape Hatteras; they sunk our ship,” he returned.

“What you do?” shrilled Sonny.

“I jumped over the poop deck, feller.”

“Ha ha! What a name for a deck! Poop!”

Wesley’s eyes widened in silent laughter; he placed his hand on Sonny’s head and rolled it slowly, growling. Sonny leaped back and slapped his hips: “Brah! Brah!” he barked, pointing his forefingers. Wesley clutched his breast and staggered over.

“Brah! Brah! Brah! Full o’holes!” informed Sonny, sitting on the bed.

Wesley lit up another cigarette and threw the empty pack in the waste basket. The sun was back, spilling its warmth into the room in a sudden dazzle of afternoon gold.

“My Pop used to fix ships,” Sonny continued. “Did you ever see my Pop?”

“No,” confessed Wesley.

“C’mon,” urged Sonny. “He’s right here.”

Everhart, busy rummaging in the closet, made no remarks, so Wesley followed Sonny into the dim hall and into another room.

This particular room faced the inner court of the building, so that no sun served to brighten what ordinarily would be a gloomy chamber in the first place. A large man clad in a brown bathrobe sat by the window smoking a pipe. The room was furnished with a large bed, an easy chair (in which the father sat), another smaller chair, a dresser, a battered trunk, and an ancient radio with exterior loudspeaker and all. From this radio there now emitted a faint strain of music through a clamor of static.

“Hey Paw!” sang Sonny. “Here’s that sailor!”

The man turned from his revery and fixed two red-rimmed eyes on them, half stunned. Then he perceived Wesley and smiled a pitifully twisted smile, waving his hand in salute.

Wesley waved back, greeting: “Hullo!”

“How’s the boy?” Mr. Everhart wanted to know, in a deep, gruff, workingman’s voice.

“Fine,” Wesley said.

“Billy’s goin’ with you, hey?” the father smiled, his mouth twisted down into a chagrined pout, as though to smile was to admit defeat. “I always knew the little cuss had itchy feet.”

Wesley sat down on the edge of the bed while Sonny ran to the foot of the bed to preside over them proudly.

“This’s my youngest boy,” said the father of Sonny, “I’d be a pretty lonely man without him. Everybody else seems to have forgotten me.” He coughed briefly. “Your father alive, son?” he resumed.

Wesley leaned a hand on the mottled bedspread: “Yeah . . . he’s in Boston.”

“Where’s your people from?”

“Vermont originally.”

“Vermont? What part?”

“Bennington,” answered Wesley, “my father owned a service station there for twenty-two years.”

“Bennington,” mused the old man, nodding his head in recollection. “I travelled through there many years ago. Long before your time.”

“His name’s Charley Martin,” supplied Wesley.

“Martin? . . . I used to know a Martin from Baltimore, a Jack Martin he was.”

There was a pause during which Sonny slapped the bedstead. Outside, the sun faded once more, plunging the room into a murky gloom. The radio sputtered with static.

Bill’s sister entered the room, not even glancing at Wesley.

“Is Bill in his room?” she demanded.

The old man nodded: “He’s packing his things, I guess.”

“Packing his things?” she cried. “Don’t tell me he’s really going through with his silly idea?”

Mr. Everhart shrugged.

“For God’s sake, Pa, are you going to let him do it?”

“It’s none of my business - he has a mind of his own,” returned the old man calmly, turning toward the window.

“He has a mind of his own!” she mimicked savagely.

“Yes he has!” roared the old man, spinning around to face his daughter angrily, “I can’t stop him.”

She tightened her lips irritably for a moment.

“You’re his father aren’t you!” she shouted.

“Oh!” boomed Mr. Everhart with a vicious leer. “So now I’m the father of the house!”

The woman stamped out of the room with an outraged scoff.

“That’s a new one!” thundered the father after her.

Sonny snickered mischievously.

“That’s a new one!” echoed the old man to himself. “They dumped me in this back room years ago when I couldn’t work any more and forgot all about it. My word in this house hasn’t meant anything for years.”

Wesley fidgeted nervously with the hem of the old quilt blanket.

“You know, son,” resumed Mr. Everhart with a sullen scowl, “a man’s useful in life so long’s he’s producin’ the goods, bringin’ home the bacon; that’s when he’s Pop, the breadwinner, and his word is the word of the house. No sooner he grows old an’ sick an’ can’t work any more, they flop him up in some odd corner o’the house,” gesturing at his room, “and forget all about him, unless it be to call him a damn nuisance.”

From Bill’s room they could hear arguing voices.

“I ain’t stoppin’ him from joining the merchant marine if that’s what he wants,” grumbled the old man. “And I know damn well I couldn’t stop him if I wanted to, so there!” He shrugged wearily.

Wesley tried to maintain as much impartiality as he could; he lit a cigarette nervously and waited patiently for a chance to get out of this uproarious household. He wished he had waited for Bill at a nice cool bar.

“I suppose it’s none too safe at sea nowadays,” reflected Mr. Everhart aloud.

“Not exactly,” admitted Wesley.

“Well, Bill will have to face danger sooner or later, Army or Navy or merchant marines. All the youngsters are in for it,” he added dolefully. “Last war, I tried to get in but they refused me - wife n’kids. But this is a different war, all the boys are going in this one.”

The father laid aside his pipe on the window sill, leaning over with wheezing labor. Wesley noticed he was quite fat; the hands were powerful, though, full of veinous strength, the fingers gnarled and enormous.

“Nothin’ we can do,” continued Mr. Everhart. “We people of the common herd are to be seen but not heard. Let the big Money Bags start the wars, we’ll fight ’em and love it.” He lapsed into a malign silence.

“But I got a feelin’,” resumed the old man with his pouting smile, “that Bill’s just goin’ along for the fun. He’s not one you can fool, Billy . . . and I guess he figures the merchant marine will do him some good, whether he takes only one trip or not. Add color to his cheeks, a little sea an’ sunshine. He’s been workin’ pretty hard all these years. Always a quiet little duck readin’ books by himself. When the woman died from Sonny, he was twenty-two, a senior in the College - hit him hard, but he managed. I was still workin’ at the shipyards, so I sent him on for more degrees. The daughter offered to move in with her husband an’ take care of little Sonny. When Billy finished his education - I always knew education was a good thing - I swear I wasn’t surprised when he hit off a job with the Columbia people here.”

Wesley nodded.

The father leaned forward anxiously in his chair.

“Billy’s not a one for the sort of thing he’s goin’ into now,” he said with a worried frown. “You look like a good strong boy, son, and you’ve been through all this business and know how to take care of yourself. I hope . . . you keep an eye on Billy - you know what I mean - he’s not . . .”

“Whatever I could do,” assured Wesley, “I’d sure-all do it.”

“Yes, because I’d feel better if I knew someone experienced was sorta keepin’ an eye on him . . . you know what I mean, son.”

“Sure do,” answered Wesley.

“It’s the way a father feels,” apologized the old man. “You’ll find out how it is someday when your own kids go off like this . . . it’s something that can make you feel downright unhappy, and mad too, by God. I’ve come to the point where I can’t understand it any more - I mean the whole blamed thing. You start off with a rosy-cheeked little kiddie, then he grows up, and the next thing y’know, he’s standing face to face with you an’ arguing his head off, and then he’s gone . . . gone in more ways than one.”

Bill was standing in the doorway.

“Oh Pa, for God’s sake, stop telling all your troubles to my friends,” he admonished.

The old man swung his chair around to the window and muttered bitterly. Bill’s mouth hardened impatiently.

“We were havin’ a right nice chat,” Wesley said, a bit coldly.

“Allright, I’m sorry,” confessed Bill with some reluctance. “This is no way to say au revoir.” He walked over to his father’s chair: “well, old man, I guess you won’t have me around to argue with for a while, I’ll bet you’ll miss me just the same.” He leaned over and kissed his father’s bristly cheek.

“Sure your doin’ the right thing I guess,” said Mr. Everhart, still facing his window.

“Well, we can use the money, right?”

The father shrugged. Then he turned and squeezed Bill’s arm with his big hand: “If I could see you to the subway I would. Goodbye, Billy, an’ be careful.”

When Wesley shook hands with Mr. Everhart, his red-rimmed eyes were vague and misty.

“I’m goin’ wid youse!” howled Sonny, back in Bill’s room.

“Yeah, yeah!” cried Bill. “Go in the living room for awhile will you, Sonny: Wes and I want to talk. Tell Sis I’m coming out in a minute.”

Sonny dashed off at a furious pace.

“First thing is to get a subway to the Bronx and start hitch-hiking along Route One, right?”

Wesley nodded.

“I wish I had fare money,” growled Bill, “but I spent all my money last night. And I’m not borrowing any money from anyone, let alone my brother-in-law.”

“Hell, man, we’ll bum to Boston,” said Wesley.

“Sure!” beamed the other. “Besides, I never hitch-hiked before; it would be an experience.”

“Do we move?”

Everhart paused for a moment. What was he doing here in this room, this room he had known since childhood, this room he had wept in, had ruined his eyesight in, studying till dawn, this room into which his mother had often stole to kiss and console him, what was he doing in this suddenly sad room, his foot on a packed suitcase and a traveler’s hat perched foolishly on the back of his head? Was he leaving it? He glanced at the old bed and suddenly realized that he would no longer sleep on that old downy mattress, long nights sleeping in safety. Was he forsaking this for some hard bunk on board a ship plowing through waters he had never hoped to see, a sea where ships and men were cheap and the submarine prowled like some hideous monster in DeQuincey’s dreams. The whole thing failed to focus in his mind; he proved unable to meet the terror which this sudden contrast brought to bear on his soul. Could it be he knew nothing of life’s great mysteries? Then what of the years spent interpreting the literatures of England and America for notehungry classes? . . . had he been talking through his hat, an utterly complacent and ignorant little pittypat who spouted the profound feelings of a Shakespeare, a Keats, a Milton, a Whitman, a Hawthorne, a Melville, a Thoreau, a Robinson as though he knew the terror, fear, agony, and vowing passion of their lives and was brother to them in the dark, deserted old moor of their minds?

Wesley waited while Everhart stood in indecision, patiently attending to his fingernails. He knew his companion was hesitating.

At this moment, however, Bill’s sister entered the room smoking a Fatima and still carrying her cup of tea. She and her friend, a middle-aged woman who now stood beaming in the doorway, had been engaged in passing the afternoon telling each other’s fortunes in the tea leaves. Now the sister, a tall woman with a trace of oncoming middle age in her stern but youthful features, spoke reproachfully to her younger brother; “Bill, can’t I do anything to change your mind. This is all so silly? Where are you going, for God’s sake . . . be sensible.”

“I’m only going on a vacation,” growled Bill in a hunted manner. “I’ll be back.” He picked up his bag and leaned to kiss her on the cheek.

The sister sighed and adjusted his coat lapel. She glanced in a none too friendly fashion at Wesley, while he, in turn, wanted to tell her it was none of his doing and that would she kindly keep her dirty looks to herself?

In the street, Wesley could still see the old man, Mr. Everhart, as he had been when they had gone past his room on the way out: he was still sitting in the chair, but his pipe had lain unsmoked on the sill, a crest fallen, lonely figure.

At the subway, Sonny began to sniffle, but Bill gave him a quarter and told him to buy a Superman book. And just as they were going through the turnstiles, an associate of Bill’s, a thin, nervous Englishman carrying two briefcases and a book, shouted brightly above the heads of the subway goers: “I say Everhart! A vacation is it?”

“Yes,” answered Bill.

“Lucky scoundrel!” was the reply, and the young man swayed off, his long neck loosely fitted to a gangling collar, striding purposefully toward an afternoon lecture.

In the subway, Bill was frightened; Wesley was so quiet Bill could hardly expect any sort of spiritual sympathy from him. Didn’t the dammed fool know what was going on? . . . What folly was perhaps being committed? . . . what agony this impetuous change was already assuming? . . . and yet, too, what a coward “shortypants” was proving to be!

At this point, Everhart almost made up his mind to go back, but just then he remembered Wesley’s date with Polly for that evening.

“What about your date with Polly?” Everhart asked half morosely, fiddling nervously with the handle of his suitcase. The train was roaring through its dark tunnel – people were reading their newspapers and chewing with bovine calm on wads of gum.

Wesley leaned over nearer, placing his hand on Bill’s shoulder: “What d’you say?”

“What about your date with Polly?”

Wesley’s mouth parted and his eyes widened with delight. Smacking Everhart resoundingly on the back, he shouted for the first time since Everhart had known him: “Who gives a good hoppin’ shuck-all?!!” he whooped in a rich, good humoured, rakish howl. “We’re shippin’ out, man!!”

Everhart could still feel the sting in his back as the people in the subway peered curiously at Wesley, who now sat returning their stares with a roguish, wide-eyed humour, and quite amused.

Everhart leaned back and laughed heartily; he couldn’t stop, and in his mind a voice was reproaching him as he laughed and laughed.

It said: “Is it the damned fool, who, at that dark moment, laughs courage right into you.”

CHAPTER FOUR

At three o’clock, they were standing at the side of the road near Bronx Park; where cars rushed past fanning hot clouds of dust into their faces. Bill sat on his suitcase while Wesley stood impassively selecting cars with his experienced eye and raising a thumb to them. Their first ride was no longer than a mile, but they were dropped at an advantageous point on the Boston Post Road.

The sun was so hot Bill suggested a respite; they went to a filling station and drank four bottles of Coca-Cola. Bill went behind to the washroom. From there he could see a field and a fringe of shrub steaming in the July sun. He was on his way! . . . New fields, new roads, new hills were in store for him - and his destinations was the seacoast of old New England. What was the strange new sensation lurked in his heart, a fiery tingle to move on and discover anew the broad secrets of the world? He felt like a boy again . . . perhaps, too, he was acting a bit silly about the whole thing.

Back on the hot flank of the road, where the tar steamed its black fragrance, they hitched a ride almost immediately. The driver was a New York florist en route to his greenhouse near Portchester, N.Y. He talked volubly, a good-natured Jewish merchant with a flair for humility and humor: “A couple of wandering Jews!” he called them, smiling with a sly gleam in his pale blue eyes. He dropped them off a mile beyond his destinations on the New York-Connecticut state line.

Bill and Wesley stood beside a rocky bed which had been cut neatly at the side of the highway. In the shimmering distance, Connecticut’s flat meadows stretched a pale green mat for sleeping trees.

Wesley took off his coat and hung it to a shoulder while Bill pushed his hat down over his eyes. They took turns sitting on the suitcase while the other leaned on the cliffside, proffering a lazy thumb. Great trucks labored up the hill, leaving behind a dancing shimmer of gasoline fumes.

“Next to the smell of salt water,” drawled Wesley with a grassblade in his mouth, “I’ll take the smell of a highway.” He spat quietly with his lips. “Gasoline, tires, tar, and shrubbery,” added Bill lazily. “Whitman’s song of the open road, modern version.” They sunned quietly, without comment, in the sudden stillness. Down the road, a truck was shifting into second gear to start its uphill travails.

“Watch this,” said Wesley. “Pick up your suitcase and follow me.”

As the truck approached, now in first gear, Wesley waved at the driver and made as if to run alongside the slowly toiling behemoth. The driver, a colorful bandana around his neck, waved a hand in acknowledgement. Wesley tore the suitcase from Bill’s hand and shouted: “Come on!” He dashed up to the truck and leaped onto the running board, shoving the suitcase into the cab and holding the door open, balanced on one foot, for Bill. The latter hung on to his hat and ran after the truck; Wesley gave him [a] hand as he plunged into the cab.

“Whoo!” cried Bill, taking off his hat. “That was a neat bit of Doug Fairbanks dash!” Wesley swung in beside him and slammed the door to.

“That’ll melt the fat off!” roared the truckdriver. “Hot as a sonofabitch, ain’t it?” His laughter bellowed above the thunder of the motor.

They roared and careened all the way to New Haven, traveling at a furious pace downhill and crawling with a mounting whine uphill. When the driver dropped them off at the Yale University green, the sunlight had softened to a pale orange.

“Don’t take any wooden nickels!” counseled the truckdriver, bellowing above the crash of his gears as he left them in his thunderous wake.

“What now?” asked Everhart. They were standing on a broad pavement swarming with shoppers bearing packages, men in shirtsleeves en route from work, sauntering Yale summer students, newsboys, and business men. The street was a tangle of autos, buses, and clanging trolleys. The Green was a pageant of loafers.

“First thing is to get the hell out of here,” muttered Wesley, moving off.

“When do we eat?”

“We’ll eat in Hartford,” said Wesley. “How much money did you say you had?”

“Three bucks or so.”

“I’ll borrow some when we hit Boston,” mumbled Wesley. “Come on.”

They took a State Street trolley and rode to the end of the line. They walked up the street for a few blocks and set up their hitchhiking post in front of a bakery. After fifteen minutes of thumbing, an agrarian looking old gentleman picked them up in his ancient Buick; all the way to Meriden, while the sun changed its color to a somber, burning orange and the meadows cooled to a clean, dark, and jungle green, the farmer carried on a monologue on the subject of farm prices, farm help, and the United States Department of Agriculture.

“Playin’ right into their hands!” he complained. “A man ain’t got no faith in a country that’ll let a powerful group knock off the whole derned agricultural economy for their own interests!”

“Do you mean the Farm Bloc?” inquired Everhart, while Wesley, lost in thought, sat gazing at the fields.

The farmer tooted his horn four times as he barked four words:

“you . . . dern . . . tootin’ . . . right!”

By the time he dropped them off on the outskirts of Meriden, he and Bill were just warming up to their discussion of the Farm Security Administration and the National Farmers Union.

“G’bye, lads!’ he called, waving a calloused hand. “Be careful, now.” He drove off chuckling, tooting his horn in farewell.

“Nice old buck,” commented Everhart.

Wesley looked around: “It’s almost sundown; we gotta move.”

They walked across a deserted traffic zone and stood in front of a lunchcart. Great elms drooped above them in sunset stillness, calmly exuding their day’s warmth. A dog barked, breaking the quiet of the supper hour.

“Sleepy little place,” nodded Everhart with a faint smile. “I wonder what it would be like to live in a town like this - digesting one’s supper on the hammock facing the apple orchard, slapping off the mosquitoes, and retiring to the lullaby of a million crickets.”

“Sounds right peaceful,” smiled Wesley. “My hometown, Bennington, was a lot like this. I used to go swimmin’ in a little mill pond not a half-mile back o’ the house,” his voice softening in recollection, “and when the moon came out, I used to sit on the little sand beach and smoke – keep the mosquiters off . . .”

“We’ll have to go there someday,” planned Bill with a cheerful grin. “Your family up there?”

Wesley frowned darkly and waved his hand: “Nah!”

“What do you mean?”

“When the old lady died,” muttered Wesley with sullen reluctance, “the family broke up; we sold the house. Charley went to Boston and went in the saloon business with my uncle.”

“Who’s Charley?”

“The old man.”

“What happened to the rest of the family?” Everhart pursued with quiet concern.

“Sisters married off, brothers beat it - one of them’s in New Orleans, saw him in thirty-nine.”

Everhart laid a hand on Wesley’s shoulder: “The old homestead all gone, heh? An old story in American life, by George. It’s the most beautiful and most heart-breaking story in American literature, from Dresser to Tom Wolfe - yes, you can’t go home again . . .”

Wesley broke a twig in half and threw it away.

“I don’t reckon you can, man,” at length, he said, in a half whisper. “All depends where your home is . . . lose one, make another.”

They were silent after that until a grocery truck picked them up. The grocer took them three miles up the road to a lonely crossroads lit by a streetlamp. In the near-darkness, they began to worry about getting to Hartford, fifteen miles or so to the north.

While Bill waited for a car to come along, Wesley foraged in a nearby orchard and returned with a handful of small green apples. “Don’t eat them,” he warned, “you’ll be sick. Watch me pop that sign up ahead.” Bill laughed as Wesley wound up elaborately and hurled the missiles against the sign.

“Good exercise,” grunted Wesley. “I used to be a semi-pro baseball player . . . a pitcher . . . the Bennington Blues. Great game. Do you know where I played my last baseball game?”

“Where?” grinned Bill, adjusting his glasses.

Wesley threw the last apple and barely missed the target: “Hah!” he cursed. Turning and sinking his hands in his pockets he addressed Bill with a faint smile: “some seamen and me played a game of scrub in a field in Bombay. We had baseball equipment in the cargo for American soldiers and the Looey let us use it - gloves, balls, bats, all brand new.”

A car was coming along the road.

“Give him the old number twelve,” advised Wesley. “Watch!” He rotated his hand slowly, thumb outthrust. The auto roared past stubbornly.

“America . . . the beautiful,” sang Wesley, “and crown thy good . . . with brotherhood . . . from sea to shining . . . seeeee!” His body was shaking with silent laughter.

Bill sat down on his suitcase and grinned. Up the road a faint light glowed in the window of a farmhouse. The air, heavy with all the accumulated heat of the day, the tang of heated foliage, stenches from a nearby swamp, the smell of the farmyard, and the cooling macadam of the road hung about them, a warm, sweet, voluptuous drape in the summer dusk.

“By George,” burst Everhart, “if we don’t get a ride we’ll sleep right here in that orchard!”

Wesley lit up a cigarette he had found in his coat pocket: “It’s been done,” he offered. “But hell, man, we can’t spend a whole night without butts.”

“You smoke like a fiend.”

“Here comes another car. Watch me get us a ride!”

Wesley succeeded; the car slowed to a halt abreast of them. They were in Hartford in thirty minutes, standing directly in front of the Public Library on Main Street. It was nine o’clock.

“Well!” said Bill, putting down his suitcase. “We’ve come halfway to Boston in six hours. Nine o’clock. Nine o’clock last night I didn’t even know you, Wes!”

Wesley made no comment; he was watching people stroll by.

“Look what twenty-four hours and a moment of determination can do!” continued Bill, pushing his hat back. “I’m on my way . . . all of a sudden. Hell! I’m glad I did it. It’s going to be a change. I call this life! Do you know, Wes, you’re a pioneer in your own right.”

Wesley stared at his companion curiously.

“I was wrong when I said the days of the pioneers were over, yes, even in my lectures. There’s one on every street corner, by George. I’ve always been fascinated by pioneers and the pioneer spirit . . . when I was a kid, reading period pieces, French-Indian war sagas, Lincoln’s life, Boone, Clark, Rogers . . . and when I grew older, I discovered the pioneer spirit in many writers, notably Americans. Change is the health of society. Or is it? I guess I’m a naturally restless person, that may explain it. . . .”

Wesley picked up Bill’s suitcase. “Let’s have a few cold beers,” he proposed.

“Righto!”

“There’s a place,” noted Wesley, gesturing toward the other side of the street. “Let’s mosey over.”

While they crossed, Bill talked on: “I think I realize now why the pioneer spirit always guided me in my thinking - it’s because he’s free, Wes, free! He is like the skylark when contrasted to the settler, the man who plants his roots and leans back. The pioneer is free because he moves on and forgets to leave a trace. God!”

They entered a rowdy-looking barroom and occupied a booth with a sticky tabletop. Drinkers of all types sat ranged at the bar, old barflies, soldiers, broken-down hags, loud young men who gestured constantly at one another, and an occasional workingman still clad in his soiled workclothes.

A waitress brought them two large beers; and, leaning an indifferent hand on the back of the booth, she said: “Twenty dollars, darlings.”

Wesley winked at her briefly while Bill threw two dimes on the table. She gave Wesley a hard, challenging look as she scooped up the coins: “honey,” she told him huskily, “take care of them eyes.”

“What’s wrong with them?” demanded Wesley.

“They’ll get you into trouble,” she replied still watching him with heavy, malign ravishment. She backed away with a serious, brooding countenance, her eyes locked on Wesley’s. He answered her eyes with the same challenging impudence, the same slow, sensual defiance, the bid of brute to brute.

“My God!” snickered Bill when she had left. “So this is Hartford! The rape of Wesley Martin!”

Wesley rubbed the side of his nose.

“Brother,” he said quietly, “that’s something that can kill a whole ship’s crew in two weeks.”

Everhart roared with laughter while Wesley drank his beer with a crafty smile.

Later, after a few beers, they ate pork chops in a lunchcart on Main Street where Wesley bought two packages of Luckies and gave one of them to a vag who had begged for a cigarette.

“Where are we going to sleep?” Bill asked when they were back in the street. Wesley was picking his teeth with a toothpick.

“If this was New York,” he said, “we could sleep in an all-night show or a subway. Hell, I dunno.”

They roamed up and down Main Street, peering into bars and smoking. Finally, they grew restless; Wesley suggested they take in a late movie, but Everhart was dubious: “What are we going to eat with tomorrow?” he told Wesley.

“Who gives a shuck-all about tomorrow!” Wesley muttered scornfully. “Let’s see a movie.”

They went in. At midnight, they were back in the street; it was almost deserted. A few aircraft workers were returning from work in groups, talking in low, tired tones. A policeman teetered on his heels beside a cigar store.

“We’d better duck before we’re pulled in,” suggested Wesley. “Let’s go see if we can find a place to sleep a few hours, before sunup.”

“It’s warm enough to sleep out,” added Bill.

They walked East across the bridge and over to East Hartford. A dark, vacant lot offered plenty of thick matty grass, so they slumped down behind a clump of shrubs. Wesley was asleep in five minutes.

Everhart couldn’t sleep for an hour. He lay on his back and watched the richly clustered stars high above; a cricket chirped not three feet away. The grass was damp, though he could feel its substratum of sunfed warmth. A coolness had crept into the night air; Bill pulled his collar up. He heard steps sounding down a nearby gravel path . . . a cop? Bill glanced over; he saw nothing in the darkness. A door opened, closed.

Well! Here he was sleeping in a backlot, a man with a post in a University, like so many other tramps. Wesley, there, sleeping as though nothing in the world mattered to him; one couldn’t call him a tramp, could one? Who was this strange young man, very much a boy and yet very much a man? A seaman . . . yes, Everhart too would be a seaman.

Why?

Why had he done this? If his life in New York had seemed purposeless and foolish, then what could one call this life, this aimless wandering? If war had called Ulysses away from Syracuse, what had called Everhart away from New York?

Often he had told his classes about Fate, quoting devotedly from Emerson, from Shakespeare; he had spoken of Fate with the cheerful certainty that only a pedagogue could attain. That was his trouble, he had been a fearless pedagogue. And now? Certainly not a fearless man; he was full of fear, and why not? . . . he knew not what was coming. Would fear, the knowledge and the wisdom of fear, drive the pedantry from his foolish being?

What of Fate? Ah, she was a charming lady, Fate, see how she had woven her skin from New York to Hartford in a few brief hours, changed a man from a pedagogue to a trembling scholar, had made her day sunny and her night warm with the thrill and potency of mystery, had stolen to his side and for a moment of terrible glory, in the night, revealed to him her design of designs - that no man may know, but each may wait, wonder, and, according to the powers of his spirit, resist!

Everhart raised himself on his elbows . . . . the cricket stopped its song, fearful . . . . all the world slumbered in a massive hush. He could hear Wesley’s slow breathing; above the stars nodded silently, nameless and far. “Me?” cried Wesley.

Everhart jumped nervously, his heart suddenly . . . pounding with fear. But Wesley was asleep - he had cried out in a dream.

Wesley was shaking his arm.

“Wake up, Bill, we’re rollin’,” he was saying in a husky morning voice.

It was still dark, but a few birds had begun to twitter a tiny alarum from the mist. Everhart rolled over and groaned: “What?”

“Wake up man, you ain’t home?”

Everhart sat up rigidly, stupefied.

“By George,” he growled, “you’re right!”

Wesley was sitting on the grass, yawning and stretching his arms. The morning mist seeped into them with a raw, chill silence. “Let’s move,” repeated Wesley, “before we freeze to death.”

They rose and walked off toward the street, not particularly inclined to talk to one another; an auto went by, leaving its rush of dust and gasoline fumes, growling off up the misty street like an illtempered old dog. Over the rooftops, a gray light was manifesting itself. It was a gloomy, unpleasant morning.

The two travelers had coffee in a lunchcart near the railroad tracks and scowled in unison when the counterman told them they looked as though they’d spend the night in a barn.

Once again in the street, the gray light had spread wide across the sky; they saw heavy clouds rushing in to darken the morning.

“Might rain,” grunted Everhart.

They walked down the road and turned slowly as a car approached. It passed them swiftly, giving both a glimpse of a sleepy, surly face at the wheel. The road looked clean and ready for a new day in the dim morning light; it stretched up a hill and around a curve, beyond which they could make out a horizon of telephone poles, farms (winking small breakfast lights), and further beyond, rangy gray hills almost undiscernible in the mist. It smelled rain.

“Oh Christ!” yawned Wesley loudly. “I’ll be glad when I can crawl into my berth!”

“Are you sure about that ship in Boston?”

“Yeah . . . The Westminster, transport-cargo, bound for Greenland; did you bring your birth certificate, man?”

Everhart slapped his wallet: “Right with me.”

Wesley yawned again, pounding his breast as if to put a stop to his sleepiness. Everhart found himself wishing he were back home in his soft bed, with four hours yet to sleep before Sis’s breakfast, while the milkman went by down on Claremont Avenue and a trolley roared past on sleepy Broadway.

A drop of rain shattered on his brow.

“We’d best get a ride right soon!” muttered Wesley turning to gaze down the deserted road.

They took shelter beneath a tree while the rain began to patter softly on the overhead leaves; a wet, steamy aroma rose in a humid wave.

“Rain, rain go away,” Wesley sang softly, “come again another day . . .”

Ten minutes later, a big red truck picked them up. They smiled enthusiastically at the driver.

“How far you goin’, pal?” asked Wesley.

“Boston!” roared the driver, and for the next hundred and twenty miles, while they traveled through wet fields along glistening roads, past steaming pastures and small towns, through a funeral Worcester, down a splashing macadam highway leading directly toward Boston under lowering skies, the truckman said nothing further.

Everhart was startled from a nervous sleep when he heard Wesley’s voice . . . . hours had passed swiftly.

“Boston, man!”

He opened his eyes; they were rolling along a narrow, cobble-stoned street, flanked on each side with grim warehouses. It had stopped raining.

“How long have I been sleeping?” grinned Bill, rubbing his eyes while he held the spectacles on his lap.

“Dunno,” answered Wesley, drawing from his perennial cigarette. The truck driver pulled to a lurching halt.

“Okay?” he shouted harshly.

Wesley nodded: “thanks a million, buddy. We’ll be seeing you.”

“So long, boys,” he called. “See you again!”

Everhart jumped down from the high cab and stretched his legs luxuriously, waving his hand at the truck driver. Wesley stretched his arms slowly: “Eeyah! That was a long ride; I slept a bit myself.”

They stood on a narrow sidewalk, which had already begun to dry after the brief morning rain. Heavy trucks piled past in the street, rumbling on the ancestral cobbles, and it wasn’t until a group of them had gone, leaving the street momentarily deserted and clear of exhaust fumes, that Bill detected a clean sea smell in the air. Above, broken clouds scuttled across the luminous silver skies; a ray of warmth had begun to drop from the part of the sky where a vague dazzle hinted the position of the sun.

“I’ve been to Boston before,” chatted Bill, “but never like this . . . this is the real Boston.”

Wesley’s face lit in a silent laugh: “I think you’re talkin’ through your hat again man! Let’s start the day off with a beer on Scollay Square.”

They walked on in high spirits.

Scollay Square was a short five minutes away. Its subway entrances, movie marquees, cut-rate stores, passport photo studios, lunchrooms, cheap jewelry stores and bars faced the busy traffic of the street with a vapid morning sullenness. Scores of sailors in Navy whites sauntered along the cluttered pavements, stopping to gaze at cheap store fronts and theater signs.

Wesley lead Bill to a passport photo studio where an old man charged them a dollar for two small photos.

“They’re for your seaman’s papers,” explained Wesley. “How much money does that leave you?”

“A quarter,” Everhart grinned sheepishly.

“Two beers and a cigar; let’s go,” Wesley said, rubbing his hands. “I’ll borrow a fin from a seaman.”

Everhart looked at his pictures: “Don’t you think I look like a tough seadog here?”

“Hell man, yes!” cried Wesley.

In the bar they drank a bracing glass of cold beer and talked about Polly, Day, Ginger and Eve.

“Nice bunch of kids,” said Wesley slowly.

Everhart gazed thoughtfully at the bartap: “I’m wondering how long Polly waited for us last night. I’ll bet this is the first time Madame Butterfly was ever stood up!” he added with a grin. “Polly’s quite the belle around Columbia, you know.” It sounded strange to say “Columbia” . . . how far away was it now?

“I didn’t mean to play a wood on her,” said Wesley at length. “But hell, when you’re on the move, you’re on the move! I’ll see her some other time.”

“Won’t George Day be surprised when he learns I’ve gone and wasn’t fooling about joining the Merchant Marine!” laughed Bill. “I left on the spur of the moment. It’ll be the talk of the place.”

“What’s Eve gonna say?” asked Wesley.

“Oh I don’t know; I never was very serious with Eve, anyway. We’ve had a lot of great times together, parties and all that, but we were just good friends. I haven’t been serious over a girl since I was in my teens.”

A sailor behind them slid a nickel into the big music box and danced slowly across the floor as Bing Crosby sang “Please Don’t Take my Sunshine Away.”

“Pop!” shouted the young sailor, addressing the bartender, “It’s a great man’s Navy!”

“Keep it that way,” answered the older man. “It was in my day. Come on over here till I set you up a drink - what’ll you have? Take your choice!”

“Pop!” bellowed the sailor flopping on a stool, “I’m gonna set up you to a drink, you bein’ an old Navy man yerself.” He produced a dark brown bottle from his hip pocket. “Jamaica Rum!” he announced proudly.

“Allright,” said the bartender, “you give me a swallow o’ that Rum and I’ll set you up a drink that’ll make your eyes pop.”

“Impossible,” muttered the sailor, turning to Wesley. “Am I right?”

“Right!” said Wesley.

The sailor handed his bottle over to Wesley: “Try some o’ that Jamaica Rum, buddy; try it.”

Wesley nodded and proceeded to wash down a long draught; recapping the bottle he handed it back without comment.

“Well?” asked the sailor.

“Right!” snapped Wesley.

The sailor turned, brandishing the bottle: “Right, he says . . . damn right it’s right. This is Jamaica Rum, imported . . . Johnny’s own whoopee water!”

When Bill and Wesley finished their beers, they walked out in silence; at the door Wesley turned as the sailor called him: “Right, feller?”

Wesley pointed his forefinger toward the sailor.

“Right!” he shouted, winking an eye.

“Right, he says!” sang the sailor once more flourishing his bottle.

“Well! We’re in Boston,” beamed Bill when they were back on the street. “What’s on the docket?”

“First thing to do,” said Wesley, leading his companion across the street, “is to mosey over to the Union Hall and check up on the Westminster . . . we might get a berth right off.”

They walked down Hanover Street, with its cheap shoe stores and bauble shops, and turned left at Portland Street, a battered door, bearing the inscription “National Maritime Union,” lead up a flight of creaking steps into a wide, rambling hall. Grimy windows at each end served to allow a gray light from outside to creep inward a gloomy, half-hearted illumination which outlined the bare, unfurnished immensity of the room. Only a few benches and folding chairs had been pushed against the walls, and these were now occupied by seamen who sat talking in low tones: they were dressed in various civilian clothing, but Everhart instantly recognized them as seamen . . . there, in the dismal gloom of their musty-smelling shipping headquarters, these men sat, each with the patience and passive quiet of men who know they are going back to sea, some smoking pipes, others calmly perusing the “Pilot,” official N.M.U publication, others dozing on the benches, and all possessed of the serene waiting wisdom of a Wesley Martin.

“Wait here,” said Wesley, shuffling off toward the partitioned office across the broad plank floor. “I’ll be right back.” Everhart sat on the suitcase, peering.

“Hey Martin!” howled a greeting voice from the folding chairs. “Martin you old crum!” A seaman was running across the hall toward Wesley, whooping with delight in his discovery. The echoing cries failed to disturb the peace of the other seamen, though, indeed; they glanced briefly and curiously toward the noisy reunion.

Wesley was astounded.

“Jesus!” he cried. “Nick Meade!”

Meade fairly collapsed into Wesley, almost knocking him over in his zeal to come to grips in a playful, bearish embrace; they pounded each other enthusiastically, and at one point Meade went so far as to push Wesley’s chin gently with his fist, calling him as he did so every conceivable name he could think of; Wesley, for his part, manifested his delight by punching his comrade squarely in the stomach and howling a vile epithet as he did so. They whooped it up raucously for at least a half a minute while Everhart grinned appreciatively from his suitcase.

Then Meade asked a question in a low tone, hand on Wesley’s shoulder; the latter answered confidentially, to which Meade roared once more and began anew to pummel Wesley, who turned away, his thin frame shaking with soundless laughter. Presently, they made their way toward the office, exchanging news with the breathless rapidity of good friends who meet after a separation of years.

“Shipping out?” raced Meade.

“Yeah.”

“Let’s see Harry about a double berth.”

“Make it three, I’ve got a mate with me.”

“Come on! The Westminster’s in port; she’s taking on ’most a full crew.”

“I know.”

“You old son of a bitch!” cried Meade, unable to control his joy at the chance meeting. “I haven’t seen you since forty,” kicking Wesley in the pants, “when we got canned in Trinidad!”

“For startin’ that riot!” remembered Wesley, kicking back playfully while Meade dodged aside. “You friggin’ communist, don’t start. Kickin’ me again . . . I remember the time you got drunk aboard ship and went around kickin’ everybody till that big Bosun[1] pinned your ears back!”

They howled their way into the inner office where a sour faced Union man looked up blandly from his papers.

“Act like seamen, will you?” he growled.

“Hangover Harry,” informed Meade. “He uses up all the dues money to get drunk. Look at that face will you?”

“Allright Meade,” admonished Harry. “What are you looking for, I’m busy . . .”

They made arrangements to be on hand and near the office door that afternoon when the official ship calls from the S.S. Westminster would be posted, although Harry warned them those first come would be first served. “Two-thirty sharp,” he grunted. “If you’re not here, you don’t get the jobs.”

Wesley introduced Meade to Everhart and they all went around the corner for a quick beer. Meade was a talkative, intelligent young man in his late twenties who stroked an exquisite brown moustache with voluptuous afterthought as he rambled on, a faint twinkle in the bland blue eyes, walking in a quickstepping glide that wove between pedestrians as though they were not there. On the way to the bar on Hanover Street, he shouted at least three insults to various passerbys who amused his carefree fancy.

At the bar, he and Wesley reminisced noisily over their past experiences together, all of which Everhart drank in with polite interest. Some other seamen hailed them from a corner booth, so they all carried their beers over, and an uproar of reunion ensued. Wesley seemed to know them all.

But a half hour later, Wesley rose and told Meade to meet him in the Union Hall at two thirty; and with this, he and Everhart left the bar and turned their steps toward Atlantic Avenue.

“Now for your seaman’s paper,” he said to Bill.

Atlantic Avenue was almost impossible to cross, so heavy was the rush of traffic, but once they had regained the other side and stood near a pier, Bill’s breast pounded as he saw, docked not a hundred feet away, a great gray freighter, its slanting hull striped with rust, a thin stream of water arching from its scuppers, and the mighty bow standing high above the roof of the wharf shed.

“Is that it?” he cried.

“No, she’s at Pier Six.”

They walked toward the Maritime Commission, the air heavy with the rotting stench of stockpiles, oily-waters, fish, and hemp. Dreary marine equipment stores faced the street, show windows cluttered with blue peacoats, dungarees, naval officers’ uniforms, small compasses, knives, oilers’ caps, seamen’s wallets, and all manner of paraphernalia for the men of the sea.

The Maritime Commission occupied one floor of a large building that faced the harbor. While a pipe-smoking old man was busy preparing his papers, Everhart could see beyond the nearby wharves and railroad yards, a bilious stretch of sea spanning toward the narrows, where two lighthouses stood like gate posts to a dim Atlantic. A seagull swerved past the window.

An energetic little man fingerprinted him in the next room, cigarette in mouth almost suffocating him as he pressed Bill’s inky fingers on the papers and on a duplicate.

“Now go down to the Post Office building,” panted the little man when he had finished, “and get your passport certificate. Then you’ll be all set.”

Wesley was leaning against the wall smoking when Bill left the fingerprinting room with papers all intact.

“Passport certificate next I guess,” Bill told Wesley, nodding toward the room.

“Right!”

They went to the Post Office building on Milk Street where Bill filled out an application for his passport and was handed a certificate for his first foreign voyage; Wesley, who had borrowed five dollars from Nick Meade, paid Bill’s fee.

“Now I’m finished I hope?” laughed Bill when they were back in the street.

“That’s all.”

“Next thing is to get our berths on the Westminster. Am I correct?”

“Right.”

“Well,” smiled Bill, slapping his papers, “I’m in the merchant marine.”

At two-thirty that afternoon, Wesley, Bill, Nick Meade and seven other seamen landed jobs on the S.S. Westminster. They walked from the Union Hall down to Pier Six in high spirits, passing through the torturous weave of Boston’s waterfront streets, crossing Atlantic Avenue and the Mystic river drawbridge, and finally coming to a halt along the Great Northern Avenue docks. Silently they gazed at the S.S. Westminster, looming on their left, her monstrous gray mass squatting broadly in the slip, very much, to Everhart’s astonished eyes, like an old bathtub.

CHAPTER FIVE

“She’s what we call a medium sized transport-cargo ship,” a seaman had told Everhart as they all marched down the huge shed toward the gang plank, waving greetings to the longshoremen who were busy hauling the cargo aboard, rolling oil barrels down the hold, swinging great loads of lumber below decks with the massive arm of a boom. “She does fifteen knots full steam, cruises at twelve. Not much speed - but she can weather plenty.”

And when they had shown their job slips to the guard at the gang plank and begun to mount the sagging boards, Bill had felt a strange stirring in the pit of his guts - he was boarding a ship for the first time in his life! A ship, a great proud bark back from homeless seas and bound for others perhaps stranger and darker than any it had ever wandered to . . . and he was going along!

Bill was lying in his bunk, remembering these strange sensations he had felt in the afternoon. It was now evening. From his position in an upper berth, he could see the dark wall of the dock shed through an open porthole. It was a hot breathless night. The focastle he had been assigned to was partitioned off from another by a plate of white painted, riveted steel, aft to port. Two brilliant light bulbs illuminated the small room from a steel overhead. There were two double berths, upper and lower, and a small sink; four lockers, two battered folding chairs, and a three-legged stool completed the furnishings of this bare steel chamber.

Bill glanced over at the other seaman who had been assigned to the same quarters. He was sleeping, his puckish young features calm in slumber. He couldn’t be over eighteen years old, Bill reflected. Probably had been going to sea for years despite everything.

Bill pulled the job slip from his wallet and mulled over the writing: “William Everhart, ordinary seaman, S.S. Westminster, deck crew mess boy.” Messboy! . . . William Everhart, A.B., M.A., assistant professor of English and American Literature at Columbia University . . . a mess boy! Surely, this would be a lesson in humility, he chuckled, even though he had never gone through life under the pretext that he was anything but humble, at least, a humble young pedant.

He lay back on the pillow and realized these were his first moments of solitary deliberation since making his rash decision to get away from the thoughtless futility of his past life. It had been a good life, he ruminated, a life possessing at least a minimum of service and security. But he wasn’t sorry he had made this decision; it would be a change, as he’d so often repeated to Wesley, a change regardless of everything. And the money was good in the merchant marine, the companies were not reluctant to reward the seamen for their labor and courage; money of that amount would certainly be welcomed at home, especially now with the old man’s need for medical care. It would be a relief to pay for his operation and perhaps soften his rancor against a household that had certainly done him little justice. In his absorption for his work and the insistent demands of a highly paced social life, Bill admitted to himself, as he had often done, he had not proved an attentive son; there were such distances between a father and his son, a whole generation of differences in temperament, tastes, views, habits: yet the old man, sitting in that old chair with his pipe, listening to an ancestral radio while the new one boomed its sleek, modern power from the living room, was he not fundamentally the very meaning and core of Bill Everhart, the creator of all that Bill Everhart had been given to work with? And what right, Bill now demanded angrily, had his sister and brother-in-law to neglect him so spiritually? What if he were a lamenting old man?

Slowly, now, Everhart began to realize why life had seemed so senseless, so fraught with fully lack of real purpose in New York, in the haste and oration of his teaching days - he had never paused to take hold of anything, let alone the lonely heart of an old father, not even the idealisms with which he had begun life as a seventeen-year-old spokesman for the working class movement on Columbus Circle Saturday afternoons. All these he had lost, by virtue of a sensitivity too fragile for everyday disillusionment . . . his father’s complaints, the jeers of the Red baiters and the living, breathing social apathy that supported their jeers in phlegmatic silence. A few shocks from the erratic fuse box of life, and Everhart had thrown up his hands and turned to a life of academic isolation. Yet, in the realms of this academic isolation, wasn’t there sufficient indication that all things pass and turn to dust? What was that sonnet where Shakespeare spoke sonorously of time “rooting out the work of masonry?”[1] Is a man to be timeless and patient, or is he to be a pawn of time? What did it avail a man to plant roots deep into a society by all means foolish and Protean?

Yet, Bill now admitted with reluctance, even Wesley Martin had set himself a purpose, and this purpose was the ideal of life - life at sea - a Thoreau before the mast. Conviction had lead Wesley to the sea; confusion had lead Everhart to the sea.

A confused intellectual, Everhart, the oldest weed in society; beyond that, an intelligent modern minus the social conscience of that class. Further, a son without a conscience - a lover without a wife! A prophet without confidence, a teacher of men without wisdom, a sorry mess of man thereat!

Well, things would be different from now on . . . a change of life might give him the proper perspective. Surely, it had not been folly to take a vacation from his bookish, bearish life, as another side of his nature might deny! What wrong was there in treating his own life, within the bounds of moral conscience, as he chose and as he freely wished? Youth was still his, the world might yet open its portals as it had done that night at Carnegie Hall in 1927 when he first heard the opening bars of Brahms’ first symphony! Yes! As it opened its doors for him so many times in his teens and closed them firmly, as though a stern and hostile master were its doorman, during his enraged twenties.

Now he was thirty two years old and it suddenly occurred to him that he had been a fool, yes, even though a lovable fool, the notorious “short pants” with the erudite theories and the pasty pallor of a teacher of life . . . and not a liver of life. Wasn’t it Thomas Wolfe who had struck a brief spark in him at twenty-six and filled him with new love for life until it slowly dawned on him that Tom Wolfe - as his colleagues agreed in delighted unison - was a hopeless romanticist? What of it? What if triumph were Wolfe’s only purpose? . . . if life was essentially a struggle, then why not struggle toward triumph, why not, in that case, achieve triumph! Wolfe had failed to add to whom triumph was liege . . . and that, problem though it was, could surely be solved, solved in the very spirit of his cry for triumph. Wolfe had sounded the old cry of a new world. Wars come, wars go! Elated Bill to himself, this cry is an insurgence against the forces of evil, which creeps in the shape of submission to evil, this cry is a denial of the not-good and a plea for the good. Would he, then, William Everhart plunge his whole being into a new world? Would he love? Would he labor? Would he, by God, fight?

Bill sat up and grinned sheepishly.

“By George,” he mumbled aloud, “I might at that!”

“Might what?” asked the other seaman, who was awake and sitting up with his legs dangling over the bunk rail.

Bill turned a bashful face, laughing.

“Oh I was only muttering to myself.”

The young seaman said nothing. After a strained pause, he at length spoke up.

“This your first trip?”

“Yes.”

“What the hell time is it?” asked the youth.

“About nine o’clock.”

There was another silence. Bill felt he had better explain his strange behavior before his focastle mate should take him for a madman, but he couldn’t conceive of any explanation. The young seaman apparently overlooked the incident, for he wanted to know why in hell they weren’t ashore getting drunk.

Everhart explained that he was waiting to go out with two other seamen in a half-hour.

“Well, I’ll be in the mess. Pick me up on the way out,” directed the youth. “My name’s Eathington.”

“Allright, we’ll do that; my name’s Everhart.”

The youngster shuffled off lazily: “Glad t’ meetcha,” he said, and was gone.

Bill vaulted down from his bunk and went to the sink for a drink of water. He leaned over and thrust his head [out] of the porthole, peering aft along the shed wall. The harbor was still and dark, except for a cluster of lights far across where a great drydock was illumined for its night shift. Two small lights, a red and a blue one, chased one another calmly across the dark face of the bay, the sound of the launch’s motor puttering quietly. From the direction of dimmed-out Boston came a deep prolonged sigh of activity.

“By God!” Bill told himself, “I haven’t felt like this in a long time. If I’m going to fight for this new world, where better than on a merchant ship laden with fighting cargoes? And if I’m going to lay my plans for a new life, where better to devise them than at sea - a vacation from life, to return brown and rugged and spiritually equipped for all its damned devious tricks!” He paced the focastle silently.

“And when I get back,” he thought, “I’ll keep my eyes open . . . if there’s anything insincere afoot in this war, I’ll smell it out, by George, and I’ll fight it! I used to have ideas a long time ago - I had spark: we’ll see what happens. I’m ready for anything . . . good Christ, I don’t believe I’ve been as downright foolish as this in a long time, but it’s fun, it’s new, and Goddamn it, it’s refreshing.”

Bill stopped in the middle of the room and appraised it curiously, adjusting his spectacles; “A ship, by George! I wonder when we sail . . .”

Laughing voices broke his reverie; it was Nick Meade and Wesley coming down the gangway.

“All set, man?” cried Wesley. “Let’s go out and drink some of my old man’s whiskey!”

“All set,” said Bill. “I’m just sitting around trying to accustom myself to the fact I’m on a ship . . .”

They went down the gangway and into the mess hall. A group of soldiers sat drinking coffee at one of the long tables.

“Who are they?” asked Bill curiously.

“Gun crew,” raced Meade.

Young Eathington was sitting alone with a cup of coffee. Bill waved at him: “Coming?” he shouted, adding quietly to Wesley: “He’s in my focastle; mind if he comes along with us?”

Wesley waved his hand; “Free booze! More the merrier.”

They passed through the galley, with its aluminum cauldrons, hanging pots and pans, a massive range and a long pantry counter. One big cook stood peering into a cauldron with a corn cob pipe clamped in his teeth; he was a big colored man, and as he stood ruminating over his steaming soup, his basso voice hummed a strange melody.

“Hey Glory!” howled Nick Meade at the giant cook. “Come on out and get drunk.”

Glory turned and removed the pipe from his mouth. “It’s a hipe!”[2] he commented in a rumbling, moaning voice. “You boys goin’ out thar in git boozed.”

Young Eathington smiled puckishly: “What the hell d’you think, Glory? We gotta drown down the taste of your lousy soup!”

Glory’s eyes widened in simulated astonishment.

“It’s a hipe!” he boomed. “A lowdown hipe! Them little chillun are goin’ out than in git boozed.”

As they laughed their way down the midships gangway, they could hear Glory resume his humming.

“Where’s everybody on this ship?” asked Bill. “it’s deserted.”

“They’re all out drinking,” answered Meade. “Glory’s probably the only one on board now. You’ll see them all tomorrow morning at breakfast.”

“Saturday night,” added Eathington.

They were descending the gangplank.

“Hear what that big boy was singing?” Wesley said, “Them’s way down blues. Heard that singing in Virginia long time ago on a construction job. Way down blues, man.”

“Where we goin’?” asked Eathington, tilting his oiler’s cap at a jaunty angle.

“My old man’s saloon in the South End.”

“Free booze?” added Everhart, adjusting his glasses with a grin.

“Free booze?” howled Eathington, “C’mon, I’m not complainin’ . . . I blew my last pay in a Charlestown poolroom.”

In the street, they strode rapidly toward Atlantic Avenue. Nick Meade, who had signed on as an oiler, asked Eathington if he too had an engine room job.

“No; I’m on as a scullion; signed on yesterday; couldn’t get anythin’ better.”

“Then what the hell are you wearing an oiler’s cap for?” asked Meade.

The kid grinned wryly: “Just for the hell of it!”

Wesley’s face lit up with delight: “Give me that hat!” he growled “I’m gonna throw the damn thing in the drink!” He advanced toward Eathington, but the kid broke into a run down the street laughing; Wesley was after him like a deer. Presently, Wesley was back wearing the cap, smiling wickedly.

“How do I look?” he asked.

They took a subway to the South End and went over to Charley Martin’s “Tavern.” It was, actually, one of the cheapest saloons Everhart had ever been privileged to enter. The planked floors were covered with sawdust and innumerable spittoons; several drunkards sprawled over their cups in the booths, and it took some time before Everhart grew accustomed to the fact that one of them was a woman with legs like sticks.

Behind the bar, tuning the radio, was a man in a bartender’s apron who looked very much like Wesley, except for his white hair and heavy jowls.

“There’s the old buck,” said Wesley, shuffling toward the bar. His father turned and saw him.

It was a very simple greeting: the older man raised his two hands and opened his mouth in a quiet, happy gesture of surprise. Then he advanced toward the edge of the bar, and still maintaining his surprise, he proffered one of his thin hands to his son. Wesley clasped it firmly and they shook hands.

“Well, well, well . . .” greeted Mr. Martin gravely.

“Howdy, Charley,” said Wesley with a thin smile.

“Well, well, well . . .” repeated the silver haired, slim man, still clasping his son’s hand and gazing at him with mixed gravity and concern. “Where have you been?”

“All over,” answered Wesley.

“All over, hey?” echoed the father, still holding Wesley’s hand. Then he turned slowly toward a group of men who sat at the bar watching the incident with proud smiles. “Boys,” announced the father, “meet the kid. Drinks are on me.”

As the father turned sternly to his bottles, Wesley had to shake hands with a half dozen grinning barflies.

Mr. Martin ranged glasses all along the bar with the slow flourish of a man who is performing a ritual of deep significance. Bill, Meade, and Eathington took seats beside Wesley. When the glasses had all been filled with Scotch, Mr. Martin poured himself a stiff portion in a water glass and turned slowly to face the entire gathering. A deep silence reigned.

“To the kid,” toasted Mr. Martin, glass aloft.

They all drank without a word, including Wesley. When that was done, the night was on for Wesley and his shipmates, for the first thing the old man did was to refill their glasses.

“Drink up!” he commanded. “Wash the other one down!” They did.

Eathington went to the nickelodeon and played a Beatrice Kay[3] recording.

“My old man was in show business,” he shouted to the room in general; and to prove this he began to shuffle sideways across the barroom floor, cap in one hand and the other palm up in a vaudeville attitude that convulsed Everhart into a fit of laughter; Nick was bored. Wesley, for his part, was content to refill his glass from the quart bottle his father had left standing before them.

Fifteen minutes of this, and Everhart was well on his way to being drunk; every time he would drain his glass, Wesley would refill it gravely. Meade had lapsed into a reverie, but after a long stretch of that, he looked up and spoke to Everhart, stroking his moustache in sensual abstraction: “Wes tells me this is your first trip, Everhart.”

“Yes, it is,” admitted Bill apologetically.

“What were you doing?”

“Teaching at Columbia University, an assistant . . .”

“Columbia!” exclaimed Meade.

“Yes.”

“I was kicked out of Columbia in thirty-five,” laughed Meade. “My freshman year!”

“You?” said Bill. “Thirty-five? I was working for my master’s degree then; that probably explains why I didn’t know you.”

Nick fingered his moustache and pulled at its ends thoughtfully.

“Why were you thrown out?” pursued Bill.

“Oh,” said Nick flippantly, waving his hand, “I only went there with the express purpose of joining the students’ Union. I was kicked out inside of a month.”

“What for?” laughed Bill.

“I believe they said it was because I was a dangerous radical, inciting to riot and so forth.”

Mr. Martin was standing in front of them.

“All set, boys?” he asked solemnly.

“That we are; Mr. Martin,” smiled Bill. Mr. Martin reached a hand over and punched Wesley playfully. Wesley smiled faintly, very much the bashful son.

“Got enough to drink?” growled the father, his bushy white eyebrows drawn together in a sober, serious glare.

“Yup,” answered Wesley with modest satisfaction.

The old man glared fixedly at Wesley for a space of seconds and then turned back to his work with ponderous solemnity.

Everhart had found a new comrade; he turned to Nick Meade enthusiastically and wanted to know all about his expulsion from Columbia.

Nick shrugged nonchalantly: “Not much to tell. I was simply bounced. I got myself a job downtown in a drugstore, down on East Tenth Street. When I found out the other employees weren’t organized, I took a few of them up to a Union a couple of blocks away. When the manager refused to recognize our right of union, we sat down; he hired others so the next morning we picketed up and down. You should have seen him howl!”

“Did he give in?”

“He had to, the old crum.”

“What’d you do after that?”

“Have another drink,” offered Wesley to both of them, filling their glasses. When they went back to their conversation, Mr. Martin returned and began talking softly to Wesley in what seemed to Everhart a disclosure of a confidential nature.

“I hooked up with a couple of the boys,” resumed Nick, lighting up a cigarette. “One night we decided to go to Spain, so off we went. We joined up with the Abe Lincoln International Brigade there. Three months later I was wounded outside of Barcelona, but you’d be surprised where. The nurse . . .”

“You fought for the Loyalists!” burst Everhart incredulously.

“Yeah” - caressing his moustache.

“Let me shake your hand on that, Meade,” said Bill holding out his hand admiringly.

“Thanks,” said Nick laconically.

“I wish I’d have done the same,” raced Bill. “It was a rotten deal for the Spanish people, doublecrossed from every direction . . .”

“Rotten deal?” echoed Nick with a scoff. “It was worse than that, especially in the light of the way the whole satisfied world took it! There was Spain bleeding and the rest of the world did nothing; I got back to America all in one piece expecting to hear fireworks, and what did I see? I swear, some Americans didn’t even know there’d been a war.”

Everhart maintained a nodding silence.

“Those foul Fascists had all the time in the world to gird up, and who can deny it today? Franco took Spain and nobody raised a finger in protest. And how many of my buddies were killed for nothing? It wasn’t nothing then, we were fighting Fascists and that was allright; but now that it’s all over, and we look back on it, we all feel like a bunch of suckers. We were betrayed by everyone who could have helped us; including Leon Blum.[4] But don’t think for a moment that any of us have thrown up the towel - the more we get skunked, betrayed, and knifed in the back, I tell you, the more we’ll come back fighting, and some day soon, we’re going to do the dishing out . . . and the Spanish Loyalists as well.”

Nick stroked his moustache bitterly: “My buddie’s dishing it out right now,” he said at length. “I wish to hell I were with him . . .”

“Where is he?”

“He’s fighting with the Red Army. After we stole through Franco’s lines we crossed the Pyrenees over to France. We knocked around Paris until they picked us up and deported us. From there we went to Moscow. When I left, he stayed behind; Goddamn it, I should have stayed too!”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I met an American girl up there and shacked up with her; she was selling magazines for the Soviet. We came back to New York and holed up in Greenwich Village, and we’ve been living there since - got married three months ago - I’ve been in the Merchant Marine for three years now.”

Everhart adjusted his glasses: “What’s going to be your next move? Fighting French?”

“This is my next move - the merchant marine. We carry goods to our allies, don’t we? We’re fighting Fascism just as much as the soldier or sailor.”

“True,” agreed Everhart proudly.

“Of course it’s true,” spat Nick savagely.

“What are you going to do after the war?” pursued Bill.

“Après la guerre?” mused Nick sadly. “There’ll still be a hell of a lot to fight for. I’m going back to Europe. France maybe. Watch our smoke . . .”

“Well, not to be personal, but what do you intend to do with your life in general?” asked Bill nervously.

Nick look at him blandly.

“Fight for the rights of man,” he said quickly. “What else can one live for?”

Everhart found himself nodding slowly. Nick’s blue, searching eyes were on him, eyes, Everhart thought, of the accusing masses, eyes that stirred him slowly to speak his mind by virtue of their calm challenge.

“Well,” he began, “I hope you won’t think I’m an old line fool . . . but when I was a kid, seventeen to be exact, I made speeches on Columbus Circle . . . I stood there and spoke to them out of my heart, young and immature and sentimental though it was, and they didn’t hear me! You know that as well as I do. They’re so ignorant, and in their ignorance, they are so pathetic, so helpless! When the Red-baiters hissed, they smiled at my plight . . .”

“The old story,” interrupted Nick. “That sort of thing won’t get us anywhere, you know that! You were doing more harm than good . . .”

“I know that, of course, but you know how it is when you’re young . . .”

Nick grinned: “They had my picture all over the hometown front page at sixteen, the scandal of the community, the town radical - and guess what?”

“What?”

“My old lady was pleased! She used to be a hellcat herself, suffragette and all that . . .”

They laughed briefly, and Everhart resumed: “Well, at nineteen I gave it all up, disillusioned beyond recall. I went around there for awhile snapping at everyone who spoke to me. And slowly I sank all my being into my English studies; I deliberately avoided social studies. As you can imagine, the years went by - my mother died - and whatever social conscience I had in the beginning left me altogether. Like Rhett Butler, I frankly didn’t give a damn . . . I ate up literature like a hog - especially Shakespeare, Donne, Milton, Chaucer, Keats and the rest - and left a brilliant enough record to win me an assistant professorship in the university. Whatever social protest I came across in my lectures I treated from a purely objective point of view; in the reading and discussion of Dos Passos a few summers ago, I drew from his works simply from a literary standpoint. By George, where I started by deliberately avoiding Socialism I believe I wound up not particularly interested anyway. Insofar as I was in the university, living a gay enough though fruitless life, I didn’t find the need to bother.” Nick was silent.

“But I’ll tell you something, those years taught me one lesson, and that was not to trust a lot of things. I always believed in the working class movement, even though I allowed it to slip my mind, but I know now what I didn’t believe in all those years, with more unconscious rancor that with conscious hate.” Bill peered eagerly.

“What was that?” asked Nick with cold suspicion.

“Politics for one thing, sheer politics. Politicians survive only if they make certain concessions; if they don’t they go out of office. Thus, idealist or not, a politician is always faced with a vexing choice, sooner or later, between justice and survival. This will inevitably serve to mar his ideals, won’t it?”

“That sounds natural; what else?”

“A dependence on group . . . I mistrust that, first because it means bending one’s mind to a dogmatic group-will. When I say this, I refer not to an economic group where, to my mind, sharing and sharing alike is only natural, and inevitable too. I mean a spiritual group . . . there should be no such thing as a spiritual group; each man to his own spirit, Meade, each man to his own soul.”

“What are you telling me this for?” Nick snapped.

“Because the day may come when the materialistic war you fight on the forces of Fascism and reaction will be won by you and yours - and me, by George. And when that day arrives, when the sharing class will rule, when the rights of man become obvious to all mankind, what will you be left with? Your equal share of the necessities of life?”

Nick’s eyes flashed: “You poor dope! Do you mean to tell me a war against Fascism is a purely materializing one, as you say? A war against an ideology that has burned the books, has conceived a false hierarchy of the human races, has confused human kindness with weakness, has stamped upon all the accumulated cultures of Europe and substituted them with a cult of brutality inconceivable beyond . . .”

“Hold on!” laughed Bill, who, though astonished at Meade’s unsuspected erudition, had nonetheless a point to make and would cling to it. “You’re not telling me a thing. I want you to pause and think: erase the factor of Fascism, because it doesn’t figure in our argument. Fascism is a freak, a perversion, a monster if you wish, that must be destroyed, and will be destroyed. But once that is done, our problems won’t be solved; even if we write a satisfactory peace, a peace for the common man, the problem won’t be solved. A world where men live in cooperative security is a world where there is no hunger, no want, no fear, and so forth. Men will share . . . I’m taking a long-range view of the whole thing . . . men will live in a world of economic equality. But the spirit will still be vexed; you seem to think it won’t. Men will still deceive one another, cheat, run away with the other man’s wife, rob, murder, rape . . .”

“Oh,” cried Nick mincingly “you’re one of those so-called students of human nature.” He turned away.

“Wait! I’m not the retrogressive voice sounding from the pages of the Old Testament. I, too, like you, will deny human frailty as long as I live - will try to cure human nature in the tradition of the Progressive movement. But I don’t see a quick and easy way out; I think anti-Fascists live under that delusion. They point to fascism as all of evil, they point to every home grown Fascist by nature as all of evil. They think that by destroying Fascism, they destroy all evil in the world today, where, I believe, they only destroy what may be the last grand concerted evil. When that is done, disorganized individual evil will still be with us . . .”

“Truisms!” spat Nick. “A child would know that!”

“And I more than anyone else, if you will pardon my insufferable vanity . . . but I brought up the subject for one single reason, to point out that being simply anti-Fascist is not enough. You’ve got to go beyond anti-Fascism, you’ve got to be more meticulous in your search for a life’s purpose.”

“It’s purpose enough for anyone in these times,” countered Nick. “You don’t know Fascists like I do, I’m afraid.”

“You say,” persisted Bill swiftly, “you live for the rights of man; aren’t you supposed to live for life itself? Are the rights of man . . . life?”

“They are to me,” was the icy rejoinder.

“And only a part of life to me,” smiled Bill, “- an important part of life, but not all of life.”

“Do you know what you are?” posed Nick, a good deal annoyed. “you’re one of these befuddled, semi-aristocratic ‘intellectuals’ who will rave at discussion tables while men starve outside . . .”

“I would not, and incidentally we were assuming regimented injustice had ceased.”

At that, Nick stared squarely into Bill’s eyes.

“All right Professor, let’s say it has,” Nick proposed.

“What are you left with besides economic . . .”

“I’m left with a world,” interrupted Nick, “where all your blasted theories of this and that can at least be put into action without suppression!”

“Didn’t I say Fascism was our more immediate problem?” pressed Bill.

“You did. So what?”

“Then, this later problem, can it be solved with a sword of righteousness or by the spirit itself?”

“This later problem, as you call it, is not important at this particular moment,” Nick rejoined. “Your profound theories don’t arrest me in the least . . .”

“Which makes you an iconoclast!” smiled Bill.

“All right, and which makes you a new type of reactionary . . . and a slacker; here, let’s drink up the Scotch and argue some other time.” Nick was disgusted.

Bill raised his glass to him: “Well, at least you’ll have someone to argue with on this trip. Let’s you and I drink to Socialism!”

Nick turned a weary, lidded eye on Bill: “Please don’t be a fool . . . I hate Socialists more than I do Capitalists.”

Bill smiled craftily and started to sing: “Arise ye prisoners of starvation, a better world’s in birth, for justice thunders . . .”

“That’s enough!” interrupted Nick impatiently.

“What’s the matter?”

“Let’s drink our toasts; but I don’t want to sing the International in a tavern - it’s a drunken insult.”

Bill touched Nick’s glass. “Sorry - here’s to.”

During this lengthy argument, Wesley had been drinking steadily; almost, it would seem, with a deliberate desire to become intoxicated. Eathington, in the meantime, had found himself someone to talk to in a back booth.

While Everhart and Meade talked on, Mr. Martin returned to Wesley and again spoke to him privately in a low tone.

“She just got in - she says she’s comin’ right over,” said the old man, gazing anxiously at his son. Both father and son stared fixedly at one another, with the same immobile intensity Everhart had first noticed in Wesley when they had exchanged a long glance in the Broadway bar.

They held their gaze and said nothing for many seconds. Then Wesley shrugged.

“None o’ my doin’, son,” growled Mr. Martin. “She located me an’ told me if you ever came to call her up. She’s been in that hotel for two months waitin’ for you to pop up. None o’ my doin’.”

Wesley refilled his glass: “I know it ain’t.”

The old man glared heavily at his son, wiping the bar briefly with a towel. It was not ten thirty; the room had filled up considerably, keeping the waitress busy serving drinks from the bar to the booths.

“Well, it won’t do no harm,” added Mr. Martin. “I got some work to do.” He went back to his work solemnly. By this time, a young assistant bartender had arrived, and he now dashed furiously from bottle to mixer, glass to tap as the orders mounted. Mr. Martin, though he moved slowly, succeeded in mixing more drinks and pouring more beers, all of which set swifter pace for the harassed young helper. Music from the nickelodeon played incessantly while the screen door slammed time and again as patrons arrived or left. The air was close and sticky, though the ceiling fans succeeded in blowing a beery breeze about.

Wesley filled Bill’s and Nick’s glasses with a morose silence while they launched enthusiastically into a discussion of Russian and French films. He turned to his own drink and threw it down quickly; the Scotch had burned his throat, settled in his stomach, diffusing warmly its potent mystery.

She was coming! He was going to see her again after all these years . . . Edna. His little wife . . .

Wesley lit up a cigarette and inhaled the smoke deeply, bitterly: he could feel the mellow wound in his lungs, the tang in his nostrils as the smoke slipped out in thin double spurts. He blanked the cigarette viciously.

What the hell did she want? Hadn’t she fouled up everything enough? A little fool, she was, a crazy one if there ever was . . . and he had married her ten years ago at seventeen, the worse simpleton in town, marrying one of those silly summer tourist’s daughters, eloping in a blind drunk.

Well, they had settled down fairly well just the same . . . that flat on James Street with the cute little kitchenette. And his old man had raised his garage salary to thirty bucks, a good job with a cute wife waiting at home. Her wealthy parents had given her up for crazy even though they sent her a check every month enclosed with notes that suggested they hoped she wasn’t living in squalor and filth!

Squalor and filth! Even though he was seventeen, just out of high school, he had had sense enough to take good care of his young wife. It was none of his doing that everything went wrong; Edna, at sixteen, was a wild little cuss. That night at the garage when the hospital called and informed him his wife had been seriously injured in an automobile accident near the New York-Vermont state line . . . was it his fault she went on drunken parties with a bunch of high school kids while he worked his hide off in Charley’s garage? Mangled in a smashup with the baby five months along. And the crowning glory of all! . . . her family had her taken to a swanky hospital in New York and that old sonofabitch of an uncle of hers breezing up to the house and starting to raise a row. Charley just pushed him out the door and told him to go run up a tree.

Wesley glanced fondly toward his father who stood shaking a mixer and talking with the customers. Charley Martin, the greatest dad a guy ever had! He pushed Edna’s old sonofabitch of an uncle out the door and told him to go run up a tree while Ma bawled and he had sat in the big chair, crushed and stunned by the accident, by the false accusals, by everything. Charley was the guy who pulled him through that one . . .

Ten years. He had worked a few extra weeks in the garage, crawling around in a trance, until Edna’s first letters began to come from the New York hospital. She would recover and they would start all over again, she still loved him so much, she missed him, why didn’t he come down to see her? Sure! - her rich folks would have loved that. Sure! - she loved him, she loved him so much she went wolfing around with high school kids while he worked in the garage nights.

Bah! He had done the right thing by just blowing. In the middle of the night, he had gotten up and walked through the streets, where the dark swishing summer trees seemed to be singing him a farewell song, and he had hopped the freight for Albany. That had been the start of it - ten years of wandering; Canada, Mexico, forty-three states, jobs in garages, lunchcarts, construction gangs, Florida hotels, truck driving in George, barkeep in New Orleans, spare hand around racing stables, going West with the big circus, touting at Santa Anita, bookie in Salem, Oregon, and finally shipping out on his first cruise from San Francisco. Then it had been those lazy days in the Pacific, around the Horn, all over the whole shooting match, from Japan to Dutch Guiana. Ten years . . . Meeting up with guys like Nick Meade and rioting for the poor Indian stiffs in Calcutta; getting jailed in Shanghai for following Nick around - he was the Communist, allright . . . but he himself had done it for a good time and general principles where Nick believe in it; well, Wesley Martin would just as soon believe in nothing if it meant all the Goddamned fuss he’d been through; Nick was a good kid, he’d fought for the poor Spanish stiff and got lead for it; for his own taste, just going to sea was enough, was everything, to hell with riots and drinking and marriage and the whole shooting match. It was a matter of not giving a hoot in hell - the sea was enough, was everything. Just let him alone, he would go to sea and be in a world to his liking, a just, reasonable, and sensible world where a guy could mind his own business and do his equal share of the work.

And so what the hell was she after now? He’d seen her once before, in a New York night club, but she missed him when he beat it. To hell with her! He was through with the beach and anything connected with it . . .

Wesley refilled his glass, drank down, refilled it again, and drank down a second time. He would be so soused when she arrived he wouldn’t recognize her . . . what did she look like now? Shuck-all! . . . he was pretty drunk already. Maybe she looked like an old hag now, a half-smooched debutante with cocktail rings around her eyes. In that New York night club, she’d looked a bit older, of course, but she still had the same figure, the same eager laugh . . . she was with a tall blond guy who kept fixing his black tie all the time: that was five years ago.

Wesley turned around and glanced toward the screen-door entrance . . . was she really coming? Had she really been waiting two months for him in Boston?

Wesley poured himself another drink; the quart was almost empty, so he refilled his two comrades’ glasses - they were now discussing music - and emptied the bottle altogether of its contents; once more, he felt like smashing the empty bottle, as he had always done to this symbol of futility - after each surrender to its unfulfilled promises. He would like to smash it against all of the bottles in his father’s bar and then pay him for the damage - perhaps he should have done just that in New York when he had eight hundred dollars, he should have gone down to the gayest bar in the city and smashed all the bottles, mirrors, and chandeliers, all the tables and trays and . . .

“Wesley?”

Wesley’s heart leaped; his father, down at the end of the bar, was staring at the person behind him who had spoken. It was Edna . . . it was her voice.

Wesley turned slowly. A girl was standing behind him, a pale girl in a dark brown summer suit; a scar ran from her forehead down to her left eyebrow. She was a woman, a full-grown woman and not the little Eddy he had married . . . ten years ago . . . no, it was another woman.

Wesley could say nothing - he gazed into the searching blue eyes.

“It is Wesley!” she said, half to herself.

Wesley couldn’t think of anything to say; he sat, head turned around, gazing dumfoundedly at her.

“Aren’t you going to say hello?”

“You’re Edna,” he mumbled hypnotically.

“Yes!”

Wesley disengaged himself slowly from the bar stool and stood facing the girl, still holding the empty quart bottle. His hands were trembling. He could not tear his astonished gaze from her face.

“How have you been, Wesley?” she asked, straining to be formal as best she could.

Wesley said nothing for a few seconds, his eyes wide with stupefaction; he swayed slightly on his feet.

“Me?” he whispered.

The girl moved her feet nervously.

“Yes, how have you been?” she repeated.

Wesley glanced quickly toward Bill Everhart and Nick Meade, but they were so engrossed in their discourses, and so drunk, they hadn’t even noticed the presence of the girl. His father was watching from the other end of the bar, frowning his bushy white eyebrows together in what seemed to Wesley an expression of embarrassed anxiety.

Wesley turned to the girl.

“I’m fine,” he managed to stammer.

They were silent, facing each other uncertainly in the middle of the sawdust floor.

“Please,” said Edna at length, “will you . . . would you care to . . . take me outside?”

Wesley nodded slowly. As they walked out, he stubbed his toe and almost fell - he was drunker than he had figured - drunk as hell.

They were out on the sea-smelling night street; an elevated roared a few blocks down, fading in the distance. The music and a rush of warm beer wind emptied into the night from the tavern.

“Let’s walk,” suggested Edna. “you’re not feeling too well.”

Wesley found himself strolling down a side street with Edna, her brown hair glistening beneath the lamps, her heels clicking primly in the soft silence.

“I’ll be damned!” he muttered.

“Yes?”

“I’ll be damned.”

Suddenly Edna laughed, the same eager little laugh he had almost forgotten.

“Is that all you have to say?” she asked brightly.

Wesley realized he was still holding the empty quart, but he only studied it foolishly.

“What will people think?” laughed Edna. “A man and a woman walking down the street with a whisky bottle!”

He placed the bottle in his other hand and said nothing.

“Here, let me put it down,” said Edna. She put her hand over his and gently took the bottle . . . her touch startled him. She placed it carefully in the gutter as he gazed down at her stooped figure. When she straightened up, she was standing very close [to] him.

Wesley felt suddenly very drunk - the pavement began to slide from beneath him.

“You’re going to fall!” she cried, clutching his arm. “My God, how much did you drink?”

He put his hand to his brow and realized he was streaming with cold perspiration. His jaw was trembling.

“You’re sick,” cried Edna anxiously.

“I drunk quick,” grunted Wesley.

Edna dragged his shuffling figure to a doorstep: “Sit down here.” He dropped heavily and put his hands to his face; she sat down beside him quietly and began to stroke his hair with strange, tender fingers.

They said nothing for a good many minutes while Wesley kept his hands to his face. He heard an auto roll by.

Then she spoke.

“You’ve been going to sea?”

“Yeah.”

“I wrote to your brother years ago and he told me. He’s married now.”

“Yeah.”

“He told me your father had opened a business in Boston and that you went to see him once in a while.”

Silence.

“Wesley, I’ve been looking for you ever since. . .”

He shot a quick glance in the other direction and then resumed a fixed study of the warehouse across the dark street.

“You never left a trace, not even in the Union hall. I wrote you many letters . . . did you receive them?”

“No.”

“You didn’t?”

“I never bothered to ask,” he muttered.

“Why you must have dozens of letters waiting for you in the New York hall.”

He was silent.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“A little fresh air. . . .”

A cat prowled by, a lean rangy cat. Wesley remembered the little kitten he had found on Broadway a few nights before, this cat was older, more abused, hardened, starved: he was not helpless . . . like the kitten.

“Do you want to know why I’ve been looking for you?” Edna suddenly asked.

Wesley turned his dark eyes on her: “Why?”

Before he knew what had happened, her lips were pressed against his mouth, her arm had clasped around his neck. Dimly, he recognized the taste of her mouth, a fragrant tang that swooned his senses with a recollection of things he had not known for eras in his life, and which now returned to him in a tremulous wave of loss. It was Eddy again! . . . it was 1932 again! . . . it was Bennington again, and the swishing trees outside their bedroom window again, and the mild Spring breeze sighing into the garage again, and a youth in love again!

“I still love you, Wes, and you know damned well I always will!” she was whispering huskily, angrily in his ear.

Her husky whisper again! The sun, the songs again!

“I do! I do, Wes!” her savage whisper was saying.

Wesley clutched her yielding shoulder and kissed her. What was this ghost returning from the hollow corridors of time? Was this little Eddy, beautiful little Eddy he had taken for his wife in another time, the ill-starred little tourists’ daughter he had met at a summer dance and loved on the shores of his boyhood pond, on the sands beneath a long ago moon - a strange, secret, happy moon?

Her lips were fragrant, moving; he tore his mouth away and sank it in the cool waves of her hair. The same sweet hair! The same sweet hair!

Edna was weeping . . . the tears were rolling down the back of Wesley’s hand. He turned up her face and gazed at it in the somber darkness, a pale visage gemmed with tears, a strange face that tore his heart with a tragic, irrefragable sense of change. This was not she! Once more she had drawn his face to hers; a wet mouth was kissing his chin. His cheek, pressed against her feverish brow, could feel a dull throbbing in the furrow of her scar. Who was this woman?

A deep ache sank into Wesley’s breast, an intolerable ache that crept to his throat. It was Eddy of course! She had weaved back into that part of him that was still young, and now she stunned that part of him that was old, she stole into it, a stranger haunting his life. He jumped to his feet with an angry cry; half snarl, half sob.

“What the hell do you want?” he quavered.

“You!” she sobbed.

He put his hand to his eyes.

“Don’t give me that!” he cried.

She was sobbing on the steps, alone. Wesley took out his cigarettes and tried to extract one from the deck. He couldn’t. He flung the pack away.

“I want you!” she wailed.

“Go back to your rich boyfriends!” he snarled. “They got everything. I ain’t got nothing. I’m a seaman.”

Edna looked up angrily: “You fool!”

Wesley didn’t move.

“I don’t want them, I want you!” cried Edna. “I’ve had dozens of proposals . . . I waited for you!”

Wesley was silent.

“I’m glad you’re a seaman! I’m proud!” Edna cried. “I don’t want anybody but you - you’re my husband!”

Wesley wheeled around; “I’m not stoppin’ you - get a divorce!”

“I don’t want a divorce, I love you!” she cried desperately.

Wesley looked down and saw the empty quart bottle at his feet. He picked it up and hurled it away; it shattered explosively against the warehouse wall across the street, popping like a light bulb. Edna screamed sobbingly.

“That’s what I think about the whole thing!” shouted Wesley.

A window opened above, a woman in a sleeping gown thrusting her head out adamantly: “What’s going on down there?” she shrilled suspiciously.

Wesley wheeled about and faced up.

“Close that Goddamned window before I pop it!” he howled at the lady.

She shrieked and disappeared.

“I’m goin’ to call the police!” threatened another voice from a newly opened window.

“Call ’em, you old tub!” shouted Wesley. “Call out the Marines . . .”

“Oh Wes you’ll be arrested!” Edna was pleading in his ear. “Let’s get away from here!”

“I don’t give a hootin’ hollerin’ hell!” he cried, addressing the whole street in general.

“Wesley!” pleaded Edna. “Please! You’ll be arrested . . . They’ll call the police!”

He spun toward her: “What do you care?”

Edna clutched his shoulders firmly and spoke directly in his face: “I do care.”

Wesley tried to free himself from her grasp.

“It’s too late!” he snarled. “Let me go!”

“It’s not too late,” she persisted. “We can make it just the same again . . .”

Wesley shook his head savagely as though he were trying to rid himself of confusions.

“Can’t! Can’t!” he quavered. “I know!”

“Can!” hissed Edna.

“No!” he shouted again. “I’m not that same anymore . . .I changed!”

“I don’t care!”

Wesley was still shaking his head.

“Please, Wes, let’s go away from here,” Edna cried, her voice breaking in a voluptuous sob.

“Can’t!” he repeated.

“Oh you’re too drunk to know what you’re doing,” wailed Edna. “Please, please come away . . .”

All along the street, windows were open and people were jeering down at them. When the police car rounded the corner, a man called: “Jail the bums!” and all his neighbors took up the cry as the car pulled up below.

CHAPTER SIX

When Everhart awoke the next day, the first thing he was conscious of was a weird song being chanted from somewhere above. Then he opened his eyes and saw the white steel plates. Of course! . . . The S.S. Westminster: he had signed on a ship. But what of the song?

Everhart vaulted down from the bunk, clad simply in his shorts, and poked his head out of the porthole. It was a hot, hazy day, the sun bearing down in shimmering rays on the mellifluous waters of a steaming harbor.

Bill peered up but could see nothing save the sweeping bulge of the ship’s hull and the underside of a lifeboat. The strange singer was still chanting, perhaps from the next deck, chanting, it seemed to Bill, a song of the Far East - yet definitely not Chinese.

Bill pulled his head in and groaned: he had a big head from drinking too much and arguing too much with Meade the night before. He turned to Eathington, who lay reading the Sunday funnies in his bunk.

“Haven’t you a hangover from last night?” asked Bill with a trace of hopeful anticipation.

“Nah.”

“Who the hell is singing upstairs? It makes my flesh creep . . .”

“Up above,” corrected Eathington.

“Well who is it?”

Eathington folded his paper back: “The third cook.”

“Tell me, haven’t you a headache? You were with us last night!” persisted Bill.

“Nah.”

“Who is the third cook? Is he Korean? Burmese?”[1]

“He’s a Moro,” corrected Eathington. “When he gets mad he throws knives. A Moro tribesman.”

“Throws knives? I don’t believe it!”

“Just wait,” observed the young seaman. “He’s a Moro from the Philippines. They go around with knives between their teeth.” And with this, he went back to his Sunday comics.

Bill dressed leisurely. He went back to the porthole and watched the seagulls swoop above the wharves. The water beneath the dock piles lapped quietly against the cool, mossy timbers. From somewhere in the ship, deep in its vaulted structure, he heard the muffled idling boom of a great engine.

He went down the cool gangway, acrid with the smell of fresh paint, and climbed up to the poop deck. Several seamen were calmly reading the Sunday papers in the shade. The deck was littered with newspapers, great coiled cables of hemp, pillows, abandoned folding chairs, cans of paint, and two or three empty liquor bottles. He knew none of the seamen.

He walked forward along the deck, marveling at the sweep of its superstructure curving toward the bow in a massive coordination of timber. At the bow, he peered down the side at the oily waters far below. Directly beneath him hung a gigantic anchor, drawn to the side of the ship by a super chain leading through an opening in the port bow. The seamen, thought Bill with a smile, were prone to call this huge mass of steel “The hook.”

He strolled aft and gazed up at the bridge: slits in the gray wall peered out from the bridge house, where the captain would direct the voyage to Greenland - that would be where Wesley, as an able bodied seaman, would take his turn at the wheel and compass. God! If Everhart could do that rather than serve hungry A.B.’s and wash their dishes! He would have to begin his duties Monday - the next day - he hoped the work would prove pleasant enough.

“Thinking of Wesley, by the way,” thought Everhart, “where the devil did he wander off to last night? He must be in his focastle or eating in the galley . . .”

Bill went below to the galley. It was crowded with all sorts of people he did not know, seamen eating and chatting noisily. Where was Wesley? Or Nick Meade? Not a familiar face in the lot . . .

Bill went forward down the narrow gangway. He found Nick Meade in the small P.O.[2] mess drinking a cup of coffee with a haggard scowl.

“Meade!” greeted Everhart with relief.

“Yeah,” mumbled Nick, passing this vague remark off as a greeting. He rose and refilled his cup from an aluminum coffee urn.

“How are you feeling?” grinned Bill.

Nick shot him a contemptuous scowl: “Do I look happy?”

“I’m feeling lousy myself . . . God, it’s tough to have a hangover on a hot day like this!” Bill laughed, seating himself beside Nick. “Some night, hey?”

Nick said nothing; he drank his coffee sullenly.

“Did you see Wesley?” pressed Bill nervously.

Nick shook his head.

“I wonder where he is,” worried Bill out loud. “Did you notice him wander off last night?”

Nick shook his head again. He finished his coffee and rose to leave.

“Where are you going now?” asked Bill, embarrassed.

“Bed,” mumbled Nick, and he was gone.

Bill grinned and rose to pour himself some coffee in a clean cup from the rack. Well! He’d better prove himself a complete Communist before he could get a rise out of Mr. Nick Meade . . . he seemed to be quite averse to Mr. Everhart. What in heavens was the matter with the man? On their way back to the ship at dawn, after staying late drinking in Mr. Martin’s room above the tavern, Nick hadn’t said a word. They had passed the wharves, where the flames of a hot, red morning had played upon the masts of fishing smacks and danced in the blue wavelets beneath the barnacled docks, and neither had spoken a word. They had parted at the gangplank, where Bill had managed to bid Nick good morning, but the other had only glided off quickly, half asleep, and quite ill-tempered. Perhaps it was only his characteristic attitude after drinking, and perhaps too it was because he didn’t consider Everhart sufficiently left wing. If that was the fool’s attitude, he could jump in the drink! And yet, perhaps Bill was arriving at nervous conclusions . . .

It had been pleasant enough so far, but now he was beginning to dislike the whole idea. The ship swarmed with strange, unfriendly faces - and no Wesley. Where was he? By George, if Wesley had gone off somewhere, drunk, and wasn’t to return to the ship . . . by George, he would not sail with the Westminster. He would manage to get back to New York somehow and go back to work . . . In heaven’s name, this was folly!

Everhart left his coffee untasted and went forward.

“Where’s Martin’s focastle?” he asked a seaman in the narrow gangway.

“Martin? What is he?” asked the seaman.

“An A.B.”

“A.B.? Their focastle is just forward.”

“Thanks.”

In the focastle, a tall curly haired man, sprawled in his bunk with a cigarette, did not know Wesley.

“When does this ship sail?” asked Bill.

The seaman gave him a queer look: “Not for a few days . . . mebbe Wednesday.”

Everhart thanked him and walked off. He realized he was lonely and lost, like a small child . . .

He went back to his focastle and threw himself on the bunk, tormented with indecision. What manner of man was he? . . . couldn’t he face reality - or was it that, as a professor, he was only capable of discussing it?

Reality . . . a word in books of literary criticism. What was the matter with him!

He awoke - he had slept briefly. No! It was dark outside the porthole, the light was on . . . he had slept hours, many hours. In his stomach he felt a deep emptiness, what ordinarily should have been hunger, but which seemed now nothing more than tension. Yes, and he had dreamed - it seems his father was the captain of the Westminster. Ridiculous! Dreams were so irrational, so gray with a nameless terror . . . and yet, too, so haunting and beautiful. He wished he were home, talking to his father, telling him of the dream.

A heavy wave of loneliness and loss swept through him. What was it? A loss, a deep loss . . . of course, Wesley had not returned to the ship, Wesley was gone, leaving Bill alone in the world he had lead him to. The fool! Didn’t he have feelings, didn’t he realize that . . . well, Everhart, what didn’t he realize?

Bill mumbled: “What a silly child I’m being, no more sense nor strength of purpose than Sonny . . .”

“Are you talkin’ to yourself again?” Eathington was asking, with a note of sarcasm.

Bill jumped down from the bunk, saying firmly: “Yes, I was. It’s a habit of mine.”

“Yeah?” grinned Eathington. “He talks to himself - he’s a madman!” Someone laughed quietly.

Bill turned and saw a newcomer lying in the lower berth beneath Eathington. He was tall and thin, with blond hair.

“Don’t annoy me, Eathington,” Bill snapped testily from the sink.

“Don’t annoy me!” mimicked Eathington with his puckish smile. “See . . . didn’t I tell you he was a professor!”

Bill felt like throwing something at the kid, but at length convinced himself it was all in good fun. The newcomer chuckled nervously . . . he was apparently trying to keep in good graces with both of them. Eathington, Bill mused was the sort who would need an accomplice for his sarcastic nature.

“Has anyone a cigarette?” asked Bill, finding he had none left in his pack.

“Jesus! Bummin’ already!” cried Eathington. “I can see now here I’m gonna move out of this focastle . . .”

The blond youth was rising from his bunk. “Here,” he said in a polite, low voice. “I have some.”

Bill was astounded at the sight of him. The youth was, in truth, a beautiful male . . . his blond hair was matted heavily in golden whorls, his pale brow was broad and deep, his mouth full and crimson, and his eyes, the most arresting part of his appearance, were of a shell-blue, lucid quality - large eyes and long eyelashes - that served to stun the senses of even the least perceptive watcher. He was tall, thin, yet possessed of a full-limbed physique, a broad chest, and square shoulders . . . his thinness was more manifest from the stomach down. Bill found himself staring rather foolishly.

“Have one?” offered the youth, smiling. His teeth were flashing white, a fact Bill had anticipated unconsciously.

“Thanks.”

“My name’s Danny Palmer - what’s yours?”

“Bill Everhart.”

They shook hands warmly. Eathington leaned on his elbow watching them with some stupefaction; obviously, he had cast lots with two professors rather than one; for the present, however, he decided to maintain a watching silence, and thus ascertain whether his convictions should crystallize.

The blond youth sat on one of the stools. He wore blue dungarees and a silk sport shirt; on his wrist he wore a handsome gold watch, and on his left hand an expensive looking ring.

“This is my first trip,” Palmer confessed cheerfully.

“Mine also,” said Bill, grinning. “What sort of job did you get?”

“Scullion.”

“Do you think you’ll like it?”

“Well, I don’t care; for now I’ll be satisfied with anything.”

“Is that a class ring you’re wearing?” inquired Bill.

“Yes - prep school. Andover . . . I was a fresh at Yale last term.”

“I see; and you’re joining the Merchant Marine for the duration?”

“Yes,” smiled Palmer. “My people don’t like it - would rather have me stay in the College Officers’ reserves - but I prefer it this way. I wouldn’t care to be an officer.”

Bill raised a surprised eyebrow.

“What were you?” inquired Palmer politely.

“I was Columbia myself,” answered Bill, grinning at his own sophomoric remark. “I teach there as well.”

“You do?”

“Yes . . . English and American Lit, in the University.”

“Oh God!” laughed Palmer smoothly. “My worst subject. I hope you won’t ask any questions about Shakespeare!”

They laughed briefly. Eathington had turned over to sleep, obviously convinced of his suspicions.

“Well,” put forth Bill, “I hope we both enjoy the trip, excitement and all . . .”

“I’m sure I will. This is my idea of going to sea. I’ve yachted to Palm Beach with friends and had my own punt in Michigan - I’m from Grosse Pointe - but I’ve never really sailed far out.”

“Neither have I . . . I hope I don’t get too seasick!” laughed Bill.

“Oh, it’s a matter of not thinking about it,” smiled Palmer. “Just make up your mind, I suppose, and you won’t be sick at all.”

“Surely . . . that sounds reasonable.”

“Where are you from?”

“New York,” answered Bill.

“Really? I go there quite often . . . we have a place near Flushing. Strange, isn’t it, we meet here and probably passed one another in New York streets!”

“That’s true,” laughed Bill.

They chatted on easily for awhile until Bill remembered he must see if Wesley had returned.

“Well, I’ve got to go dig up my friend,” laughed Bill. “Are you staying here?”

“Yes, I think I’ll get some sleep,” answered Palmer rising with his friendly, flashing smile. “I had quite a time of it at Harvard Square last night with friends.”

“Harvard, hey?” laughed Bill. “I’ll wager less debauching goes on there than at Columbia . . .”

“I don’t doubt it,” purred Palmer.

“Oh, there’s no doubt about it!” leered Bill. “I’ll see you later, Palmer. I’m glad I met you . . .”

“Same . . . goodnight.”

They shook hands again.

Bill went up to the poop deck grinning to himself. At least, he had one friend to whom he could talk to, a polite, cultured youth fresh from Yale, even though he might prove a fop. He certainly was a handsome boy.

Bill tripped over a form on the deck. It was a seaman who had decided to sleep in the open.

“Sorry,” muttered Bill sheepishly. He was answered with a sleepy protesting groan.

Bill walked forward. Voices from the mess hall below. Bill went down and found groups of seamen conducting numerous dice games; one of these men, with a roll of bills in one hand and dice in the other, sprouted a full beard. Some others were drinking coffee.

Bill strolled into galley, where others stood about chatting, but he could find no familiar faces. From one of the cauldrons came an aroma of rich, meaty stew; Bill peered down into the pot and realized he hadn’t eaten all day. No one seemed to be paying any attention to him, so he chose a clean bowl from the dish rack on the sink and ladled out a brimming portion of beef stew. He gulped it quickly in the mess hall, watching, as he ate, the progress of the dice games. Considerable sums of money were changing hands, but no one seemed to think much of it.

Bill put his empty bowl in the sink and moved on down the galleyway. The big cook, Glory, was coming toward him, smoking his corn cob pipe.

“Hello Glory!” ventured Bill casually.

“Hello there son!” moaned Glory melodiously. “You layin’ down a hipe?”

“Not tonight,” grinned Bill.

Glory’s face broke into a broad, brilliant smile.

“Not tonight he sez!” Glory howled thunderously. “He’s not layin’ down a hipe!” The big cook placed a hand on Bill’s shoulder as he passed.

“No hipe tonight!” Glory was booming as he went off. Bill heard his deep basso chuckle come back to him down the galleyway.

“A remarkable personality,” mumbled Bill with delighted astonishment. “And what a remarkable name - Glory! The glory that is Glory, indeed.”

In the P.O. mess, where he had found Nick Meade earlier in the day, three strangers sat playing a stoical game of poker. None of them had seen Wesley.

“Well, could you tell me where Nick Meade’s focastle is?” pressed Bill.

“Meade?” echoed one of them, raising his eyes from the silent game of cards. “The oiler with the Crown Prince moustache?”

“That’s him,” grinned Bill nervously.

“He has a stateroom on the next deck, number sixteen.” Bill thanked him and left.

He went forward toward Wesley’s focastle; he might have just returned and gone to sleep unnoticed. But no one had seen him. One of the deck hands, a youth who might have been sixteen years old, told Bill he had shipped with Wesley before.

“Don’t mind him,” the boy grinned. “He’s probably out on a long toot . . . he drinks like a tank.”

“I know,” laughed Bill.

“That’s his berth,” added the boy, indicating an empty bunk in the corner. “He’s got a new toothbrush under his pillow. If he doesn’t come back, I take it.”

They laughed together quite cheerfully.

“Well, in that case, I hope he does come back,” Bill said. “He bought that toothbrush just yesterday on Scollay Square.”

“Good!” grinned the boy. “It oughta be a good one.”

Bill ascended to the next deck. It was dark, quiet. From the harbor a barge shrilled a thin blast, shattering the Sunday night stillness with a brief, sharp warning. The sound echoed away. Bill could feel the Westminster’s engines idle way below, a passive heart gathering energy for a long ordeal, thrumming deeply a patient tempo of power, tremendous power in repose.

He found stateroom sixteen by the light of a match and rapped quietly.

“Come on in!” a muffled voice invited.

Nick Meade was stretched in his bunk reading; he was alone in the small stateroom.

“Oh, hello,” he greeted with some surprise.

“Reading?”

“Yes; Emil Ludwig’s ‘Staline’ . . . in French.”[3]

Bill sat on a folding chair by the sink. It was a neat little room, considerably more homey than the steel-plated focastles down below, with soft-mattresses bunks, cabinet mirrors over the sink, and curtains on the blacked-out portholes.

“Pretty nice in here,” said Bill.

Nick had resumed his reading. He nodded.

“You haven’t seen Wesley yet?” Bill asked.

Nick looked up: “No. Don’t know where in hell he is.”

“I hope he didn’t forget all about the Westminster,” grinned Bill.

“Wouldn’t put it past him,” mumbled Nick, going back to his reading.

Bill took a cigarette from the pack on Nick’s bunk and lit up in silence. It was stuffy in the room. He helped himself to a drink of water and sat down again.

“Know when we sail?” asked Bill.

“Few days,” mumbled Nick, still reading.

“Greenland?”

Nick shrugged. Bill rose nervously and fidgeted about the room with his cigarette; then he wheeled and glared angrily at Nick, but the latter calmly went on with his reading. Bill walked out of the stateroom without a word and found himself back on the dark deck. He leaned on the rail and peered down gloomily; the water was slapping gently against the ship’s waterline, an odor of decomposing, mossy timber rising from the darkness.

That blasted fool Meade! . . . And yet, who was the bigger fool of the two? Everhart, of course . . . he should go back in there and give him a piece of his mind. It would create a row, and God knows rows and arguments were unpleasant enough, but nothing could cure this humiliation but a man-to-man showdown! The fool was being deliberately annoying . . .

Bill, before he could reflect, found himself walking back into Nick’s stateroom.

Nick looked up in bland surprise: “what’d you do, spit over the side?”

Bill found himself trembling neurotically, his knees completely insecure; he flopped back into the chair in silence.

Nick went back to his reading as though nothing was happening, as though Bill’s presence was as casual and informal a fact as the nose on his face. Bill, in the meantime, sat shaking nervously in the chair; he raised a trembling hand to adjust his glasses.

“I met a boy from Yale on board,” he told Nick in desperation. “Quite a strikingly handsome chap.”

“Is that so?” Nick mumbled.

“Yes.”

There was a deep silence; the engines were pulsing below.

“Look here Meade!” Bill heard himself shouting. Nick looked up with a start, laying down the book.

“What?”

“You’re holding my theories against me . . . I don’t care personally . . . but it makes you look foolish!” Bill stammered.

Nick’s blue eyes widened with stupefied resentment.

“You’re too important a person to act like a child . . .”

“Okay!” interrupted Nick. “I heard you!”

“Well, do you admit it?” Bill cried from his chair. “Do you? If you don’t you’re a Royal fool!”

Nick’s impassive eyes were fixed on Bill’s, frozen to a cold blue.

“Ever since last night, you’ve been playing the angry and noble martyr.” Bill rushed on in a nervous fever, hands trembling violently. “By George, I’ll have you know I’m just as much anti-Fascist as you are, even though I haven’t had the opportunity to shoot any in Spain!”

Nick’s face had flushed, but his eyes retained their fixed frigid intensity, half angry, half fearful . . . indeed, Bill’s quavering voice sounded slightly maniacal.

“Well?” Bill shouted chokingly.

“I wonder,” Nick purred with contemptuous suspicion.

Bill jumped to his feet and stalked to the door.

“Oh!” he cried, “You’re a privileged anti-Fascist, you are! You’re the only one in the world!”

Nick stared rigidly at the other.

“You wonder!” mimicked Bill in a rage. “By George, you’re not worthy of the movement . . . you’re a confounded fool!” Bill tore open the door and plunged into the darkness, slamming the door with a smash.

He stumbled down the deck, choking with anger and humiliation; a mad satisfaction filled him despite all, the blood beating at his temples and intoxicating his whole tumultuous being in a hot rush of gratified rankle.

A voice was calling his name. Bill halted and turned around . . . it was Nick.

“Don’t be a dope,” he was yelling from his stateroom entrance. “Come back here.”

Bill stood clenching his fists spasmodically.

“Come on, Everhart!” Nick was laughing. “You’re a hot-headed reactionary, you are!”

“I am not a reactionary,” Bill fairly screamed.

Nick was laughing convulsively. Bill turned and stumbled away, muttering under his breath.

“Where are you going?” Nick cried, still laughing. “You know I was only kidding!”

Bill was almost at the poop deck.

“See you tomorrow!” Nick was calling, hooting with laughter. Bill went down the hatchway and back to his focastle, stumbling over a stool as he entered.

Palmer was smoking a cigarette in his bunk.

“Don’t kill yourself!” he laughed smoothly.

Bill growled something and vaulted up to his bunk; in five minutes he was asleep again, a deep, exhausted, sated sleep . . .

All night he dreamed chaotic tragic-comedies: Danny Palmer wore a dress and invited him to his bunk; Nick Meade was swinging from the ship’s mast, hung by an enraged crew of pro-Fascists; and worse nightmare of all, Wesley’s funeral was being conducted on the poop deck, his body draped in a mottled bedspread was slid over the side and Everhart watched the body sink with horrified fascination; it seemed, also, that Westminster was steaming past a tiny island upon which sat George Day in peaceful contentment, and that when Everhart waved and shouted at his friend, the ship lurched away from the island at a terrific speed. A voice woke Bill. He was in a cold sweat.

“Hey, feller, are you Everhart?”

Bill sat up quickly: “Yes!”

“Monday morning. You’re deck mess boy. Dress up ’n come on down to the galley; I’ll give you your duties.”

Bill reached for his glasses: “Surely.”

The man went away, but not before Bill caught a glance of him. He wore a Steward’s blue uniform. Bill jumped down from his upper berth and washed up, glancing as he did through the porthole. It was very early morning; a cool mist raveled itself over the still, blue mirror of water. Bulls screamed and swooped in the morning sea air, nervously searching for their breakfasts, diving to the surface of the water and pecking quick heads to emerge in a fluttering ascent with dangling silver morsels. Bill, with his head out of the porthole, breathed deeply three times the thrilling, scented air. A red sun was just lifting over the harbor.

Bill dressed up in his old clothes and made for the galley in fine spirits. It was a beautiful morning . . . and a din of activity seemed to hum and clatter all over the Westminster. On the deck, seamen were sleepily engaged rolling up cables of rope, under the supervision of a gigantic First Mate with glasses. At the dock moorings, near the gangplank, shouting stevedores were rolling in more barrels of black oil, swinging in Army jeeps, carrying crates and boxes of all kinds. Bill looked around for familiar faces but found none. He went below.

The galley was in a turmoil over breakfast; all kinds of cooks and helpers Bill had never seen before on the ship were there, dressed in white aprons, wearing fantastic cook’s caps; they slammed pots, shouted to one another, fried eggs and bacon at the range, roared with laughter in the confusion of steam, cooking smoke, clattering dishes, clanking pans, boom engines throbbing under; and dashed here and there in frantic haste found only in kitchens. Bill began to wonder where they’d all come from.

In the midst of all this noise, Glory’s great voice moaned softly above all the rest as he walked calmly about his kitchen, with more dignity and acumen than the others, inspecting the sizzling bacon, opening pots and staring speculatively within, slamming shut oven doors. His booming basso was chanting, over and over again: “Everybody want to go to Heaven, but no one want to die!” He repeated this chant constantly, as though it were his litany for the new day.

Bill glanced around and saw the steward who had roused him; he was standing and watching the mad spectacle of the kitchen with saturnine approval. Behind him, a ray of young sunlight fell from the porthole. Bill went up to him: “Here I am,” he grinned.

“Deck mess boy? You have nine A.B.’s to serve; get their orders from the galley here.” The Steward motioned Bill to follow and lead him down the gangway to a small room starboard side. A table, covered with a checker cloth, stood in the center; in a corner was a battered old ice box.

“You serve them in here, three meals a day. Get the dishes from the galley. All your sugar, butter, vinegar, catsup and so forth is in this icebox. Keep it cold; the ice is in the refrigerator room near the galley. Get your aprons from the linen keeper forward to port.”

The Steward lit up a cigarette quickly.

“I understand,” said Bill. “I think I’ll like this job.”

The steward smiled to himself and left. Bill stood for a moment, undecided.

“Well, Professor Everhart, set the blasted table for breakfast!” he mumbled gleefully, and proceeded to do so with delighted alacrity. The Steward could afford to smile to himself, he knew very little about the little “deck mess boy,” by George!

Bill had everything ready when the first A.B. came in for breakfast, yawning noisily and rubbing his ribs in a dejected morning attitude.

“What’ll it be?” grinned Bill.

“Bacon n’ eggs pal. Coffee n’ juice.”

When Bill returned with his breakfast, the seaman had fallen asleep on the bench.

After breakfast - everything had gone smoothly - Bill began to clear away the table, feeling quite at peace with the world and especially with his new job. It was paying him around two hundred dollars a month with room and board, and all he had to do was serve three meals a day! The A.B.’s had proved a fine lot and a quiet one at that. The only thing that worried Bill now was that Wesley hadn’t been among them, and they were his focastle mates. He had obviously not returned - and perhaps wouldn’t. Although he liked his job, Bill frowned at the idea of sailing alone - that is without Wesley - for he felt lost in the midst of so many strange, unfriendly faces. These seamen, he mused seemed to accept one another at face value, without fanfare and without comment. All this was so different from the keen sense of distinction and taste which went with social life within academic circles. Perhaps the old adage, “We’re all in the same boat” went without saying in the Merchant Marine and seamen resigned themselves to one another quite philosophically. And of course, like the slogan he had heard of - a famous placard above the door of the Boston Seamen’s Club - which said, very simply, that all those who passed under the arch of the door entered into the Brotherhood of the Sea - these men considered the sea a great leveler, a united force, a master comrade brooding over their common loyalties.

As Bill was putting away the butter, Nick Meade put his head in the doorway.

“Good morning, old Tory!” he shouted.

Bill whirled around and stared; then he grinned: “Is that the way to talk to a worker?”

“A worker!” ejaculated Nick. “Now you can belong to the working class if not to the movement!”

Bill put away the butter to prove his station.

“You were a pretty hot Tory last night!” laughed Nick. He was wearing his engine room clothes - dungarees, white sandals, and an oil-smeared sweatshirt.

Bill shrugged: “Maybe I was . . . you had it coming.”

Nick fingered his moustache.

“By Lenin! Were you ripping! I’ll promise this time not to tell The Central Committee.”

“Thanks.”

Nick was gone as casually as he had come, padding away swiftly, down the alleyway, and whistling something very much like the Marseillaise.

Well, reflected Bill, Nick had proved himself reasonable after all, but it had taken plenty of his own nervous resources to bring it about. Perhaps he had been silly last night, but despite that he had succeeded in bringing Nick to his senses; the fact that Nick probably looked upon him now with some doubt as to his sanity meant less than what had been accomplished. A sorry fiasco! . . . but with results. It would teach Nick to stop being a Marxist Puritan. It should also teach Everhart himself to mind his own business and cease playing the wounded moralist, the fool . . . but he was not sorry he had blown up in such an undignified manner; it made him feel stronger; he had lived up to his convictions on human behavior. By George! - he was learning more than he ever had in any class.

When he had finished, Bill went back above to witness the loading on of the cargo. He walked jauntily down the deck. Danny Palmer was leaning on the rail with another seaman.

“Morning, Palmer,” greeted Bill.

Danny turned his great blue eyes on Bill: “Hello, there.” His hair flashed like warped gold in the sun. “How do you like your work?”

“Fine,” chirped Bill.

They leaned and watched the operations below.

“Army Jeeps,” mused Bill aloud. “I suppose we’re bringing supplies to an Army base up there.”

“That’s right,” said the other seaman, a short powerfully built Italian. “And we’re taking back sick soldiers and Army base workers. See that lumber. That’s for additional barracks. We’re bringin’ oil, lumber, food, dynamite for blasting, Jeeps . . .”

“Dynamite!” cried Danny.

“Shore! We get an extra bonus for that.”

“The more money the better!” chatted Bill.

“Know something?” posed the seaman. “I heard we’re sailing tomorrow morning instead of day after.”

“Swell,” purred Danny. “Who knows, we may be going to Russia! Nobody really knows. These supplies may be for the Soviet Union.”

“Russia, Iceland, India, South America, Persia, Texas, Greenland, Alaska, Australia,” recounted the seaman monotonously, “- all the same; danger left and right. I got a buddie who went to Russia and come back to ship for Texas . . . and wham! Torpedoed off Virginia.”

“That’s the way it goes,” said Bill moving off. “See you later, lads.”

All along the deck, as Bill headed for Wesley’s focastle, a pageant of activity unfolded. Stevedores were hastily putting the finishing touches on the Westminster before she sailed, painting on a new coat of camouflage gray, stringing and testing electric circuits, puttering here and there with plumbing, rehabilitating the complex component parts of the ship in a haste that suggested an early sailing to Everhart. Perhaps it was true about tomorrow morning - and what if Wesley shouldn’t return by then?

As Bill was about to descend down the bow hatch leading to the deck crew focastle, he caught a glimpse of the captain of the Westminster as he stood before his bridge house chatting with the officers. He was a small round man, shorter by inches than any of his men, but the way they craned respectfully to his words belied his authority. From below, Bill could see the hard level eyes of the skipper, and very much like the ship’s skippers in fiction, this little man with the heavily-striped sleeves had eyes like the color of the sea, pale misty blue with a suggestion of green, and the vague promise of tempest gray. A man among men! thought Bill. A man with a special wisdom of his own, and a knowledge of the sea that could confound all the books, chart all the lanes, and detect all storms, reefs, and rocks in a world of hostile oceans . . . it would be a fortunate privilege to talk to this man - perhaps he was the type of skipper who enjoyed chatting with his crew, and if this was so, Bill determined to watch for the opportunity to make his acquaintance. Was this the world he thought he had known about? Had it ever before occurred to him the high and noble meaning of so simple a station as the sea captain’s?

Bill walked meditatively into the deck crew focastle. Wesley’s bunk was still empty. He retraced his steps aft, pondering on his next move. In his focastle, he gazed emptily at his suitcase before he began to pack. Wesley had left for good - by George, then, he would not sail alone. The whole thing had been a farce in the beginning, the fruition of a nameless yen to sprout his wings and fly into life. Life was life no matter where one lived. He packed his clothes and snapped the catch shut. All he had to do was hand in his job slip at the union hall desk and get back to New York by hook or crook. He should have realized at first Wesley’s deep-seated irresponsibility and lack of purpose; the man was no more than a happy-go-lucky creature to whom life meant nothing more than a stage for his debaucheries and casual, promiscuous relationships. He had lead Bill to this ship and then wandered off calmly as though all things in life were unworthy of too serious a consideration and application. What more should Bill have expected from Wesley? . . . he had proven himself quite convincingly in his cool rejection of Polly in New York that day they had started for Boston. God! Polly was perhaps still waiting for Wesley’s call! Well, Bill Everhart wouldn’t wait in vain for anyone . . . he’d never been that sort, and never would be.

Bill went up to the poop deck with his suitcase and stood for awhile watching the seamen arrange the cables in a great convoluted pattern on the deck. This was their medium, ships and the sea . . . it was no place for an academician. It was Wesley’s medium, too, and not his own - his place was in the lecture room, where people conducted a serious study of life and strove to understand it rather than accept it with an idiot’s afterthought, if any at all.

Behind him a ladder lead to the promenade deck. Bill put down his suitcase and clambered up; he found himself next to a great gun, its long barrel pointed toward the harbor. Several soldiers were busy oiling the gun at various points. Others were seated in folding chairs around the interior of the turret, reading papers and chatting.

Bill peered silently at the gun; he had never been near so destructive a machine as this in all his life. It was a four-incher, and its graceful barrel was just then pointed ironically toward a destroyer in the middle of the harbor whose guns in turn were pointed toward the Westminster. Bill had not noticed the destroyer before - perhaps it had just slipped in, for her funnels were still smoking heavily. Perhaps, too, it was to be their convoy vessel, and it now sat patiently, waiting for sailing orders. Bill could discern small figures in white move in the confusion of the destroyer’s gray hulk, a formidable warship manned by ingenious toy sailors, her mighty guns pointed in all directions, her flags flashing in the sun.

God! thought Bill . . . were the fleets of Xerxes[4] ever as warlike as this super-destructive mammoth, a lean, rangy sea fighter proud with the fanfare of death?

Bill climbed another ladder and found himself topsides. Well, if he was leaving he might as well see it all! He gazed down at the Westminster’s big gun and followed the direction of its sleek barrel toward the distant destroyer. He tried to imagine the smoke and thunder of a great sea engagement, the smash of shells, the list of dying ships . . .

The warm sun beat down on the top deck as Bill strolled aft. He was gazing aloft at the Westminster’s stack when he bumped into a steel cable. It ran to a boom pulley and down to a lifeboat. Bill advanced curiously and inspected the interior of the lifeboat: there were canteens, boxes, kits, canvas sacks, weather-beaten life belts, and several long oars. In the event of a torpedoing, would he Everhart, have to spend days, even weeks drifting in one of these barks? It occurred to him he had not considered the extreme danger involved in all this; perhaps he had better leave after all . . . there was no virtue in rushing toward death, by George.

Bill went back to his suitcase on the poop deck and shuffled aimlessly forward. Nobody paid any attention to him, which was perhaps to his advantage; no one would miss him, and they would simply hire another deck crew mess boy and let it go at that. He, for his part, would return to his life’s work in New York, and that would be that. There were other ways of searching for experience; for that matter, there were other ways to raise money for the old man’s operation. He was in no immediate need . . .

Bill decided to go down to his focastle and pick up any object he might have forgotten in his haste to pack. Once down there he felt the need to lie down and think, so he vaulted up to his bunk and lit a cigarette.

Danny Palmer was combing his hair at the sink.

“Looks like we’ll sail soon,” he offered.

“Suppose so.”

“You don’t seem too eager!” laughed Danny, putting away his comb.

Bill shrugged and smiled: “Oh, it doesn’t excite me too much.”

“Yes, I suppose it is boring at sea sometimes. I’m going to do some reading, anyway, and I’ll keep a diary. There’s always a way to beat utter boredom.”

“Boredom,” said Bill, “is the least of my worries. I found out ennui was my mortal enemy years ago, and I’ve learned since then how to avoid it to some extent. I slip shrewdly around it . . .”

“Good for you!” grinned Danny. He wound his watch carefully.

Bill blew smoke rings with a troubled face.

“I still suspect we’re headed for Russia,” beamed Danny. “Murmansk or Archangel . . . and if so, I doubt if we’ll have time to be bored. It’s a notoriously hectic run. Have you met any seamen who’ve gone there?”

“Surely, two of them - Meade and Martin.”

“Who’s Meade?”

“He’s the oiler with the Crown Prince moustache,” grinned Bill slyly.

“I’d like to meet those two; I’d like some firsthand information on Russia.”

“You would?”

“Oh yes! I’m as left-wing as my father is right!”

Bill leaned on his elbow.

“That’s going some, I’ll bet,” he leered.

Danny raised a blond eyebrow: “Very,” he purred. “The pater is in the steel business, the mater is a D.A.R., and all the relatives belong to the N.A.M.”

“That should make you an anarchist,” judged Bill.

“Communists,” corrected Danny.

Bill leaned back on his pillow.

“I’m dying to go to Russia and speak to the comrades,” resumed Danny, gazing through the porthole. “That’s why I joined the Merchant Marine . . . I must see Russia” - wheeling to face Bill - “and by God I shall!”

“I wouldn’t mind it myself.”

“It’s my ambition,” pressed Danny, “my only ambition! I say, did you ever hear of Jack Reed?”

Bill faced Danny: “Jack Reed? The one who took part in the Revolution?”

“Yes! Of course! He went to Harvard, you know. He was great!” Danny lit up a cigarette nervously. “He died in Russia . . .”

Bill nodded.

“I’d like to . . . I’d like to be a Jack Reed myself someday,” confessed Danny, his blue eyes appealing sincerely to Bill’s.

“A worthy ambition,” said Bill.

“Worthy? Worthy? To believe in the Brotherhood of Man as he did?” cried Danny.

“Indeed . . . Reed was a great idealist, surely,” Bill added, not wishing to seem unappreciative and dull. “I’ve always been inspired by his life, . . . He was truly a tragic figure and a great one at that. He gave up all his wealth for the cause. God! I wish I had as much conviction!”

“It’s not hard to give up wealth,” assured Danny. “It’s harder to live for the movement and die in defeat, as he did.”

“Agreed.”

“Defeat,” added Danny, “in the eyes of the world; but to Russia, and to all the comrades, it was no defeat . . . it was a supreme triumph!”

“I believe you’re right - and I think it was, as you say, a supreme triumph in the estimation of Reed himself,” supplied Bill.

Danny smiled enthusiastically: “Yes! You’re right . . . tell me, are you a communist too?”

Bill grinned with some sarcasm.

“Well,” he said, “I don’t belong to the party.”

“I meant . . . well, are you a communist in principle?” Danny pressed.

“I don’t call myself a communist - I’ve never had occasion to, except when I was seventeen,” admitted Bill. “But if you’re asking me whether or not I lean to the left, my answer is yes - naturally. I’m not blind.”

“Fine!” cried Danny. “Shake my hand, comrade!”

They laughed and shook hands, although Bill felt a great deal confused by it all. He had never been called “Comrade” before.

“We’re probably the only ones on board,” raced on Danny. “We must stick together.”

“Oh yes.”

“I suppose all the others either have no ideals or they’re all reactionaries!” added Danny.

“Especially,” leered Bill, “that oiler, Nick Meade. He hated Russia . . .”

“He did? Probably just a materialist.”

“Yes . . . as a matter of fact, he’s an iconoclastic neo-Machiavellian materialist,” cooed Bill.

Danny glanced askance: “Am I supposed to know what that means?”

Bill flushed.

“Of course not, I was only kidding Palmer. Tell you what, go down and find him in the engine room. He’s really a communist.”

“No!”

“Yes, he is,” said Bill seriously. “He’ll be glad to meet you . . . I’m certain of that.”

“Engine room? Meade? Good, I’ll go right down now,” smiled Danny. “That makes three of us. God, am I relieved . . . I was hoping I’d find a few comrades, but I didn’t bank much on it!”

Bill could say nothing.

“See you later, Everhart,” called Danny, moving off. “Or is it comrade?” he added, laughing.

“By all means,” assured Bill as cheerfully as he could. The youth was gone.

Bill flung his cigarette through the porthole.

“Comrade!” he spat. “What a priceless fool he turned out to be!” Bill flopped over viciously in his bunk and stared at the steel bulkhead. “Is the world full of fools? Can’t anyone have sense just for a change?”

He glared fiercely at the bulkhead.

“I’m getting off this ship today, by George, before I go mad.” He buried his face in the pillow and seethed with discontent; beneath, he began to feel a thin stream of remorse, like some cool agent attempting to allay the fire of his anger. He turned spasmodically to his other side; the coolness spread. He signed impatiently.

“Of course! I’ve been a fool again . . . Young Palmer was sincere and I wasn’t . . . he’s got ideals even though he makes a fool of himself by them. I should be ashamed of myself for being the sardonic skeptic - when the devil will I shed me of that Dedalusian ash-plant.[5] It gets one nowhere, by George! I was only being a Nick Meade when I fooled with Palmer’s naiveté and sincerity. The kid means well . . .

“A lesson in intolerance from Meade, that’s all it was. If he’s an orthodox Marxist, damn it, I go him one worse - an orthodox Everhartist. If they’re not like Everhart, why, they’re fools! Pure fools! And Everhart is the constant in an equation of fools . . . and I thought last night I was being sensible when I let Nick have it - what a joke! I’m just as bigoted as he is.”

Bill threw the pillow aside and sat up.

“I’ll make it up with Palmer . . . he didn’t notice my sarcasm, so the burden of reproach is mine and mine alone. By my soul! . . . a man can’t go through life sneering at his fellowmen - where will it get us! - we’ve all got to learn to respect and love one another, and if we’re not capable of that, then, by George, the word has to be tolerance! Tolerance! If people like Nick don’t tolerate me, then I’ll tolerate them.”

Bill leaped down to the deck and looked out the porthole.

“Otherwise,” he mused gloomily, “nothing will ever change, not really . . . and change we must.”

A seagull, perched on the edge of the dock platform, burrowed an exasperated beak in its feathers. Just beyond Bill could see the stern of the destroyer in the bay.

He nodded his head: “A hell of a time for tolerance! Or is it . . . a hell of a war for tolerance? They’ll have to put it down in black and white before I believe it . . .”

Bill pulled his head in and poured himself a cup of water. He glanced at his packed suitcase.

“I should stick this out . . . just for principles. Theories and principles come to life only by application . . . theoretically, I’m opposed to Fascism, so I must fight it - Nick is on board, he’s not turning tail. What would he think if I skipped off?” Bill grinned and opened his suitcase.

“All right, Mr. Meade, this laugh is on you.”

He unpacked and lay down for a nap. Once more, as he dozed off, he began to feel jaunty.

“Do you know Martin?” a voice was asking him.

Bill woke up quickly.

“What time is it?” he asked. “I slept . . .”

“Almost noon,” answered the seaman. “Look, a blond kid tells me you know a guy by the name of Martin.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Wesley Martin?”

“Yes.”

The seaman handed Bill a note: “I don’t know where to find him . . . will you give him this note?”

Bill scanned the outer folds of the note, where a hand had scribbled: “For Wesley Martin, A.B. seaman.”

“A babe at the gate told me to give it to him,” said the seaman. “I’d like to give it to her myself . . . she was some potato.”

“A girl?”

“Yeah – at the gate. Give it to Martin; I’ll see ya!” The seaman was leaving.

“I don’t know where he is!” cried Bill.

“Well I don’t neither - see ya later.” The seaman strolled off down the alleyway.

Bill sat on a stool and tapped the letter speculatively; there was no harm in reading it, Wesley would never get it anyway. He opened and read:

Dear Wes,

I know now you’ll change your mind. I’ll be waiting for you. I love you.

Your wife

“Wife!” cried Bill aloud. “I thought he had left her . . .” He re-read the note with a frown.

The steward was coming down the alleyway. Bill looked up.

“Set your dinner plates,” said the Steward. “It’s almost twelve.”

“Right!” snapped Bill, rising. “I was sleeping.”

He followed the steward back to the galley and picked up his plates, cups, saucers, and silverware. On the way to his deck crew mess he passed Danny Palmer, who stood peeling potatoes with Eathington and another scullion.

“Did you meet Meade?” shouted Bill over the noise of the noontime galley.

Danny smiled broadly and nodded with enthusiasm, adding to that a significant wink of the eye. Bill grinned. He carried the dishes to his little mess, where he complimented himself for having signed up on a job where he could work alone and in quiet. The galley was a always a clattering confusion; in his own mess, he could set his table in peace and take the seamen’s orders calmly and carry them out with a minimum of dignity. Surely . . .

“Hey there, man, don’t split a gut!”

Bill swerved around and almost dropped the catsup. It was Wesley. And Wesley was gone as quickly as he had come. Bill hurdled a bench with a cry of surprise.

At the door, he called: “Hey Wes, come here!”

Wesley turned and shuffled back down the alleyway, smoking a cigarette: “I got to get back to work . . .” he began.

“This is a note for you,” said Bill. “Where the devil have you been?”

Wesley flicked a corner of his mouth and took the note.

“I been in the can,” he explained. “I raised hell an’ got pulled in.”

“Who bailed you out?” urged Bill.

Wesley was reading the note. When he’d finished reading it, he slipped it into his dungaree pockets and gazed at Bill with dark, stony eyes.

“Who bailed you out?” repeated Bill.

“Friend o’ mine.”

They stood watching each other in silence. Wesley stared at Bill intensely, as though he were about to speak but he said nothing.

Bill grinned and motioned toward his mess: “Service with a smile in here - ask the others.”

Wesley nodded slowly. Then he placed a thin hand on Bill’s shoulder.

“We sail in the morning, man,” he said quickly, and went off down the alleyway without another word. Bill watched him disappear and then returned to his icebox. He could think of nothing to mumble to himself.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Bosun was in at the crack of dawn to wake up the deckhands, but Curley was wide awake - he was still drinking from his bottle - and although he had sang all night up there in his top berth, none of the others had paid any attention to him. Now, while they were rousing themselves, Curley wanted know if anyone wanted a drink.

“Sober up, Curley, or the mate’ll log you two, three days pay,” Joe was saying as he pulled on his shoes.

“Lissen to me, guys,” cried Curley, sitting up in his bunk and flourishing the bottle, “I’m never too drunk to do my work . . .”

Wesley inspected his teeth in the cracked mirror.

“You want a shot at this bottle, Martin?” cried Curley.

Joe scoffed: “You’re all’s too drunk to do anythin.”

Curley jumped down from his bunk with a curse, staggered over against a chair, and fell flat on the deck.

Wesley was right at his side: “Get up, Curley: I’ll take a nip out of your bottle if you cut the bull.”

“Cut the bull? I’ll murder that Goddamned Joe for makin’ that crack,” howled Curley, pushing Wesley aside and trying to regain his feet.

Joe laughed and went to the sink.

Wesley pulled Curley to his feet and pushed him back to his own bunk. Curley swung his fist at Wesley but the latter blocked the punch with his forearm; then he threw Curley back on the bunk and pinned him down.

“Sober up, man,” he said. “We got work to do; we’re sailin’ . . . I’ll get you a wet towel.”

“Get him another bottle!” suggested Haines from his bunk.

“I’ll kill you, Joe!” shouted Curley, struggling in Wesley’s grip. “Lemme go, Martin!”

“I thought you could hold your liquor better’n that, Curley,” said Wesley, shaking his head. “An old cowpuncher like you. I’ll bet you’re too drunk to do your work . . .”

Curley pointed his finger in Wesley’s face: “Lissen Martin, down in Texas a man’s never to drunk to do his work. You lemme go - I got work to do.”

Wesley let Curley up, but retained his hold on his arm.

Haines was peering out the porthole: “Christ! It’s still dark out.” The others were getting up.

Joe turned from the sink and drew on his shirt.

“Curley’s been drunk for ten days,” he announced. “Wait till the mate sees him up there; he won’t be able to lift a rope or . . .”

“Shut up!” snapped Wesley. Curley was struggling to get at Joe, but Wesley had him pinned against the bulkhead.

“I’ll kill you Joe! I’ll split your lousy puss!” Curley screamed. “Lemme go, Martin, I’ll kill him . . .”

“Who you tellin’ to shut up, Martin?” demanded Joe quietly, advancing toward them.

“You,” said Wesley, struggling with Curley. “This kid’s drunk - we gotta fix ’em up.”

“What the hell do I care about him?” purred Joe. “And who are you telling to shut up.”

Wesley stared at Joe blankly.

“Huh?” pressed Joe menacingly.

Wesley flicked a smile and let go of Curley. In an instant, Curley was on Joe, slashing at him blindingly as Joe staggered back over a chair. Then they were on the deck, with Curley on top dealing out punch after punch into Joe’s upturned face. The deck hands howled as they jumped out of bed to break it up. Wesley helped himself to a drink from Curley’s bottle as the fists beat a brutal, bone-on-bone drumming on Joe’s face. They tore Curley away, raging like a mad dog, and pinned him down in a bunk; Joe sat up and groaned pitifully, like a child in pain. He was bleeding at the mouth.

Wesley went to the sink and brought back a wet towel for Joe’s face. Joe spat out a tooth as Wesley applied a towel carefully.

“Sober up that Curley,” he told the others. “We’ll all get hell now . . . sober up that crazy cowpuncher . . .”

Haines ran to the door and looked down the alleyway. “Bosun’s not around . . . Christ! Hurry up before the mate comes below . . . throw water on him.”

“Nice way to start a trip!” moaned Joe from the deck. “All cut up to hell. I know this ain’t gonna be no trip. We’re all goin’ down.”

“Ah shut up,” scolded Haines. “You’re punchy now.”

Someone threw a glass of water on Curley’s face and slapped him rapidly: “Sober up, Tex! We got to go to work . . .”

Wesley helped Joe to his feet: “All right, Joe?”

Joe stared blankly at Wesley, swaying slightly.

“I’m all cut up,” he moaned.

“You shouldn’t have been so right foolish!” said Wesley.

“I know, I know,” groaned Joe. “I’m all cut up . . . I don’t feel natural . . . somethins’ gonna happen . . .”

“Will you shut up!” shouted Haines. Curley was sitting up blinking; he smiled at all of them and started to sing “Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie” - but he was sober enough. They dragged Joe and Curley above and let them breathe in the cold dawn fog.

“Let’s get to work,” said Haines impatiently.

Joe staggered but caught himself in time.

“What a hell of a way to start the day,” muttered Charley, the ordinary seaman. “Drunken bastarts . . .”

“All right, forget it!” snapped Haines.

The bosun was calling them aft. A gray dawn was fanning out across the sky.

“I’m sorry Joe,” mumbled Curley. Joe said nothing. The Westminster’s stack was pouring out great clouds of black smoke as they reached aft, where the first mate, the bosun, and a Maritime deck cadet were waiting.

Down on the dock, longshoremen were unwinding the Westminster’s hawsers . . .

When Everhart woke up, he heard the booming blast of the Westminster’s stack. He jumped down from his bunk and stood in front of the open porthole - the wall of the dock shed was slipping by. Bill put his head out and gazed forward: the ship was backing out slowly from the slip, leaving a sluggish wake of whirlpools. Longshoremen and guards stood on the receding dock platform, watching, their work done.

Once more the Westminster roared her blast of departure, a long, shattering, deep peal that echoed and re-echoed in the morning quiet over the wharf-roofs, railroad yards, and buildings all along the waterfront.

Bill washed hastily and ran above. He felt great piston charges rumble along the deck, heard the giant churning of the propeller. As he gazed aloft at the Westminster’s stack, she thundered for the third time - “Vooooom!” - and lapsed into quiet as the sound soared out over Boston’s rooftops.

In the middle of the harbor, she stopped; then the propeller chugged again, the winch-engine rumbled below as the rudder was set, and the Westminster slowly and ponderously pointed her bow around to face the Atlantic. The winch screeched deeply once more - and they moved slowly, smoothly toward the mine net at the mouth of the harbor, the propeller chugging up a steady Gargantuan rhythm.

Bill hastened up to the bow and peered down at the prow, its sharp, steep point dividing the harbor water with the ease of power. The Westminster slipped on, faster and faster. Seaweed wriggled past lazily.

Bill squinted toward the sea. Far out, he saw, in the gray mist, a low, rangy shape . . . the destroyer, of course! They were on their way! And what a fool he would have been to miss this . . .!

They were nearing the mine net swiftly; and [an] opening had been made for them. As the Westminster slipped through, the sailors on the mine boats waved casually. Bill could not take his eyes off the floating mines, huge black, spiked globes strung from beach to beach along a line of unbelievably destructive doom . . .

The two lighthouses glided by with dignity, the last outposts of society. Bill stared aft at Boston’s receding skyline, a sleepy Boston unaware of the great adventure being undertaken, a Boston spurting occasional clouds of industrial smoke, the gray buildings dour-faced in the July dawn.

Bill returned his eyes seaward. Far off, where the horizon, mist, and bilious green sea merged, Bill saw dark vestiges of night fading to a pale gray.

Directly forward, the destroyer steamed swiftly through the calm waters; already, it seemed to Bill, the destroyer was on watch, her guns flaring to all directions. Bill turned and glanced up at the forward gun turrets: two soldiers with earphones stood by the guns, eyes out along the horizon.

It was done! He could never go back now . . . Let come what may, they were prepared, and so was he . . .

“I’m never too drunk to do my work!” someone was yelling on the bow. Bill turned and saw Wesley, with two other deckhands, rolling up cables on the deck.

“You’re damned right, man,” Wesley said.

“I’ll git drunk. I’ll start fights, I’ll do anything!” Curley cried in Wesley’s face. “But I’ll do my work. Am I right?”

“Shut up, will you?” Haines muttered.

“Well, am I right?” demanded Curley.

“Shore!” assured Wesley.

They went on rolling the cables in silence. When they were finished, Wesley lit up cigarette and gazed out over the waters.

“Morning Wes,” greeted Bill.

Wesley turned and waved his hand solemnly.

“How do you like it?” he asked.

Bill leaned on the deck rail and squinted down at the water: “Exciting . . . this is my first time at sea, and I must say it gives me a queer feeling.”

Wesley offered him a cigarette.

It was getting warmer; the mist had lifted, and now the long swells glistened luminously in the bright white light. Bill could feel the bow rise and fall in smooth, swishing strokes as the Westminster moved on.

“How is it,” grinned Bill, “on the bow when the sea is rough?”

Wesley tossed his head with a smile: “You gotta hang on to something or you’ll take a ride on the deck.”

“Do you ever get seasick?” asked Bill.

“Shore . . . we all do one time or another,” answered Wesley. “Even the skipper sometimes.”

“Hey Martin!” cried Haines. “We gotta go below.”

Wesley threw away his cigarette and shuffled off to his work. He wore the same moccasins he had when Bill met him in New York, plus a pair of paint smeared dungarees and a white shirt. Bill watched him go below with Haines and Curley; he was rubbing Curley’s head playfully while Curley took up a new song with dramatic gestures.

“Seven years,” howled Curley, “with the wrong woman . . . is a mighty long time . . .” then they disappeared down the hatchway.

Bill smiled to himself; he was glad to see Wesley happy again - that note from his wife the day before had obviously troubled him, for he hadn’t come to mess all day. Wesley seemed at home and content now they were sailing, as though leaving port meant the cessation of all his worries, and heading out to sea a new era of peace and amenity. What a simple solution! Would to God Everhart could find freedom in so simple a process as that, could be relieved of vexation by so graceful an expedient, could draw comfort and love from the sea the way Wesley seemed to do.

Bill went aft and below to his work. When the table was set, Joe the A.B. shuffled in gloomily. His face was all bruised.

“What happened to you?” grinned Bill.

Joe looked up in angry silence and shot an irritated glance at the other. Bill placed a plate in his hand.

“What’s for eats?” growled Joe.

“Oatmeal . . .” began Bill.

“Oatmeal!” spat Joe. “I can see where this is gonna be a lousy run, crummy food, no-good crew . . .”

“Coffee with it?” leered Bill.

“What the hell do you think?” cursed Joe. “Don’t be so Goddamned foolish.”

“How am I to know . . .”

“Shut up and get it,” interrupted Joe.

Bill glared and flushed.

“Who you lookin’ at?” purred Joe, rising.

“You don’t have to . . .”

“Lissen Shorty,” cried Joe in Bill’s face. “Keep shut if you don’t want to get hurt, understand?”

“You’re a test case!” mumbled Bill.

Joe pushed Bill with the flat of his hand. Bill stared fearfully at the other, paralyzed in his steps; he almost dropped the plate.

“Don’t drop the plates,” Joe now grinned. “You’ll have to pay for them yourself. C’mon, c’mon, don’t stand there like a dope, Short Man, get me my breakfast.”

Bill walked to the galley in a stupor. While the cook was filling Joe’s plate, he decided to stand for his rights, and if it meant a row, then row it was! Bill walked quickly back to his mess, rousing his senses for the inevitable . . . but when he returned, a heated argument was in progress among the deckhands. Curley, Haines, Charley and Wesley were seated at the table.

“I’m sorry!” Curley was shouting, “but for krissakes don’t keep bringin’ it up. I ain’t responsible for what I do when I’m drunk . . .”

“That’s allright,” Joe whined, “but you still cut me up bad, you and your Goddamned booze . . .”

“Why don’t you forget it!” Haines groaned restlessly. “It’s all over now, so forget it . . .”

“Peace! Peace!” Charley cried. “Haines is right . . . so from now on, shut up about it.”

Joe waved his hand viciously at all of them.

Bill dropped the breakfast plate before him. So, it was Curley’s work . . . good boy!

Joe looked up: “Look, Shorty, don’t drop my plate like that again . . .”

Haines rose to his feet: “There he goes again. I’m getting the hell out of here!”

“Wait!” commanded Wesley.

Bill stood glaring down at Joe. When Joe began to rise to his feet, Wesley placed a hand on his shoulder and sat him down.

“Take your hands off me, Martin!” warned Joe, his eyes fixed askance on Wesley’s hand.

Wesley sat down on the bench beside him and smiled.

“Allright, Joe, I will. Now I want to tell you . . .”

“I don’t wanta hear it!” snarled Joe. “If you don’t like my company, get the hell out.”

“Sure,” minced Haines savagely, “I’m divin’ over the side and swimmin’ back to port.”

“Look, man,” began Wesley, “that’s just the point . . . we’re out at sea and that’s that. We’re not on the beach no more - there, we can fight, booze, nowhere all we want. But when we’re sailin’ . . .”

“I said I didn’t want to hear it!” cried Joe.

“You’re gonna!” snapped Haines. “Go ahead Martin . . .”

Wesley’s face hardened: “When we’re sailin’, man, there’s no more o’ that beach stuff. We have to live together, and if we all pitch in together, it’s right fine. But if one guy bulls it all up, then it’s no shuck-all of a trip . . . all fouled up.”

“Get off my ear,” mumbled Joe morosely.

“I will when you get it! You smarten up and do your share and we’ll all be happy . . .” Wesley began hotly.

“Who ain’t doin’ his share!” retorted Joe.

“Your share of cooperation,” put in Haines.

“Yeah,” said Wesley, “that’s it . . . your share of cooperation . . . do that and we’ll all be grateful.”

Joe banged his fork: “Suppose I don’t . . .”

Wesley rubbed his black hair impatiently.

“Didn’t Curley cut me up? What’d I do?” Joe cried.

“You started it!” hissed Haines.

Joe was silent.

“Will you do that, man?” asked Wesley seriously.

Joe looked around with an expression of awe, gesturing toward Wesley: “Ain’t he the one, though!”

“That’s not the point,” broke in Haines. “He’s talkin’ for all of us. We want a good trip and we don’t want a jeep[1] like you queering it all up.”

Joe resumed his eating quietly.

“Guys like you go over the side, if they get crabby enough,” added Haines calmly.

“No room for me here,” groaned Joe.

“Shore is,” said Wesley. “Just stop gettin’ wise with everybody . . . get the sliver out of your pants.”

Joe shook his head with slow resentment.

“That’s all there is to it,” said Haines. “We all pull together, see?”

“Sure, sure,” snarled Joe.

“Let’s shake and forget it,” put forth Curley. Joe let him shake his hand without looking up.

“Bunch o’ crabs,” he muttered at length.

“We ain’t crabs,” objected Wesley. “You’re the crab in this outfit. Now for krissakes cut it out an’ act right with us all. We’re at sea, man, remember that.” Haines nodded his head in assent.

“How ’bout some grub!” cried Charley. Bill had been standing watching this tribunal of the sea in action with some wonderment; now he woke from his reverie with a grin and picked up his plates.

The seamen called their orders and tried to laugh it off, but Joe presently finished his breakfast and stalked out without a word. When he had gone, there was a strained silence.

“He’ll pull out of it,” said Wesley.

“He’d better,” warned Haines. “He’s got to learn sometime . . . he’s at sea.”

That first day out, the Westminster sailed on hundred miles offshore and then turned north in the wake of the convoying destroyer. It was a warm, windless day at sea, with a smoothly swelling sheen of ocean.

When Bill finished his work after supper, he went aft to his focastle and lay down for a smoke. Above him, in an overhead rack, he detected a piece of canvas. Bill pulled at it and withdrew a gas mask; he sat up and peered into the rack; there was a lifebelt there also, with a small red light attached.

“Keep them handy,” counseled Eathington from his bunk. “I keep mine at the foot of my bunk. You got a knife?”

“No.”

“Get one; you might need a knife in case you ever need to do some fast and fancy cuttin’.”

Bill leaned back and drew from his cigarette.

“We get lifeboat drills from tomorrow on,” continued Eathington, “and fire drills sometime this week. You know your boat and fire stations?” he added accusingly.

“No,” admitted Bill. Eathington scoffed.

“They’re up on a notice in the alleyway!” he sneered.

Bill went out and glanced at the notice; he found his name in a group assigned to lifeboat number six and fire station number three. Well, if it came to a torpedoing, there would be little time for reference to the notice, so he might just as well remember his lifeboat number.

Bill blanked his cigarette and mounted the hatchways; when he pushed it open he found himself on a moonlit deck. Black-out hatches would help very little tonight, he reflected - the destroyer could be seen in the moonlight ahead as clearly as in the daytime. Yet, it was dark enough to conceal a periscope, by George!

Someone nearby echoed his thoughts: “Look at that moon! Clear as day.” Two seamen were leaning on the poop deck rail.

“They can see us, allright,” laughed Bill.

The seaman grinned: “An’ we can hear them!”

“Yeah,” snarled the other seaman, “That’s unless they cut their engine and just wait for us.”

“They do that,” admitted the other seaman. “No submarine detector can spot that.”

“The moon,” mused Bill. “Lovers want it but we certainly don’t.”

“That’s a mouthful,” said one of the seamen.

They were silent as Bill gazed at the wake of the ship - a ghostly gray road back to home, unwinding endlessly and lengthening with every turn of the propeller. He shivered despite himself.

“Well,” said the seaman, “let ’em come.”

Bill strolled forward. The air was cool and clean, charged with the briny thrill of the waters. The Westminster’s funnel, rocking gently in silhouette against the moon, discharged clouds of blue smoke and darkened the stars. Bill gazed longingly at The Big Dipper and remembered how he had studied this body of stars on quiet nights along Riverside Drive . . . they were far from New York now . . . and going farther.

He went below to Wesley’s focastle. Curley held his guitar and strummed meditatively from his top berth while the others lounged and listened. Joe was at the mirror inspecting his bruises.

Curley began to sing in a nasal, cowboy voice.

“Martin here?” asked Bill.

Charley rose from his bunk and yawned: “He’s standin’ bow watch . . . I’m relievin’ him in two minutes.”

Charley picked up his jacket and strolled out. On the bow, Wesley stood with legs apart gazing out, his hands sunken in a peacoat, face turned up to the stars.

“Take over, Charley,” he said. “Hello there man.”

“Hello Wes,” said Bill. “How about the game of whist with Nick?” Wesley took off his peacoat.

“Right.”

They sauntered from the bow, where Charley took up his station with a noisy yawn and a loud, sleepy groan.

“Haines is at the wheel,” said Wesley motioning toward the bridge house above.

“How’s bow watch?” asked Bill, remember how lonely Wesley had looked standing at the head of the ship in the face of the night waters, an erect, brooding figure.

Wesley said nothing; he shrugged.

“Lonely standing there watching the water for two hours, isn’t it?” pressed Bill.

“Love it,” said Wesley firmly.

When they opened Nick’s door, his light went out.

“Hurry the hell in!” cried Nick. “Don’t stand there picking your nose in the dark.”

When Bill closed the door after them, the stateroom was flooded with light. Nick and Danny Palmer were seated at a small card table.

“Ah!” cried Palmer. “Now we have a foursome.”

Wesley threw his peacoat on the bed and lit up a cigarette, while Bill drew a chair to the table.

“What is it?” asked Nick, fondling his moustache.

“Suits me.”

“Me too.”

“Your watch finished?” Nick addressed Wesley.

“Yeah.”

“How is it out?”

“Moon bright as hell.”

“Bad night, hey?” smiled Palmer.

“Could be worse,” grunted Wesley, pulling up a chair. “These ain’t hot waters like the Gulf or off Newfie and Greenland.”

Nick dealt the cards blandly.

“When’s your engine room watch?” asked Bill.

“Midnight,” said Nick. “We can play lots of games till then,” he added mincingly. Palmer laughed.

They scanned their hands silently. Bill glanced at Wesley and wondered how he could watch the sea for hours and then coolly take part in a game of cards. Wasn’t it a dark, tremendous thing out there on the bow? Wesley looked up at Bill. They stared at each other in silence . . . and in that brief glance from Wesley’s dark eyes, Bill knew the man was reading his thoughts and answering them - yes, he loved and watched the sea; yes the sea was dark and tremendous; yes Wesley knew it and yes, Bill understood. They looked down.

“Pass,” mumbled Danny, arching his blond brows.

“Check,” said Wesley.

Nick rolled his tongue around his palate.

“Three,” he said at length.

Bill waved his hand toward Nick. Nick grinned: “Are you giving me the palm?”

“Surely, the world is yours, Lenin,” said Bill.

Danny laughed smoothly.

“How true,” he purred.

“Diamonds is, trumps is,” mumbled Nick.

They began to play in silence.

“I’m moving in with Nick,” Danny presently announced. “Don’t you think it’s much nicer up here than down in that smelly focastle?”

“Surely,” said Bill.

“Don’t let him kid you,” raced Nick. “Damn his excuses. He really wants to be near me.”

Palmer laughed and blushed. Nick pinched his cheek: “Isn’t he beautiful?”

Wesley smiled faintly while Bill adjusted his glasses with some embarrassment.

Nick resumed his play with a blank expression.

“No, but I really like it up here much better,” Danny struggled. “It’s much more pleasant.” Wesley stared curiously at him.

Nick slapped an ace down with a smack. Smoke curled from Wesley’s nose as he pondered his next move. The room was plunged into darkness as the door opened; they heard the waves outside swish and slap against the side of the moving ship.

“Don’t stand there scratching your head!” howled Nick. “Close and come in.” The door closed and the room was lighted again. It was one of the gun crew.

“Hello, Roberts,” greeted Nick. “Sit ye down.”

“I didn’t know you ran a gambling hall,” laughed the young soldier.

“Just whist.”

The soldier perched himself up on Nick’s bunk and watched the progress of the game. After a few minutes, Wesley rose.

“Get in the game, soldier,” he said. “I’m pullin’ out.”

“You should,” mumbled Nick.

Wesley ruffled Nick’s hair. Bill put his own cards down: “Where you going Wes?”

“Stick around,” cried Nick. “We need your foursome.”

“I’m goin’ down for a cup of coffee,” said Wesley. He picked up his peacoat and went to the door.

“Hurry up!” said Nick. “I want to be in the dark with Danny.” Danny laughed suavely.

Wesley waved his hand at Nick and opened the door; for a moment his thin frame stood silhouetted in the moonlit door: “Okay Nick?” he asked.

“Don’t close it yet!” howled Nick.

When Wesley had left, they laughed and began a new game.

At ten o’clock, Bill left the game and made his way down to the galley. The mess hall was crowded with seamen playing dice and drinking coffee. Bill had a cup for himself; then he went back to the moon washed deck and watched the big yellow moon sink toward the horizon. He felt a wave of peace come over him . . . his first day at sea had proved as uneventful as it was casual. Was this the life Wesley had espoused? . . . this round of work, feeding, ease, and sleep, this mellow drama of simplicity? Perhaps it was the sort of thing Everhart had always needed. What he would do now is go to sleep, wake up, work, eat, hang around, talk, watch the sea, and then go back to sleep.

Nothing could disturb this wise calm, this sanity of soul; he had noticed how quickly the seamen, and Wesley in particular, had put a halt to Joe’s sacrilegious rebellion – no, they wouldn’t have fellows like Joe “foul everything up.” And what was this “everything?” . . . it was a way of life, at sea; it meant equality, sharing, cooperation, and communal peace . . . a stern brotherhood of men, by George, where the malefactor is quickly dealt with and where the just man finds his right station. Yes, where he had once felt a deficiency of idealism in Wesley, he now found more idealism, and more practical affirmation of ideals there than in his own self.

Bill took a last look at the night sea and went below to sleep. He stretched in his bunk and smoked a last cigarette . . . he hoped he would dream.

Wesley was up before sunrise for his next watch. The bosun told him to do something around the deck, so Wesley picked out a broom and went around sweeping. No one was around.

The sea was rougher that second morning out, its swells less smooth and more aggravated by a wind that had picked up during the night. Wesley went topsides and watched the smoke fly from the funnel in ragged leeward shapes. He began to sweep along the deck, still dull with sleep and not able to stop yawning, until he reached aft. Two soldiers stood below him, near the four-inch gun, consorting like monsters in their earphones and orange lifebelts.

They waved at Wesley; he waved his broom.

The ship had begun to rock in the heavier swells, its stern jogging slowly in massive wobbles. The wind whipped across the waters sporting a dark green shadow of chasing ripples; here and there, a wave broke at the top and crested down a white edge of foam. In a few days, Wesley mused, rough seas would develop.

In the East now the sun had sent forth its pink heralds; a long sash laned to the ship, like a carpet of rose for Neptune. Wesley leaned on his broom and watched for the sunrise with a silent, profound curiosity. He had seen sunrise everywhere, but it never rose in the shaggy glory that it did in North Atlantic waters, where the keen, cold ocean and smarting winds convened to render the sun’s young light a primitive tinge, a cold grandeur surpassed only in the further reaches of the north. He had seen wild colors off the Norwegian North Cape, but down here off the top of Maine there was more of a warm, winey splendor in the sunrise, more of a commingling of the South with the North.

Wesley walked forward and breathed the salt-seeped wind deep into his lungs. He pounded his chest joyfully and waved the broom around his head, and since no one was around, he hopped around the deck like a gleeful witch with his broom.

This was it! That air, that water, the ship’s gentle plunges, the way a universe of pure wind drove off the Westminster’s smoke and absorbed it, the way white-capped waves flashed green, blue, and pink in the primordial dawn light, the way this Protean ocean extended its cleansing forces up, down, and in a terrific cyclorama to all directions.

Wesley stopped near the bridge and watched the destroyer up ahead. Its low form seemed to stalk the waters menacingly, her masts pitching gently from side to side, her guns alternately pointing above and below the horizons as though nothing could escape her range.

Wesley put aside the broom and sauntered around the deck. He found an oil can and went over to check the lifeboat pulleys; when he knelt down to oil one of them, the bridge house tinkled its bell. The wind whipped away the sound quickly.

“Brring, brring . . .” mimicked Wesley whimsically. “Music to my ears, damn it.”

In five minutes, the sun appeared above the horizon, a rose hill rising gently to command the new day. The wind seemed to hesitate in homage.

Wesley finished his work around the deck and clambered down a ladder to the next level; he took one last deep breath of the air and pushed open a door that lead midships. When he shuffled into the galley, Glory was already up preparing breakfast.

“Mawnin’!” boomed Glory. “If you lookin’ for breakfast, man, you goin’ to wait!”

“Just a cup o’ coffee, Pops,” smiled Wesley.

Glory began to hum the blues while Wesley poured himself a cup of hot coffee.

“Where you from?” asked Wesley, jetting a stream of evaporated milk into his coffee.

“Richmond!” boomed Glory, removing his pipe. “I done lay down a hipe when I left Richmond.”

Wesley stirred his coffee: “I worked on a construction job down near Richmond once.”

“Richmond!” sang Glory, “dat’s my town, man. I pulled outa there on account of a woman, yessuh!”

A seaman came in and unlocked the galley portholes; the pink light poured into the room with a gust of salty breeze.

Glory gazed through the porthole and shook his head slowly, like a great lion.

“I done put down a hipe when I left Richmond,” he moaned deeply. “A lowdown hipe!”

“What did your woman do?” asked Wesley.

“Man, she didn’t do nawthin’ . . . I done it all, old Glory done it all. I lost all her money in a crap game.”

Wesley shook with silent laughter. Glory poked his enormous finger in Wesley’s chest: “Man, you think I was goin’ to hang around there till she slit my gut?”

“No sir!”

“Hell, no! I done pull out o’ Richmond an’ dragged me North to New Yawk. I done worked up there for the W.P.A.,[2] in restaurants, and man, all the time, I had them lowdown woman blues.” Glory chuckled with a rich growl. “I thought o’ comin’ on back to Richmond, but man I didn’t have the guts . . . I shipped out!”

Wesley sipped his coffee silently.

“Everybody,” sang Glory in his thunderous basso, “want to go to heaven . . . but no-one want to die!”

“What was her name?” Wesley asked.

Glory pushed a pan of bacon into the range oven and kicked it shut.

“Louise!” he moaned. “Louise . . . the sweetest gal I ever know.” He began to sing as he broke eggs into a pot for scramble: “Lawise, Lawise, is the sweetest gal I know, hmmm, she made me walk from Chicago to the Gulf of Mexico . . . now looka here Lawise, what you tryin’ to do? Hmmm? What you tryin’ to do, you tryin’ to give the man mah lovin’ - an’ me too - now, you know Lawise, baby that will never do . . . now, you know you can’t love me . . . an’ love some other man too . . . hmmm . . .”

His voice broke off in sinking tremolo.

“Way down blues, man,” said Wesley.

“Richmond blues!” boomed Glory. “I used to sing ‘Louise’ all day in front o’ the pool hall . . . an’ den at night I done drag my feet over to Louise’s. Man, you ever see Virginia in the Spring, hmmm?”

“You Goddamned right I did,” said Wesley.

“Ever take yo woman out thar with a bottle o’ gin, them willow trees, them nights out thar with a big fat moon jus’ lookin’ down, hmmm?”

“You Goddamned right I did!”

“Man, you know all ’bout it! Do I have to tell ya?” boomed Glory.

“No sir!”

“Hoo hoo hoo!” howled Glory. “I’m headin’ back for Richmond soon’s I drag my pants off dis ship . . . yassuh! I’m goin’ on down agin!”

“I’ll go with you, man! We’ll spend three weeks with a couple o’ them Richmond mommas!”

“Yeah!” thundered Glory. “I’m gonna get me mah honey Lawise an’ you amble on down de street an’ get you sump tin’.”

“High yaller!” cried Wesley, slapping Glory on the back. “You an’ me’s goin’ to have three weeks o’ Richmond beach . . .”

“Hoo!” cried Glory. “Throw me dat Jelly Roll,[3] boy, an’ I’m gonna eat it right up!”

They hooted with laughter as the ship pushed on, the sun now peered into the galley port with a flaming orange face; the sea had become a great flashing blue gem specked with beads of foam.

CHAPTER EIGHT

That afternoon, while Everhart sat sunning near the poop deck rail, reading Coleridge’s “Ancient Mariner,” he was startled by the harsh ringing of a bell behind him.

He looked up from the book and glanced around the horizon with fear. What was it?

A droning, nasal voice spoke over the ship’s address system: “All hands to the boat deck. All hands to the boat deck.” The system whistled deafeningly.

Bill grinned and looked around, fear surging in his breast. The other seamen, who had been lounging on the deck with him, now dashed off. The warm wind blew Bill’s pages shut; he rose to his feet with a frown and laid down the book on his folding chair. This calm, sunny afternoon at sea, flashing greens and golds, whipping bracing breezes across lazy decks, was this an afternoon for death? Was there a submarine prowling in these beautiful waters?

Bill shrugged and ran down to his focastle for the lifebelt; running down the alleyway, he hastily strapped it on, and clambered up the first ladder. An ominous silence had fallen over the ship.

“What the hell ’s going on!” he muttered as he climbed topsides. “This is no time for subs! We’ve just started!” His legs wobbled on the ladder rungs.

On the top deck, groups of quiet seamen stood beside their lifeboats, a grotesque assemblage in lifebelts, dungarees, cook’s caps, aprons, oiler’s caps, bow caps, khaki pants, and dozens of other motley combinations of dress. Bill hastened toward his own lifeboat and halted beside a group. No one spoke. The wind howled in the smoking funnel, flapped along the deck waving the clothing of the seamen, and rushed out over the stern along the bright green wake of the ship. The ocean sighed a soothing, sleepy hush, a sound that pervaded everywhere in suffusing enormity as the ship slithered on through, rocking gently forward.

Bill adjusted his spectacles and waited.

“Just a drill, I think,” offered a seaman.

One of the Puerto Rican seamen in Bill’s group, who wore a flaring cook’s cap and a white apron beneath his lifebelt, began to conga across the deck while a comrade beat a conga rhythm on his thighs. They laughed.

The bell rang again; the voice returned: “Drill dismissed. Drill dismissed.”

The seamen broke from groups into a confused swarm waiting to file down the ladders. Bill took off his lifebelt and dragged it behind him as he sauntered forward. Now he had seen everything . . . the ship, the sea . . . mornings, noons, and nights of sea . . . the crew, the destroyer ahead, a boat drill, everything.

He felt suddenly bored. What would he do for the next three months?

Bill went down to the engine room that night to talk with Nick Meade. He descended a steep flight of iron steps and stopped in his tracks at the sight of the monster source of the Westminster’s power . . . great pistons charged violently, pistons so huge one could hardly expect them to move with such frightening rapidity. The Westminster’s shaft turned enormously, leading its revolving body toward the stern through what seemed to Bill a giant cave for a giant rolling serpent.

Bill stood transfixed before this monstrous power; he began to feel annoyed. What were ideas in the face of these brutal pistons; pounding up and down with a force compounded of nature and intriguing with nature against the gentle form of man?

Bill descended further, feeling as though he were going down to the bottom of the sea itself. What chance could a man have down here if a torpedo should ram at the waterline, when the engine room deck was at a level thirty or forty feet below! Torpedo . . . another brutal concoction of man, by George! He tried to imagine a torpedo slamming into the engine room against the hysterical, blind power of the pistons, the deafening shock of the explosion, the hiss of escaping steam, the billions of water pouring in from a sea of endless water, himself lost in this holocaust and being pitched about like a leaf in a whirlpool. Death! . . . he half expected it to happen that precise moment.

A water tender stood checking a gauge.

“Where’s the oiler Meade?” shouted Bill above the roar of the great engine. The water tender pointed forward. Bill walked until he came to a table where Nick sat brooding over a book in the light of a green shaded lamp.

Nick waved his hand; he had apparently long given up conversation in an engine room, for he pushed a book toward Bill. Bill propped himself up on the table and ran through the leaves.

“Words, words, words,” he droned, but the din of the engine drowned out his words and Nick went on reading.

The next day - another sun drowned day - the Westminster steamed North off the coast of Nova Scotia, about forty miles offshore, so that the crew could see the dim purple coastline just before dusk.

A fantastic sunset began to develop . . . long sashes of lavender drew themselves above the sun and reached thin shapes above distant Nova Scotia. Wesley strolled aft, digesting his supper, and was surprised to see a large congregation of seamen on the poop deck. He advanced curiously.

A man stood before the winch facing them all and speaking with gestures; on the top of the winch, he had placed a bible, and he now referred to it in a pause. Wesley recognized him as the ship’s baker.

“And they were helped against them, and the Hagarites were delivered into their hand, and all that were with them,”[1] the baker shouted, “for they cried to God in the battle and he was entreated of them because they put their trust in him . . .”

Wesley glanced around at the assemblage. The seamen seemed reluctant to listen, but none of them made any motion to leave. Some watched the sunset, others the water, others gazed down - but all were listening. Everhart stood at the back listening curiously.

“And so, brothers,” resumed the baker, who had obviously appointed himself the Westminster’s spiritual guide for the trip, “we must draw a lesson from the faith of the Reubenites in their war with the Hagarites and in our turn call to God’s aid in our danger. The Lord watched over them and he will watch over us if we pray to him and entreat his mercy in this dangerous ocean where the enemy waits to sink our ship . . .”

Wesley buttoned up his peacoat; it was decidedly chilly. Behind the baker’s form, the sunset pitched alternately over and below the deck rail, a florid spectacle in pink. The sea was deep blue.

“Let us kneel and pray,” shouted the baker, picking up his bible, his words drowned in a sudden gust of sea wind so that only those nearby heard him. They knelt with him. Slowly, the other seamen dropped to their knees. Wesley stood in the midst of the bowed shapes.

“Oh God,” prayed the baker in a tremulous wail, “watch over and keep us in our journey, oh Lord, see that we arrive safely and . . .”

Wesley shuffled off and heard no more. He went to the bow and faced the strong headwind blowing in from the North, its cold tang biting into his face and fluttering back his scarf like a pennant.

North, in the wake of the destroyer, the sea stretched a seething field which grew darker as it merged with the lowering sky. The destroyer prowled.

1. Jack drew upon his experiences as a Merchant Marine for several writing projects: “Two Worlds for a New One,” “Heartbeat of the Sea,” and a one-act play “The Seamen” are some of the variations on this theme. These can be found in the Kerouac archive, Berg Collection, New York Public Library.

1. Lester Young and Webster were jazz saxophone players.

2. Early-twentieth-century coin-operated music box.

3. La Marsellaise is the French national anthem.

1. Weber & Heilbroner, men’s clothing store in Lower Manhattan.

2. U.S. Army fort built on the Chicago River in 1803.

3. Able Seaman, the “deck crew” of a ship. Their main duties are cargo evaluations, docking and undocking, standing helm and lookout watches on the bridge, as part of the navigation team, as well as the general maintenance of the vessel.

1. Crew member responsible for keeping the hull, rigging, and sails in good repair.

1. Sonnet 55 of the Fair Youth sequence.

2. Variant spelling of “hype,” meaning cheat, swindle.

3. Singer, vaudevillian, music-hall performer, and actress.

4. French politician, identified with the moderate left.

1. Jack’s journal entry dated July 19, 1942, reflects this conversation with shipmate Eatherton: “Woke up hearing the weird song of a Moro, who is one of our cooks. He sits before his stateroom door, chanting happily of the Far East. Judging from what I hear about the ferocious Moro tribes of the Philippines, I had better not turn my back to him when he’s drunk - or so roomie Bob Eatherton thinks. As a matter fact, most of the crew go about with sheathed knives and daggers.” The Moro is a name given to Muslim Filipinos, a collection of several multilingual ethnic groups, the largest mainly non-Christian group in the Philippines.

2. Petty Officer.

3. German writer known for his biographies; his book (in French) on Joseph Stalin was published in 1938.

4. Xerxes I (519–465 BC), King of Persia (486–465 BC), who succeeded his father, Darius I.

5. Stephen Dedalus is James Joyce’s literary alter ego, the protagonist and antihero of his first, semi-autobiographical novel, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and a character in Joyce’s monumental Ulysses. Daedalus was a Greek mythological figure. Stephen Dedalus chooses “silence, exile, and cunning” in order to free himself from “nationalism, language, religion.” An ash-plant is a walking stick, a reference to Portrait.

1. Vehicles that were untried in a situation, referring to the launching of prototype jeeps in World War II. Slang for new recruits.

2. Works Progress Administration, largest of the New Deal agencies established in 1935.

3. Slang for lover, sex, or intercourse.

1. 1 Chronicles 5:20.

PART II

Early Writings

Jack Kerouac was prolific even as a young man and these short stories and one-act play from 1939 to 1942 were written when he was spending time with Sebastian Sampas and the other Prometheans. This story, written for The Horace Mann Quarterly and published in the fall issue of 1939, is one of Kerouac’s detective tales. He weaves quite a tale of deception and creates two interesting characters, the Hand brothers, using colloquial language to bring them to life. There is not much in Jack’s notes about his interest in writing detective stories, except in “Farewell Song, Sweet from My Trees” [1] he says that he and his friends were quite enamored of dime novels, such as The Shadow and Masked Detective: “Those dime novels . . . it wasn’t so much the killing in these stories that we used to feed upon, it was rather the dark and mysterious labyrinthal movement of our heroes . . .”

Jack at age 14, in Lowell

The Brothers

By Jack Kerouac

Fall 1939

In all my years of association with Henry Browne, I never had a duller pair of weeks than those we spent at Pelham, during our vacation last winter. Henry’s rotund aunt, and her superlative squash pie, kept me from running for cover in the direction of any sort of excitement.

We boarded at her house on the outskirts of the little town, which, as I can vaguely recall, was situated somewhere in Warren County, Pennsylvania. The town, as you may already suspect, had all the aspects of a nest of contented cows, munching meditatively on their respective cuds.

If it had not been for the amazing character of Browne and his persuasive power over me, I would have certainly taken the earliest possible train back to New York. Browne and I work under the Gimble Private Detective Agency banner, and we didn’t quibble very long over Gimble’s suggestion for a little vacation. I could not think of any place to spend the weeks, and when Browne stated that he would visit his comely aunt in Pelham, and that I could come if I wanted to, I naturally followed. In fact, I have been following Browne for the better part of five years, on the trail of different cases in the big city, and this bit of tailing along would not be anything out of the ordinary.

Browne is a lean and angular man, with the generous features of a Saxon. I think he was born somewhere in England, from what I gathered, and that he came to America after the war. Browne always says to me, “Why do you wiggle so much!” In fact, he has said that so many times that I am beginning to treat it as purely essential. Browne is a man of extreme calm, of stone-like imperturbability. He reminds one of Oriental patience at the zenith of its fortitude. Certainly, to a man so immovable in spirit, it would seem very probable that the average man is continually “wiggling.”

Needless to say, things were very dull in Pelham for two weeks, that is not including the last day of our stay.

As usual, Browne had brought me to Old Mike’s general store on Main Street, where he enjoyed the company of a circle of idle gentlemen who convened there every night. The subject at the moment we entered was, as I recollect, the different ailments of several people who were members of the community.

“George Hand always looked like the health[iest] of men to me,” Trebinger was saying. Trebinger wore a mackinaw, as well as an air of complete assurance.

“You can give him credit for hidin’ his ails,” quoted a bean-pole, who sat stretched out in the corner. “My brother George has been sick for years like that, and lately he hasn’t be’n sleepin’ enough to keep the circles from ’cummulatin’ under his eyes.”

“Still, George Hand looks sick to me,” said Trebinger, with an air of stout decision. He punctuated this remark with a well-directed shot of juice into the “inferno” within the stove, letting the sharp hiss signify the truth of his assertion.

The long bean-pole, whom I now gathered was one of the oft-mentioned Hand brothers, got up and stretched his unbelievable frame to its full length, casting a huge shadow upon the whitewashed wall. I would safely say that he was somewhere near six foot seven, and they do say that his brother was, on the other hand, a very short man, of about five foot five. I noticed a telegram sticking out of his back pocket, and I wondered what possible contact he could have with the outside world, being a member of this lost colony, literally speaking.

“Turnin’ in so soon, Elmo?” queried one of the men.

“Wal, I guess I’ll take a little walk tonight, fust. I gotta buy some sleepin’ pills for George, and throw in a roll of felt, will you, Mike? Gotta plug some cracks in the door, or George will catch his death o’ cold.”

As Old Mike, a small and wiry Democrat, went rummaging into the limitless expanses of his back room for the articles, Trebinger again asserted that George Hand was never sick, but that possibly he was a hypochondriac, or, as he said, a “hiperconder.”

Browne was closely watching the telegram, a portion of which could be seen sticking out of the lanky Hand’s pocket.

Old Mike returned with the articles, and at the same time saying: “Were the panes okay, Elmo? Mebbe you’d like a bit of putty to fix that ventilator of yourn.”

Hand waved a lengthy paw. “I already fixed that ventilator, Mike. I need this felt to plug up the windows in our room. The spaces between the windows and the frames is somethin’ arful.”

As Mike and Hand counted the money for the purchase, Trebinger chimed in again. “Seems to me that you ha’ waited through a long cold winter afore you decided to fix that ventilator, an’ them windows, Elmo. It won’t be much cold now.”

“Why don’t you shut up sometimes, Bill,” spat Hand. With that, he stomped out, slamming the door with a resounding noise.

One of the old boys chuckled. “Elmo shore air burned up. I wonder if he’s thinkin’ about that inheritance that he ain’t gonna git.”

“What do you mean,” said Browne, suddenly. It was the first sentence he had uttered since coming in with me.

“Why, don’t you know, Mister Browne?” asked the old boy. “These two Hand brothers are both eligible to receivin’ the inheritance, but most everyone in town knows that Elmo was no favorite o’ Lucilia Hand. That sister of his never did like him, and Hand never like her. George is a-gonna get all o’ that estate, and mark my words.”

“What estate?” asked Browne, sitting forward.

“Why, the Ridgecliff Estate, out in New York State. You see, their father, Clem Hand, left all of it to Lucilia, his daughter. He never fer the life of him liked his two worthless sons, so he sort of disinherited them. Now that Lucilia is dead, the estate is goin’ to George Hand.”

“Interesting,” mused Browne.

I was beginning to note that my cohort was absorbed in something. I watched him closely.

A customer came in, and Old Mike went back of the counter to serve him. A few moments later Mike returned.

“Ben selling lots of pipin’ lately. I’ll have to send for more tomorrow fust thing. Why, just this mornin’ Elmo Hand came down to buy a pipe. Said there was a slow leak in the gas stove, and that he was gonna try to fix it.”

“Come on, will you, Henry,” I interrupted. “We might as well turn in early tonight.”

“Um,” said Browne, meditatively.

An hour passed, when Browne rose and announced that we were turning in. After a few words we were out in the keen air of a February night. I strode beside him, feeling slightly spry, and happy with the thought that we would be in New York at this time tomorrow night. Henry strode on, hardly aware of my presence. He seemed to be heading for a definite point in the little town, and I did not venture to ask any questions. Browne had always been so contained within himself that I knew I would never get results from querying.

Finally, we stopped. Coming towards us was the huge frame of Elmo Hand, walking with tremendous ground eating strides, looking like a mammoth in the night.

“Howdy,” he greeted.

“Going to Mike’s?” asked Browne, after a curt nod.

“Reckon I will. I just left George home, sleeping well. Reckon he’ll be okay till morning’. G’night.”

“Good night,” said Browne.

As Hand strode away, Browne nudged my arm. He pulled me towards him and said in a low tone, “We’ve got to get George Hand, McNary. Something terrible is happening in that house now.”

“Don’t be absurd,” I cried. “What are you talking about?”

“Come on,” was his answer.

Swiftly and silently we traveled through the dark streets.

Soon we reached the house, and Browne unhesitatingly began to climb the steps inside the dark hallway. I stumbled, and cursed. What in the world, thought I, were we doing here? I began to wonder if Browne had finally lost his perspective.

Evidently he hadn’t, for the next thing I knew, I was flung down the stairs by a huge impact, coming from Browne.

We tumbled, and finally stopped. Then, there began a scuffling on my left, and the first thing I did was to yell “Browne!”

My reward was a terrific swipe in the mouth, and I fell back with millions of myriad stars swimming in my brain. As my mind cleared again, I leaped toward[s] the sound of the fighting.

Things were in an uproar. I grappled at a coat and gave a Herculean pull – and I doubt if I budged the owner of the garment more than an inch. I reached up for the neck, and realized that somebody in this little affair was gigantic. Elmo Hand! . . . that was my first thought.

The thing turned on me, and I was soon enveloped in a pair of steel arms. Then I heard a dull thud, and the arms loosened.

A shaft of light shot through the stygian darkness, and there was another dull thud. The thing crumpled, and hit the floor.

Browne was standing, disheveled and smiling, with his flashlight on, looking at Elmo Hand.

“Brotherly love,” was all he said, and the next thing I knew, he was dashing up the steps again. This time, I did not follow as closely, and not without one more look at the fallen Titan. “Good Lord,” thought I, “what is it all about?”

I climbed the steps, and found Browne using his skeleton key on the lock of a door. He pushed it open and stepped in. I approached the door, and a pungent, acrid odor stung my nostrils. Gas!

Browne turned on the switch, which he found after a few seconds of groping, and then with the room bathed in light, and revealing, he walked across the room and opened the window.

On the bed, on the far side, lay a squat man, sleeping calmly, oblivious to our vicious struggles, and of the silent menace which would have claimed him, had not Browne foreseen things.

Without a word, Browne closed the door, leaving the room well ventilated, and motioned me down the stair to where lay our prize.

“How did you ever suspect?” asked I in obvious wonderment.

“McNary, a leaky gas stove, sleeping pills, and felt to plug up cracks in a room, as well as a recently reinforced ventilator don’t sound any too healthy do they?”

I agreed there, very vehemently.

“But I still don’t see how you could ever guess anything was wrong.”

“I knew about these things, and only saw them as strange coincidences, McNary. But when I heard about the estate, I figured that Elmo was one of those brothers who believe in the process of elimination. Can’t you see that this would have looked like suicide, with a motive of being tired of living, because of his ailments? And again, if that wouldn’t do, it could pass as an accident because of the leaky stove? Elmo was always harping about his brother’s sickness, obviously, to lead to a belief that he would be crazy enough to commit suicide. I’d say he’s been planning this for months, even having fixed the pipe so that it would leak.”

To this I shuddered, and Brown said, “Why do you wiggle so much!”

“Oh, blast you!” I shot back. “Let’s put this erupted volcano away, and have a parting portion of Aunt Hilary’s squash pie.

The beginning of another detective story with all the makings of a completed novella stops abruptly. The illustration above the text is by Jack; his early interest in drawing shows in the illustrations in notebooks and journals from his youth. Later the visual arts will become a passion for Jack as he spends time with painters, such as Dody Muller and Stanley Twardowicz, creating such works as “Old Angel Midnight” and “Blue Balloon,” which sometimes correlate with his literary pieces. The book Departed Angels: Jack Kerouac, The Lost Paintings, by Ed Adler, published by Thunder’s Mouth Press (2004), is an excellent reference to Kerouac’s paintings and drawings.

The first page of Jack’s untitled novella about Detective Ken Harris

[Detective Story]

By Jack Kerouac

The driving rain lashed the empty streets, thunder roared and lightning flashed angrily. The street lamp on the corner was barely discernable in the downpour. Ken Harris, a very capable employee of the Davis Agency of Crime Detection, trudged along with mammoth strides, stopping only long enough to light a cigarette, pull his coat collar up tight around his neck, his wet hat brim lower over his face in an almost useless effort to escape the raging torrent.

While he strode on his mind was racing with thoughts, things for example like Frank Lascomb getting the Perrelli assignment. Not that Frank wasn’t a good man. He was. But the thought of him getting most of the good assignments burned in Ken[’s] mind, as unjust. Lightning flashed again as Ken swung down Kerry Street. Thunder boomed as if in angry protest, and Ken Harris quickened his pace. He wondered where Lascomb was now. Maybe he had caught Perrelli, maybe Perrelli had caught him. He might, at this very minute, be lying at the bottom of the East River as far as Ken Harris was concerned.

Another flash of lightning, more thunder and the rain came down literally in sheets. As Ken neared the Atlantic Storage Company Warehouse, lightning flashed again. Ken stopped immediately and flung himself back into the welcome shadows of a small doorway. He was certain he saw a figure moving along the side of the great warehouse. Was it just his imagination?

He grimly waited. During the next flash, he kept his eyes on the same spot, where two minutes before he was certain he had seen a crouching figure. He saw no further signs to indicate that anything was wrong, yet he was sure that he had seen someone, and he decided to investigate.

Ken Harris kept in the shadows and silently yet swiftly made his way across the street. He peered into the Stygian darkness ahead of him, but could see nothing. When he reached the spot where he thought he’d seen someone, he crouched low, jerked his gun from his hip pocket, and made his way along the side of the warehouse to the ramp.

Suddenly Ken’s heart began to race wildly as he saw a figure flattened out against the building apparently watching someone. Ken’s first impulse was to shout to the man ordering him to raise his hands or else. But he dismissed the thought immediately. There may be others. No use in warning them too. He crept silently up to the crouching man. He pressed the .45 into the man’s shoulders. “Not a sound out of you, or it’ll be your last,” he clipped savagely. He spun the man around.

“Frank,” he said in a very much surprised tone, “what are you doing here?”

“Ken Harris, if I ever needed a good man it certainly is now.” He said warmly. “Perrelli’s in there,” he continued, “I think there’s two others, I’m not sure.”

“What are they after?” Ken asked.

“Furs,” muttered Frank. “I’ve been after this guy for hours. I knew I couldn’t bring them all in alone and I was just wishing you were here.”

“And here I drop in like an answer to a maiden’s prayer,” kidded Ken.

Getting Vince Perrelli would be an important feather in the cap of the Davis Agency. Both Frank and Ken knew that. This chance could not afford to be bungled.

“How’re they going to get away with the furs?” asked Ken, somewhat disturbed with the thought. He had seen no truck, and consequently deducted that there must be some means of transportation for the stolen furs.

“They have a fast launch on the river in back of the warehouse,” answered Frank, “they’ll have to carry them in their arms down this ramp, and to the boat. That’ll be our chance to get the whole gang. Take my advice Ken, and shoot first, this gang is one of the most murderous I’ve ever run up against. Shoot first and find out who you shot afterwards.”

“OK Frank. I don’t hear anything though, are you sure they’re still in there?”

“They must be,” returned the other. Before his whisper had died out there came the sound of shuffling feet. As though the owner of those pedal extremities had a great burden making his progress a little difficult.

Ken Harris and Frank Lascomb gripped their .45’s tighter, and each crouched eagerly forward, tensely awaiting the shuffling man’s appearance.

Ken Harris spun around suddenly on an impulse. He peered through the gloom of the night. Lightning flashed again and in the light Ken saw two figures running toward them. Ken squeezed the trigger of his .45 and the two mobsters threw themselves face down on the muddy ground. Thunder roared, and with it the barks of stabbing automatics. Frank took aim at the man with the shuffling feet, who, by this time had dropped the furs and went for his gun. He hadn’t quite drawn his gun when he spun around from the force of Frank’s slug, and he crumpled to the floor writhing convulsively.

Vince Perrelli, back in the warehouse hiding behind a large packing case with one of his henchmen, muttered muffled oaths. “If it’s those Davis dicks,” he growled, “I’ll make them wish they’d never heard of Vince Perrelli.” He pulled his gun and keeping close to the walls, he approached the opening that led to the ramp. A tiny stabbing flame greeted him and a bullet whistled by his head. He leaped back into the shadows and swore violently.

The two men that Ken kept firing at, tried to answer Ken’s challenge by returning fire from a prone position, but suddenly realizing that they were easy targets for Ken’s deadly aim, they jumped up and ran in different directions. Ken’s .45 blasted and one of the gangsters threw up his hands as if in surrender and sank to the ground. Ken wheeled and fired again. The other mobster clutched his arm and tripped. He staggered to his feet and threw a fast shot at Ken. The slug chipped a piece of wood from the ramp. The mobbie howled, and fell face first to the ground as Ken’s next bullet pierced his chest.

Frank, still waiting for Vince Perrelli to show himself, raised his gun. What he saw startled him. The huge packing case, which had harbored Perrelli, was moving slowly to the ramp. Ken saw it too. “Ken,” Frank cried, “Perrelli is behind that case. We’ve got to find shelter somewhere.”

A sudden shot from Perrelli made the boys move fast. Frank hugged the wall on one side of the ramp, and Ken hugged the other. As soon as the great packing case came close enough, Ken and Frank who had reloaded meanwhile, threw a volley of shots, that ripped through the case. A howl of pain from Perrelli’s counterpart answered their efforts. The case stopped. They heard running footsteps. Perrelli was running!

Ken shouted to Frank, “Watch the outside for any more of the gang, I’m going after Vince Perrelli.”

“Don’t be crazy, Ken!” Frank screamed after him. “Perrelli’s a killer.” But Ken Harris had already leaped onto the ramp and entered the confines of the great edifice.

He crept along the wall slowly, every nerve straining. He stopped for a moment and listened, and crept along. Perrelli, was down at the far end of the room, crouching behind another huge box. His gun hand twitched nervously. Perrelli was in a spot and he knew it.

Ken looked at all the boxes piled as much as three high and grimaced at the thought that Vince Perrelli might be behind any one of them. He decided on a desperate plan. He climbed to the top of a row of boxes, and crawled along. Perrelli saw him and sent a hot slug sizzling by Ken Harris’ head. Ken rolled over the edge and landed on top of the arch criminal. Perrelli struck the first blow with the butt of his .38. Ken sprawled backward and tried to get to his feet. Vince Perrelli struck out with his foot and the point of his shoe caught Ken full in the jaw and sent him reeling back. When Ken looked up he was staring straight into the muzzle of Vince Perrelli’s thirty-eight.

“A wise copper,” he snarled, “I’d kill you on the spot if I didn’t need you to help me to get out of here.”

“You’ll never leave here alive, Perrelli,” growled Ken, secretly wondering whether he would or not.

“March,” ordered Vince, “you’re going through the doorway to the ramp first . . . and if your friend out there takes you for me, well that’ll be your tough luck.”

“He’ll get you, Perrelli, you[’re] not leaving this place alive, that is not unless you surrender.” Harris was putting up a bluff, but Vince Perrelli was nobody’s fool.

“You’d like me to surrender, wouldn’t you? I know that if the cops get me, I’ll burn, but what difference does it make if I kill a couple of more dicks? I’m going to burn anyway. That is, if they catch me.”

“Pretty sure of yourself aren’t you Perrelli?” said Ken in disgust.

Suddenly Ken spun around and grasped Perrelli’s wrist before the latter knew what had happened. He twisted the arch criminal’s arm back until Vince Perrelli dropped the gun which fell clattering to the floor.

Ken threw a fist straight from his shoulder, with the power of a pile-driver. It caught Perrelli flush on the jaw and sent him sprawling to the floor. Ken went for the gun but before he reached it, Perrelli was on his back. Ken ducked low and threw Vince clean over his head. Vince Perrelli was mad . . . he trembled with anger, his piglike eyes narrowed and he rose to his feet. He savagely leaped at Ken with the fury of a cyclone and Ken threw a roundhouse which went wild. Perrelli lashed out with an uppercut that caught Ken off guard. He reeled back. Perrelli tried to follow through but Ken rolled his head to one side and Vince’s hand almost went through a packing case. Ken ran and leaped to the top of some cases just as Perrelli started for the gun on the floor. He raised it but he was too late. Ken flew down and threw his arms around Perrelli’s neck and the latter went with him thudding to the floor.

Outside Frank Lascomb waited for Ken to return. When he heard the shots being fired within he immediately decided to go to the aid of Ken. . . .

[typescript ends]

This next work is a pivotal piece pointing to the direction that Jack would pursue: the observer, the recorder of the world around him. Although titled “THE JOURNAL OF AN EGOTIST”, it is not so much a journal of ideas as a statement of purpose about becoming a writer. This manifests itself clearly in Jack’s mind in September of his freshman year at Columbia (1940), and he offers later in the journal two other titles that he thought would have been better: “ ‘THE RECEPTACLE OF A MIND’ or ‘THE SPITTOON OF THE COLLEGE BRAIN.’ ” While there is no specific reference to any of the titles in Sebastian’s letter of February 1, 1941, it is there he begins to call Jack “mad master of Columbia,” a repeated motif in this investigatory journal.

There are significant examples of the kind of writer Jack would become, as he experimented with memories of his childhood, escapades with his friends, observations of the world around him, and tries to bring the reader along with him through these internal monologues and heartfelt confessions. He begins to use his invented words, such as “multitudinousness,” which through the mechanics of meter and sound will become the rhythms of Jack’s work that made his prose unique. The journal moves between himself and his imaginary reader as he tells of his need for expression and personal intellectual pursuits: “LEAVE ME ALONE AT NIGHT, WITH MY BOOKS, AND MAYBE MY LOVE ALSO, AND LET ME LIVE AT NIGHT.” From this journal we can see a glimpse of the autobiographical storytelling that became his life’s work.

THE JOURNAL OF AN EGOTIST

*****

Dealing With My Activities

and Thoughts During My First

Year at Columbia University . .

*****

By Jack Kerouac, Class of ’44

*****

With a Short Introduction

*****

New York City, 1940

***

*****************

********jlk[1]*******

*****************

Introduction

Undoubtedly, some people will be skeptical about reading this, to judge from its title.

Before I explain my reasons for choosing such a title, may I display the insignificance of this work. There are millions upon millions of people in the world, and I am one person.

But I am a world in my own self, as well as you are.

We are all little worlds. We are all - - - - little egotists.

Nobody would care to read this who had any sense of literary judgment, and those who haven’t any sense of literary judgment. . . . I don’t think they would care neither. But that is not the point; the points are coming.

Let’s not transgress.

Here is the story.

- - - - - I am one person in the millions and millions of humans on earth today and I have undertaken to record my activities in College, Freshman year.

It may not be Dickensish prose, but its value can be attested to the fact that they are written words. . . . all written words are sacred. Every word in the English language is inviolable, but written words add to this a compactness which would defy any literary iconoclast.

Secondly, I believe that my title is perfect because we are all egotists. The worst egotist on earth is the modest egotist. He is the blushing, self-effacing fellow who breaks his neck trying to appear blushing and self-effacing.

Do I make it clear?

Thirdly, I believe that we are all a little world in our own because that is undoubtedly so: Think, who is the most important guy on earth? Have you found an answer? Of course you have . . . . . yourself.

Not because you’re an egotist, but because you are human.

The main thing is this: If I try to make this a modest journal, I am going to be a modest egotist, which is one thing that is despicable. I shall therefore make it a liberal journal, and undoubtedly it will become egotistical. . . . human.

Some of our esteemed Philosophy professors here on the campus may look askance at me for attributing egotism as a-humanistic trait. And maybe they wouldn’t. As Saroyan said, “Think from way back.” Brooks Atkinson – he of the New York Times - - - retorted that God was the word in the beginning, Saroyan means to think from the beginning, not that he means that he was the word “way back.”

If I say the word “radical,” isn’t there a possibility that you can think far back and judge the word without the values given to it by our modern social scale?

That is enough about egotists and Saroyan. They are all one - - -and they are all quite happy, Saroyan himself being one of the most generous egotists ever to go around loving himself.

He says he does. . . . we keep it to ourselves.

That is the difference. According to society, we’re on the right side; but according to nature, we’re all alike.

Therefore, every one is an egotist - - - - and that is the reason for the title of this unimportant journal.

I was born in a mill city in Massachusetts, called Lowell, in 1922. My youth, as are everybody’s, was a long series of fears, chagrins, joys, dreams, hurt prides, and broken hearts. I won’t bore you with it.

Introduction

(Continued almost two months later)

Nov. 12. 1940

It is now two months later. I look at my first part of the introduction to this “Journal of an Egotist” and I frown. I am not such a strong believer in egotism now. I have just read a mighty book by Thomas Wolfe called “You Can’t Go Home Again”[1] and in it he says that you really can’t be a rare breed of a person unless you have humility, tolerance, and human understanding.

(But to want to be a rare breed, surely, that is egotism.)

******

It is two months later and I am much the wiser for it. Although an Introduction to a Journal should be short, compact, and autobiographical, mine is scattered and crazy. It is as disorderly as the mind of a young college man; it is a young college man that is writing it. What do you expect?

I want to complete the cycle of life.

I want to live the life of the eccentric “artist” who considers himself a rare kind of a bird. . . . a high form of aesthete who has nothing to do with this maddening world of Philistines.

And then I want to develop out of that into a more mature man in his twenties, efficient in the material world.

From then, I must flow into the channel of life until I reach middle-aged bourgeoisie, the culmination of my mental powers. Then when that day comes, I shall write a ponderous novel about America.

(But, hold, I have reams of paper to come concerning this impending novel, and so now in this introduction, let us not leave the things at hand.)

I said two months past that I would not bore you with my youth? Well, it is boring to you today, but Oh! What then, in those happy days of glittering whiteness and grotesque Halloween Nights?

And those inarticulate fears . . . . those monstrous, stupendous fears!

But of course, I must give you a prosaic record of my events, as superficially as possible. I was born, as I said two months ago, in a mill town on the Merrimack River in New England in 1922. That’s all. When I was about 12 years old, I was perhaps the best little sandlot ballcarrier for miles around. Today, thanks to that, I am receiving financial assistance through a great University . . . . . a University so great that it would not give me financial assistance unless I possessed good marks in school [and] a good indication of intelligence. I had both, at least the former, and here I am, cocked and crowing to the world!

But more has to be said than that. Much more! How far is the writer’s imagination from his accomplishment!

Introduction

(Con’td)

It is, of course, usual for a Journal to record the daily events which occur in the life of the author. But in this case, there will be a sad reversal of form. For, as I began my Journal two months ago and failed to write in it until two months had elapsed, it is apparent that the Journal will not be of the conventional type.

Therefore it will be my purpose to try, as best I can, to convey an image of life at the University. I shall write into this Journal at sporadic moments, trying to imbue the work with the freshness and vitality of extemporaneousness.

***

This introduction had been intended as a systematic beginning to a systematic work, but apparently, it is nothing but a wild orgy of words which will leave the reader wildly prepared for wilder things to come. So, dear reader and mad master, thou must accept thy fate.

My youth, to continue, was of the ordinary kind. I was very fortunate in having a good mother, a good father, a good sister, and a good home. There is nothing more than I could have asked for. I received all the necessary love and care needed to stabilize my rationality. I grew into the world pink and frail and unknowing, and I became callous and obdurately battered with the years . . . and in times to come, I should become completely covered with an integument of the blisters of experience. That of course, is a well known concept of the future. It is inevitable, as is war, taxes, and love.

One thing: I had a terrific imagination. First, I imagined the most paralyzing sort of monsters, and with the years, imagined my own little world. From the age[s] of five to twelve, I was continually absorbed in the pantomimes of my little universe whenever I could get a moment off by myself. Even later, my rampant imagination built a world of make-believe, in the form of baseball leagues; racing tracks, and football conferences (all played with marbles), and to which I supplemented vast piles of intricate files. My sense of statistics was overwhelming. I had an almost mad passion for statistics . . . and today, I find myself hopelessly victimized to the statistical world of business. From the little bustling busy-body, I have become a worthless aesthete with no ability in the world except but to be able to express myself in words, on paper. (Not very well orally.) In Science, at the University, I am a hopeless hulk of sloth and blindness. I sit at the laboratory table and brood over the technical sheets. I drool over them, and dream of the delightful delicacy and imaginativeness of my books . . . now so far away. I foresee, with extreme disturbance, my fumbling impracticalism in the years to come. But I am somewhat assuaged by what the Dean of the University said the first day I was here. He too, apparently, is lost in the world of heat-energy joules and generator coils. Yet, he is living a happy life. I had occasion to dine with he and his wife, and found both of them extremely sensitive to the touch of the world. And so I had left his home that evening considerably relieved. (At least, I can operate a typewriter and know how to repair it, with whatever prehistoric sense of mechanical logic I may have.)

Introduction

(Continued 12 days later, Nov. 24)

“Why,” I just asked myself, “don’t you write more often in this Journal?”

And my inarticulate inner self, the subconscious and creative mind, answered in its usual unspoken, unworded, roaringly silent, inarticulated manner: “I shall tell you why . . . . . ROAR ROAR ROAR ROAR” and so forth, and so forth, etc.

That is the trouble. I have all the world to write about, yet there is something that is restricting me. I cannot put the finger on it. I have at my feet millions upon millions of things to write about, and yet something says to me: “Wait. Wait. Later. Not now. Wait!” And I wait. Surely, my Journal will be flopped into the wastebasket of failure if I don’t at least write in it! What is it that makes me wait? Is it that I want to improve before I begin to say the important things that I have in mind? I think that I have hit it there.

But again, I might say that it should be much in favor of literary value were I to write now, in my apparent immaturity, in order to preserve my youth for future reference and delight. I shall never have reached my peak of writing until the day of my death, because Time is the greatest teacher and valuator, and the longest day is the last day. And so, should I wait for maturity before I express all the long and dark thoughts that I yearn to pour out, or should I libate these pages with them now, in order to preserve my youth.

I shall do the latter, [in] view of probably improving upon the subject matter later on.

Now that my inner battle is fought and won and I am ready to write I find it fitting to close this very unorthodox introduction with the following statements, summarizing what I have already said, or probably not summarizing anything but what I have in mind at the moment:

a) I shall now begin the writing of my Journal, my first serious diary, the other diaries having been mere recordings of daily physical activities, etc.

b) It has taken me at least two months and a half to adjust myself to the writing of this complex Journal, and now that I have adjusted myself at last, I shall pounce into my work with verve . . . at least, when I feel energetic.

c) The Journal should be representative of college life, and all the components which make up college life, viz. thoughts, troubles, loves, studies, desires, chagrins, disappointments, fears, etc. Whether it is or not makes little difference. What I have to say is completely disjointed and scattered, yet to me, all-important because of its scope, and future use in my novels of the world and mankind. In other words, I should have called this Journal something like this: “THE RECEPTACLE OF A MIND” or “THE SPITTOON OF THE COLLEGE BRAIN.” However the title has already been made, and the damage done. Let us, therefore, proceed . . . . and rest assured, the Introduction is quite ended.

****

Jack Kerouac

The Journal of an Egotist

******

November, 1940

On the title page of this journal, I have announced to the world that this would be a “record of my activities and thoughts during my first year in Columbia University.”

All right. All right. We’ll see.

First I want to say something. I look back at what I have written and at the moment, I think that the first page of the four-page introduction STINKS, to use the beautiful American language. I am quite candid about this, masters. It does reek with defects, and the idea is no good at all, except for the obvious fact that we are all egotists. I merely want to point out here that I don’t like that first page at all, and that I hope to Lord that my days of writing like that are over.

All right. Now, let’s go.

My records of the past have been nothing but short, terse, succinct statements of this sort:

August 12th: We played the Panthers today, won 7-5. Got three for four, two more homers. At night, went to Fred’s house and we had a fight in the parlor, trying to imitate movies. Bed at two in the morning, read “The Shadow,” that’s why. Hope Pop won at the races today. Will find out tomorrow.

And so forth. That gives you an idea of my Diaries of the past. I’ll admit that they are going to be a lot of fun to read some day, and maybe I’ll even go so far as to say that some eminent bearded professor may even look upon my puerile efforts as remarkable and valuable treasures of American contemporary youth . . . apparently drawing from the example that I just gave enough notes to comment with that would require hundreds of pages. Well, it may be, or it may not be. The thing is, I should like to make this Journal my first real mature effort.

And so here goes with one of the billions of things that I’ve noticed lately. (In one of my more business-like moments, I shall supply you with a detailed account of Jack Kerouac, what he is doing at Columbia, why is he there, what for, what he eats, what he’s been doing since he left off talking about himself in the Nov. 12 part of the Introduction, God Bless It. I believe that he left off, at that time, talking about his wild imagination for statistics and games, and his drooling over Science texts. Well, time yet, time yet. . . . .)

- - -

I wish to be a novelist, playwright, short story writer . . . in short, a man of letters. Therefore, I live, partly, to observe the world about me, so that I can write about it some day, drawing from the fund of my memory. And so, one day I observed these following things:

“You are going to eat at my house for Thanksgiving,” my friend had announced, knowing full well that I myself would have nowhere to eat such a dinner except in a restaurant. That was because I was a lone youngster in a large University, 250 miles from home, and I was not going to go home until Christmas. And so I said, feeling warm inside:

“Thank you.”

But, the night before, I often stopped talking to the girls we had out on a date to say to myself: You will have hard times tomorrow, sitting at a table with eleven grown persons. My, but I will be bashful and reticent and ridiculous and awkward!

And so, the next day arrived. It was a wonderful day for me, because I saw many things that opened my eyes, and I thank my friend very much for giving me the opportunity to spend such a day. Thank you, O friend.

We woke up at 11 o’clock after having slept some 7 hours following the date. My friend’s house was filled with relatives, and so we had slept at his aunt’s house. The night before, we had tiptoed into this house of the little homes of this Long Island neighborhood. It was cold in the moonlight’s cold-crater glow; it was cold in the starry-nighted keenness; it was cold in the biting realism of the night; it was cold in the nose-pinching, face-smarting icy night . . . and thus, the coziness of his aunt’s home had impressed me twofold. As we tiptoed through the parlor, with the unlit fireplace and the scattered magazines, I felt it again as I could see the shadows of the other little cozy houses outside, through the cozy little windows; I could see and feel all in the night. And we climbed into bed and I sank into the softness of it all and sighed, Ah my God, how cozy is man’s shelter.

When I perceived the very deep blue sky of the morning, at 11, I leaned back as if to observe this gorgeous heaven for the rest of the day. But soon I had to get up, for breakfast was ready, fixed by the woman that I had not yet seen. So I rose and went down, dressed and washed and morning-laden. I met her, and her husband, then I sat down with my friend and we ate the bacon and eggs. The amazing part of the breakfast was [to] the left of the table, where there was a little window which looked out on the yard. The sky was very blue, remember, and the air floated about with the hint of spring. And my friend’s uncle was puttering about the yard, his bare head glistening in the November morning. It was cool now, not cold, and [a] man was coming out of his shelter, where he had slept all during the cold moon-cratered, face-smarting, starry-nighted, face-pinching night.

And then we took the car and left, and went to my friend’s home, where we had dinner that afternoon. My friend, however, had to go somewhere and I told him I would amuse myself in his room until he returned, and until it would be time for dinner. And so I settled down to read [Irwin] Edman’s “Philosopher’s Holiday” and I mumbled. What intelligence and omniscience, as I feebly let my eyelids flutter, and then turned over to sleep, worrying about my crease in my pants all the time.

When I awoke I went down and fulfilled my social duties by trying to appear sociable with his parents, and I did so quite well, I thought, as I walked about the empty parlor after and looked at myself in the window. It was nothing, I thought, to deal with his mother and father. They were like old friends to me now, but what about all those people at one table! And I went to the dining room and looked at the table, all set and glittering and I dreaded it. Then I went back upstairs, where I liked to sit and feel my friend’s development about me, showing in every book on his bookcase and in every crack in the wall and in every paper in his desk, filled with his homework, now long forgotten.

I liked to sit in my friend’s room and look out the window at the solid copper strength of Autumnal skies. I liked to sit there and feel the warmth of the furnace, down in the cellar. I liked to imagine the cold outside and the warmth inside. I liked to sit there and listen to his mother below, puttering about the kitchen; and his father, listening to the football game over the radio. I liked to sit there and feel the hum of man’s conquest over nature, of man’s little cozy nest, and of man’s warmth and friendliness. How the vagabond must yearn for this, I thought. Even myself, only partly a vagabond, yearn for it with all my heart! (For I hadn’t been home in months.)

Then came the dinner. I went down with my friend and we all sat down to eat. They were eleven: My friend’s parents, his aunt and uncle of that morning, his brother-in-law from Detroit, his little niece child. His sister, married to the Detroit fellow, was upstairs and would not eat, since she felt sick. So I never saw her. The other two, his sister and brother-in-law, had not yet arrived. So we were actually eight.

It was very good. The usual Thanksgiving Day dinner: Turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, string beans, mashed potatoes, etc. etc. and so forth. I don’t think I shall describe the table. If this were, I think, a novel - - then I would describe the table. But it is only my Journal, and so I shall move on to what I observed that day.

The brother-in-law from Detroit sat edgewise in his chair, looking down and askance at anybody that spoke to him. It was the usual businessman’s posture, I thought. It was a beautiful posture, and I spent most of the dinner admiring it, and toward the dessert, I even sat in the same manner in order to fully appreciate this man’s marvelous business-likeness. And when he spoke, it was usually a short and curt remark, spoken very low, and always meant a great deal to the conversation. And his hair was silver, and he wore glistening glasses - - - altogether a very imposing figure.

November 27, 1940

It takes little more than an ounce of decision to reach a conclusion. I have just exerted myself sufficiently, and have reached a conclusion that moods have so much to do with life!

Moods.

I remember the time that my good friends visited me in New York.[1] I had been looking forward to their arrival with an exultant sense of joy. As it happened, I caught cold the day before they arrived. But that was just a minor cause.

My friends were with me seated at a table, as we had done so many times before. So many times before, we had rolled in orgies of joy at these table-sittings, discussing everything under the sun with the luxuriant ease of words that Socrates once employed. (Not that our rhetoric was anywhere near Plato’s, but simply that we exerted ourselves in the same atomic manner that the Greek philosophers did . . . . talking about things that were apparent, and continually dissecting them until they no longer are apparent and simple, but become very complicated.)

And so we sat there, and I did not feel that same wild delight that I usually had when seated at the same table with my two chums, I wondered at the fickleness of man. Moods of man, I reflected.

“Yup,” Scotty was saying, “Some day, we’ll all have good jobs right here in New York, and each one of us will have a car.”

Singapore and dives and drink and women and loafing and beachcombing, I thought, listening to his words.

“And then,” he went on, “We’ll get ourselves some mistresses and at night go out with them. And we’ll have all the drinks we want, in our apartment on Park Avenue. The three of us, having good jobs and cars and all the good food we need . . .”

And how to do that, and why? I thought further.

“We must get to that peak,” he went on, speaking in words that meant what I am putting down here, “We must get to work and improve ourselves and some day we will be good enough men to warrant a job here in New York, so that we can live the life of Riley!”

What the hell, I thought, who cares? Singapore, and filth and women and a raucous barroom, and finally: Death in a gutter, just as good a death as death in a Park Avenue apartment . . .

And then my other friend, who also was enclosed within a cloud of moods, said: “Look at that girl over there. Boy!” “And then,” went on Scotty, “When we get to be good men: I a good and reliable Air Conditioning Man, and Fouch here a good Lawyer or Accountant or something like that, and you Zagg a successful writer: Then the three of us can live the life of Riley, cars, good jobs, food, women, and everything. Zagg, you must get through College and do very well and make connections . . .”

What the hell, Singapore, I thought. Singapore and filth and mire and yellow swarming Orientals and women and the roar of breakers on the beach and the creak of sails in the blue swell of the sea - - - all of them figments of my imagination, yet all of them so strangely suited to my mood of escapism.

But tonight, I do not feel in the same mood that I did that night. Tonight, I am back to normal. I feel the importance of worldly success and worldly wisdom. Last night, I stayed up till three in the morning to unravel the uneasiness of my mind. When I finally found out what it was and what had caused it, and what was underneath it and everything else, I finally was capable of sleep.

And so, moods . . . moods . . . all of which is so much English.

December 9, 1940

Nearing midnight

Dear Sirs:

Do you mind if I let my heart out, splattering all its delicate essences over these following pages?

Well, you’d better not, because that’s what I’m going to do. That is the purpose of the “Journal of an Egotist.” If you don’t believe, if you are a misbeliever in the conformity of my title with my work, then just shut up and read. It’s coming.

I have just said that my heart was made up of “delicate essences.” That is quite true. In the event that you do not believe that also, I should like you to read what follows:

I have fallen in love, or at least, am in the throes of falling in love with a girl. I won’t mention her name, because God help me if she should ever read this! She has long black hair, large rolling brown eyes, small and delicately rounded shoulders, a very slender body which retains its soft suppleness, and a beautiful alabaster face, concocted of black fire and shimmering ebony and wild dreams and love and whiteness and gleaming, glowing, pulsating, oscillating beauty. Aah, my mad masters, I adore her walk, I rever[e] her look, I love her for her femininity, I cherish her for the memory she affords me, and I yearn for her with all the fiery passion of youth! But enough, this is not the point. . . . .

The point is this. She is young (16) and I am older (18), and I have fallen in love with her, while she does not know the meaning of love yet. (As if I did, say the skeptic old bastards. Why, I’ll show those sterile old yeggs what love is!) I shout to the world that I am in love with her, at least right now, temporarily. And so what, you say. So what. It all amounts to this, sirs and mad masters, the other night I kissed her good night and turned around and said “Good night” and I walked down the street and went into a barroom. I could not stand it; I would not stand another sane moment with her on my mind like that.

Do I lack self control. I’ll tell you. I was entering the barroom and I was saying to myself: “What the hell kind of a man are you, getting drunk over a girl. You and all your high and mighty philosophy! You and your Aristotle and Plato and everybody. Temperance, wisdom, truth, etc. O hell, I’m in love and I can’t stand it.” “Three beers,” I ordered. “Three glasses of foaming, acrid beer, pungent yellow beer, ugly frothing brew, distasteful golden ale; bitter nose-contracting, stomach-fermenting beer. Three beers.”

And so there they were in front of me, three tall and stately beers, and 30¢ for the management. I pushed my hat to the back of my head, snapped [m]y bow tie, and cursed. “Damn her.”

And I raised the glass to my lips and tipped it, and swallowed the sour rancidity, letting its acidity burn my throat and warm my stomach. I drank down the three glasses in two minutes, and ordered two more. I do not do this often, madmen, but I was doing it tonight in fine, ugly style. I was in love, madmen, and I could not stand it. I have already told you that my heart was made up of delicate essences, and that it could break so easily. And I loved her so much that night, as I remembered her walk, her glances, her arm in mine, her dark silence, her Russian eyes, her unuttered multitudinousness. Oh, how I loved her, and how I wanted to forget her, and how I damned her. And so I drank the two other beers, and ordered a sixth, still doing it in the accepted formalistic university manner, ahem, like this. “Another one please, M’am?” A polite tilt of the head, a delicate interrogativeness that would be horrified by adamancy, and an intelligent soberness that betrayed the strength of Columbia!

I cursed myself for not yet being drunk. I got up, swallowed the last drop of salty froth, and walked out steadily, my head slightly heavy.

Outside, I thought about her, and thought about her, and then suddenly: I began to sing that powerful passage from Malagueña,[2] that stirring tower of musical strength, that goes like this: “Ta ta ta TA TA TA TARA TARA+ TARA!!!!!!! TAAA --- RAAAAA!”

And I yelled with joy as I heard the echo of the song ring in the night air, and I cried to myself: “I must have symphony. I simply must have symphony. I’ve got to have symphony music. Norma plays classical piano - - - - God, I must go to her at once and ask her to play for me.” I visualized myself at Norma’s house, stretched out on her couch, my eyes closed, and she at the piano playing a powerful movement from some Symphony in D major by Beethoven, by Brahms, by Sibelius, by Tschaikowsky, by anybody, by Thomas Wolfe, by Ernest Hemingway, by William Saroyan, by Jack Kerouac, by George Apostolos, by Sebastian the Prince, by Love, by Earth, by Fire, by Water, by All, Everything, Love you and I, me myself, egotist, Earth, Fire, a mad and wild concoction of all Life, and of the all-embracing All. I could feel this in me, this mad desire for music, for the expression of my soul in deep, stirring, throbbing music! And I began to run along the street, and when I reached the campus, I had forgotten all about Norma, and I said to myself the following:

“John, you are a writer and a philosopher to boot, and a scholar, though a very slothful one. Nevertheless you must look at this with a clear eye. Thomas Wolfe wouldn’t have fallen in love with a girl and gotten drunk over her.” No he would have gone home to write about it. And so, madmen, that’s what I’ve done.

It amounts to this:

I am in love. I am a writer. I am young. I am a scholar, though a slothful one. I have ambition. I am enthusiastic, egocentric, vain, foolish, passionate, uncourageous as a fawn, and lazy. I am a man. I am concocted of France and Bretagne and Canada and America and a tinge of England. I am a Breton, they say, and my name is a rare Breton name. I love my name, and I love my father for his mature judgment, for his wise simplicity, and for his looseness and humanity. I love him for all that, and too, I love my mother for her love, for her solicitude, for herself, for her care and her worry, for her black hair and blue eyes, always moist blue eyes, always smiling face, kind like an Angel’s, she is an angel, and I love her, and I must go home again. And I am in love with this girl, not like I am in love with my parents, but in another way. So what to do! Why did I do this? Why did I taste of the pungent brownness of beer, and filled myself with fire and driven my mind far out into the night, on account of this beautiful Russian, this gorgeous girl: Why do I cry now. Why do I want to go home and sit in the parlor with my Ma and look at the Xmas tree? Why must a man forever go nowhere, and return to nowhere, and always be lost? Of course, why do the vultures persist, you would ask - - - for the vultures are the cause of it all, the Vultures of Human Sadness. What am I yearning for? I am yearning for something definite, corporeal, and precise. I yearn for this girl, I yearn for home, I yearn to go somewhere where the end is achieved, where there is a wall beyond which there lies a land of cloud-swept skies and emerald grass and robed men and sloping hills and zephyric breezes, and strolling along in a pink skirt, and myself contemplating her from the top of the hill. That is it. Beside me, my loved ones, my parents and my friends, and Vicky and Mary and Betty and Lucille and even Lena, for God’s sake. It all comes under one heading: Love, and the end of all unhappiness (which is impossible), but on the whole, Love and Peace and the end of all. Is that why I got drunk? I doubt it very much. I don’t know why I did it, just as much as I don’t know what I’m talking about right now. Chalk this evening’s work in the journal as a total flop, unless I did get drunk on account of it all, the all-important All, the all-powerful All. If I did do it for All, then this night’s work is justified. I myself do not know. Love warps my mind tonight, damn it.

Dear Journal:

I have just finished writing a very poor piece of work, all about my getting drunk over a beautiful Russian girl whom I am supposed to be in love with. I am very disgusted with that, and it is now 1:30, Monday morning. For all intents and purposes, I should be reading Lucretius for tomorrow’s Humanities test, and doing my French sentences. But I can’t do neither. Listen to me my old friend:

I feel so empty, I don’t even know what to do. I don’t want to sleep, I don’t want to eat, I don’t want to go out and sit on a bench to stare at the Hudson river in the night, I don’t want read Lucretius nor do my French, all is empty. I can’t even lay on my hard bed, with all the lights in my room going full blast in glaring brilliance, outlining all the hard cubism of reality. I can’t even lay there in a torpor, staring emptily into the green deathness of my wall. The fresh air which is coming through my window, blown from the New Jersey palisades, wafted over the waters of the broad Hudson by the deep purple wings of the night - - - the far-away night . . . . not even that fresh air can fill me with life. I am dead.

Dear Journal, I am empty, I am hopeless, and I cannot even lay in a staring stupor. I don’t know what to do or think. The only alternative is to write upon you, Old Journal, until my eyes hang out in weariness, and my fingers flail ineffectually over the keys of the typewriter, no longer registering the weak thoughts that assail me. So bear with me, Old Journal, and listen to the woe of man.

What is it, for the son of a bitch, that makes me feel so empty? Oh please tell me, God. Please tell me someone! What is it! Why do those vultures attack us so often, and why cannot we put the finger on them, those damned birds, beating and flapping their monstrous wings above our heads, nodding their predatory beaks in macabre glee. Ah, God, this emptiness that I have! How often I have felt it! Tonight, I had the poetry of Lucretius to read, but I could not read it. I don’t know why. Somewhere in this Journal I have proclaimed very loudly: “Leave me alone at night with my books. Don’t complicate the world for me. I want it uncomplicated. And above all, leave me alone with my books at night.” Well, then, John; you are alone, and you have the poetry of Lucretius to read, and yet here you are keeping everyone in Livingston Hall awake as you bang on this little typewriter in the wee hours of the morning, trying to spray the page with inky tears.

Ah, I have memories! I have the most terrific memories of mankind! In this hour of emptiness, I see them parade before my dead eyes. Saroyan said that we would have to die many times before dying physically. Tonight, I died when I flung Lucretius against the wall and threw myself on the hard bed, expecting to be greeted by a comfortable sense of comfort and sleep, but only to fall on the bed as if it were a large piece of granite placed in the middle of the street, with fetid air surrounding me as I lay weeping on this rock. That is what the vultures are doing to me tonight. I am keeping the fellow below me awake, I am sure. But I don’t care. I’ve got to talk, or I’ll go mad. I’ve got to tell Mr. Journal all about the woes of man, and about the vultures of Human Sadness. Ah, God, here comes those memories again, assailing me.

Ah what empty words. I have no more memories any more than I have tears in my empty, weeping eyes. I cry without tears, just now. I am weeping, Mr. Journal, what for? Don’t ask me. I don’t know. I don’t care. Let’s go on. This emptiness is made out of nothing, and therefore it is endless. So let us proceed through the emptiness of time, through the void of endlessness, and let us never reach the end of nowhere, or the

[end of page]

Sirs:

I am now using Horace Potter’s typewriter. Horace Potter is a team-mate of mine on the football team, and also plays ping pong with me quite often. Besides, I took him down to see some French cinemas at Times Square and he enjoyed them quite considerably. But that is not what I want to write about this fine cold afternoon in November.

Besides the fact that this is a very good typewriter, and also that I am using it with a sense of novelty, I also am using it for a more important reason:

I have something very important to say.

It is like this:

This afternoon I crossed my legs slowly as a heavy silence suddenly roared through the room. The professor had just interrupted his steady stream of talking to say something interrogative, which was followed by a “Mr. Kerouac, what do you think?”

And so I crossed my legs in the silence, studying carefully the contours of the calf, protruding through the green gabardine pants. I had not been listening, of course. I hardly ever listen to anyone. I will not say that I am an individualist; I will merely say that I listen when I feel that it is important to listen, and that at other times, I never listen.

And so I had not been listening, as usual, and when he said “Mr. Kerouac?” I slowly crossed my legs and listened to the roaring silence. It roared for a few minutes and I could say nothing. I had not read the assignment, of course. I never do. I only read what I think is important, and the things that I consider important are always the things that I know will further enhance my development, expansion, outlook, maturity, etc. and so forth, etc. Do not think that I am trying to say to you that I am in the throes of developing myself. I will merely say that this is it: I flit about, listening to what I think is important and reading what I think is important. Otherwise, I do not listen, but observe other things. And I do not read, but merely look.

And so, the silence roared - - - seemingly for a few minutes - - - -but actually for a few seconds. Then the professor, a very intelligent man who talks very intelligently all the time as I study his intelligence and the way he intelligently brushes back his hair or rubs his left eye - - - then, this professor very tactfully asked me if I could remember, and that if I didn’t then, if I could remember anything else, and then tactfully he casually called upon another fellow - - - -and BING!!!! It was over! Just like that. The drama is ended. And I relaxed in my seat, letting the hot red blood course through my face. La drame est fini. It is terminated. The great curtain falls, and the show goes on, behind the scenes of “Mr. Kerouac’s” mind.

“Mr. Kerouac” feels like taking his book and flinging it against the wall, and he visualized the surprised faces and the admiring faces, and he sees himself striding out of the room like Errol Flynn of the movies and striding down the hall, echoes of an uproar in his ears, leaving the building and striding down the road to the evermore to come, where the sun beams warmly on robed men that sit in the grass all day and look at the cloud-swept sky.

Ah, do not think that “Mr. Kerouac” is mad because he has failed to answer. That is only the surface of it. “Mr. Kerouac” does not fling his book against the wall, nor does he pull an Errol Flynn. He merely sits there and lets the hot read [sic] blood swell through his head, his legs crossed, and the professor far away, resuming the steady stream of words words words and more to come always.

“Mr. Kerouac” says now to himself: “I shall listen to him now, and then I will pop up with a brilliant remark that will equalize things.”

But then Mr. Kerouac looks about the room and sees all the faces of the readers of the text, the pupils who spent last night reading about “The Rise of Parliamentary Power in England” rather than a mighty novel about the Spanish Civil War and about Robert Jordan and Maria and Pilar and Pablo and Anselmo and Augstin and Fernando, and Golz, and the gray horse that fell on Jordan and broke his leg till it protruded from his skin and then Jordan with his heart thumping against the pine-needled floor of the Spanish forest as he drew a bead on Lieut. Berrando.[3]

Ha ha ha ha.

The readers of the text are seated about the room, now, ahora, and they are listening to the words words words. “Mr. Kerouac” is also seated, with his legs crossed, and he is listening to the readers of the text as they breathe, while listening to the words. These words are far away, thinks Mr. K, and they that sit and listen to them have read the text and they seem to me to be more vital than the far-away words, and so I shall study the listeners of the words, the readers of the text.

Ha ha ha ha

“For Whom the Bell Tolls.” It tolls for thee, eh John Donne, and me and you and Oliver Cromwell, his dead body hanging from a tree, and the professor saying what a fine historical figure was Cromwell, and yet “Mr. K” sees only a dead body hanging from a tree, and the Stuarts standing around grinning with gibberish mirth.

Ha ha, must have laughed the Stuarts. Ha ha, must have laughed Cromwell himself one day in 17th Century England, probably

while seeing a

Shakespearian comedy. Ha ha, he must have laughed.

And now, ha ha ha ha, laughs Mr. K.

And some day, Mr. K the fifteenth: Ha ha ha ha.

And so Mr. K sat there and studied the listeners of the words, and every once in a while he tried to listen to the words himself, but they seemed so trivial, so unconnected, and so unimportant that he would always return to the study of the readers of the text, who had read the text last night, pages 425-460 of Hayes’[4] “A Political and Cultural History of Europe,” while Mr. K had stayed up till 4 A.M. finishing Ernest Hemingway’s book about Robert Jordan and Maria, under the Spanish sky, in the field, and the “earth moving.”

So vital are those things, Mr. K thinks while seated in the class and yet: so unvital are these words here, now, being spoken so that I shan’t listen to them. I never listen nor do I ever read - - - - I only turn my head sideways and study this and that and this and that, and then I hear half-words; and when I read, I look and for a while I might understand and see everything, but once I have achieved that, the story is all unfolded and I shan’t go into any more detail, and I finish the text just looking at it, prodded onward by my Kant’s “categorical imperative,” or maybe just something else. But once the story is unfolded, and I see it blaring in the daylight, as if a skylight was shining down on the whole matter, then I have seen and understood, and I do not continue. I have the picture and I want nothing else. The world is not to be complicated, not for me.

Here is the world: The battle of the individual integrity and honor against tyrannical Fascism, Spartanism, martial power. That is the battle: And the rest, the hidden enemy, which I call the vultures of human sadness, they constitute the other phase of the world. The world has two battles: The physical war of tyranny against Athenia, and secondly, the inner battle of every man, beating off the vultures with whatever equipment he may have developed for himself by means of his own discretion.

That is the story of the world, on a superficial scale, and so I don’t want to know what Charles II thought of this or that, and what Cromwell said to the House of Lords. I only want to understand the two enemies, the real enemies of man, little man, one which is corporeal and the other, spiritual. But both are there to be fought against, and I do not want to hear any more about Parliamentary control in England. The world is there, the enemy is there, and I want to know it and feel it and prepare myself for the battle. And so, ring thou bell, and let this period end so that I may go to my room and fling the book against the wall.

I have the world thoroughly ladled out: I am not its conqueror, nor am I a great individual. But, I know what sore besets it, and I do not want to know any more. It will pain me to know more, for I know what it will be like.

Leave me alone with my important books at night; let me make a living in the daytime, a dead man running about the City of New York and its offices, talking to other dead men about dead affairs, but I beg of thee: LEAVE ME ALONE AT NIGHT, WITH MY BOOKS, AND MAYBE MY LOVE ALSO, AND LET ME LIVE AT NIGHT. I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ANY MORE ABOUT THE WORLD. I HAVE REACHED MY UNDERSTANDING WITH THE WORLD, I KNOW WHAT IT EXPECTS OF ME, AND I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW ANY MORE ABOUT IT. LEAVE ME ALONE AT NIGHT: I’LL HANDLE THOSE VULTURES WITH EASE.

And so, out of the Contemporary Civilization class I walked, shuffling my feet along. I went to the A.A. office and reported for duty. They gave me something to deliver, and Mr. Fursy came in and gave me a very friendly and bolstering “Hello Jack” and I smiled to him and replied a greeting, and walked out of the building with the bundle and the “Hello Jack” in my head and said: “Thou swine, thou slothful pig. Thou art at the peak of thy life, fine studies to peruse, fine people to deal with, fine money to make, and great opportunities to come. And many girls to love, and yet thou goest about not studying nor caring to study and always impartial and cold and resentful and intolerant. WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH THEE, ANYWAY, ART THOU JUST A TRAMP?”

Then I walked to my destination with the package, and noticed the keen biting air of November and the leaden skies, hanging low and almost bulky, and I said: “Ha ha ha ha.”

Then I delivered the package and went to a bakery where I bought 10¢ worth of pastries from the girl that worked there. She was beautiful and sexual looking and I thought of Betty Field[5] in the cinema “Of Mice and Men” as I stared at her with a cold, unsexual but curious eye. I examined her actions and watched her wrap up the pastries. Outside, I said to myself:

“Ha ha ha ha.”

And a little later I said: “I shall eat these pastries in my room as I write about this afternoon’s drama in the classroom.”

And so, Sirs, ha ha ha ha.

I have written about the drama. It lasted only three seconds, but it launched me into a tirade of unspoken words, roaring through my head, and I decided that I should imprint those unspoken words unto paper such as this so that I could preserve these stages of my development.

Now, to conclude, what is my development leading me to! Clearly, this afternoon’s phase of development certainly wouldn’t sound very promising to an old gentleman with glasses, steeped with learning and wisdom. But to me, young and hot and intolerant, I am very happy about this afternoon’s development and decision, and I say to myself: Ha ha ha ha. The next time I have the text to read, I shall say to myself: I think that I feel like reading a little history tonight, a certain period of man’s earth that I think I shall peruse in order to develop a bit. Ha ha ha ha.

I now close today’s work on the journal. This is Horace Potter’s typewriter, and what I had to say seems to me important. And so, I will now lay down and sleep on my bed, and later tonight I shall read what Plato devised for his Socrates in the “Republic” and also shall probably play a little ping pong with Potter. Ping pong is an art, and I am a writer, which is also a sort of art. And so, ha ha ha ha adios.

[typescript ends]

This unpublished play, “I Resort to Another Barroom,” written in 1941, is directly connected to a comment Jack made in a letter. Jack uses a phrase from the play in a letter of March 5, 1941, to Sebastian saying that he will be hitchhiking home (Lowell) “casually and poetically” and tells him of a one-act play he is bringing that he had written at 3 a.m.

“I Resort to Another Barroom” has nearly the same cast of characters as “There’s Something About a Cigar”[6] and some of the dialogue is reused and reinvented. But in this work the “gang” of characters is being scrutinized by outside forces for their ability to entertain, and its difference in plot and focus allows it to stand on its own for its social commentary on the pretensions of the upper middle class. In “I Resort” Jack and his friends are in the company of a Broadway Critic, who has come to the barroom to examine the “real people” in Jack’s plays to see if there is enough substance for Broadway, and who becomes the condescending voice of the bourgeois looking at the futility and sadness of the common man. The Critic says to Zagg, Jack playing himself, that what he has witnessed so far was not Broadway material for it has no plot or suspense, just talk. Jack replies: “But what happens here now is just a little square piece of life, I think, cut out of the main pattern with a razor blade and displayed to a plot-conscious Broadway audience and of course they won’t like it.”

Jack makes a reference in “The Pioneer Club’(see Part III, p. 223), where he wrote about a New England barroom in the summer of 1940, when he had already begun to understand that this, referring to his friends, was “The Greatest Show on Earth”.

William Saroyan’s 1939 play The Time of Your Life may have been an inspiration for Jack as it depicts life from a barroom perspective. In Sebastian’s letter of October 1940, he mentions it as one of three Saroyan plays he had just read, and it is possible that Jack, a fan of Saroyan’s work, had read it as well.

1. Also referred to as F.S.S.F.M.T., published in Atop an Underwood, ed. Paul Marion (1999).

1. Jean Louis Kerouac.

1. Thomas Wolfe (1900–1938), novelist and short-story writer, known for his poetic prose and autobiographical style. You Can’t Go Home Again, published in September 1940, develops into a running theme in Jack’s and Sebastian’s letters as they move away from Lowell yet yearn for the past.

1. George Apostolos and Scotty Beaulieu: see p. 227.

2. A song by Ernesto Lecuona (1895–1963), Cuban composer.

3. Ernest Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls (1940).

4. J. H. Carlton Hayes, Professor of History at Columbia University.

5. American film and stage actress.

6. Jack’s friends are characters; published in Atop an Underwood, Part II, p. 66.

I Resort to Another Barroom

by Jack Kerouac

A short play in one-act and one-scene. Nothing pretentious. Just a barroom that really is a barroom; that is, an edifice dedicated to drinking beer, and not to look at. This is the typical New England mill town barroom. It is thrown up like a deck of cards would be thrown up to form and edifice. You can see the stove pipes and the plumbing run all over the walls. You can feel the exiguousness of the walls by banging on them with your fist. It won’t be a costly production. And above all, and most important (although not most delightful) you can smell beer - - - and I really mean smell it. It is seeped into the wood and it is soaked up into the floor. The place reeks of beer. It is dedicated to drinking beer, and not to look at, or smell. It is one of our old rip-roaring New England mill town barrooms. In it, nightly, drama is enacted that would stagger Broadway. But Broadway is either too snobbish, too sick of Saroyan (if that), or not interested at all. But I am, casually. One night I was in one of those places, and the fiddle music was playing full speed ahead; and the most magnificent thing about that night was the couple I saw on the floor dancing to the raucous strings. He was an old farmer - - - not the big Mid-Western farmer - - -but the smalltime New England farmer, hands all calloused and face all tanned and collar all stiff and clean. He had a righteous glare in his eyes that staggered me, and made me spill some of my beer on my new pants. She was his wife, stout, stern, and simple. They danced together, after a hard week’s work on the farm - - - he in the fields and she around the farm - - - and spent some dough and drank a little beer and danced with solemn determination. They danced, I would say, for the sake of dancing. Not for the sake of holding each other, like we young cusses do. They were solemnly determined to dance, because it was Saturday night and they were out on a good time and the world was right and God was bountiful and good, if we remained faithful to him. So now, the curtain is rising upon this scene.

A group of young fellows are sitting in a booth, drinking beer. Three of them are enraptured by the sight of the old farm couple, who are solemnly dancing as the play gets under way. There are some other couples on the floor, but these three fellows have their eyes glued on the old couple. One of them, mouth agape, spills beer on his new pants. Another, large expansive face contorted into a smirk of pleasure, glares with energetic interest. The third looks at the old couple with gloomy silence. The toe of the fourth fellow is tapping with the music and his head is swaying delicately on a swanlike neck. The fifth is smoking a cigar and ruminating in his beer. They are, of course, Zagg, Walter, Sebastian, Paul, and Nick. If you ask why I always have the same characters, here is the beginning, I say that I know them so well and they have done so many amazing things that it would be foolish to keep the public ignorant of such fine humanity. As soon as I find better people, I’ll put them in these plays. But enough of this prattle, and on with the dialogue.

SEBASTIAN: Will you look at them? Isn’t that marvelous? A week’s work all done and now it is Saturday night and ’tis time to enjoy one’s self, like a hard-fighting human being should do.

ZAGG: (Drinking some beer and making a face) What a way to overcome futility. . .

WALTER: (Gloomily) I invited you to go beering with me, and you must keep up with me. Drink that down.

ZAGG: Certainly. Certainly. (Drinks) God, what nasty crap.

PAUL: Why, Zaggo, don’t you like beer? Watch, here is the way to enjoy it. (He takes a sip, smacks his lips, takes another sip, then a long swig, and then pats his stomach like a gourmand that is through for a while.) See, you babe? There’s nothing like good cold beer.

ZAGG: In a world of strife, there’s peace in beer. That’s a quotation I have up on my wall in college, God knows why. I despise the taste of beer.

NICK: Easy, easy there. No poems tonight. No poems tonight. I’m laying down the law. (Looks significantly at Sebastian, the poet.)

SEBASTIAN: (Looking back defiantly into the eye of the stolid uninterested world. Uninterested in his sad plight, his futile idealism.) Fool! Fool! I shall drink now to Bacchus and to Minerva and to Aphrodite. Fools! Fools of the world. Stupid, dead things.

NICK: Get me! No poems tonight. No poems. Or you get a bottle on the head. (Nick is of course harmless, but he is a little high and now he means it.)

ZAGG: goes into a fit of laughter at the aroused Nick, because Nick is hardly ever aroused by anything. Walter watches for a while, then also starts to laugh.

BROADWAY CRITIC: walks into the play. He is dressed like a Broadway critic. He knows Zagg, and has read a few of his plays. He has traveled all the way to New England to see this fabulous gang of Zagg’s, and to feel the life of Rooney Street and its barrooms. He walks over to the booth and greets Zagg. Zagg greets him and invites him to sit, spreads around the introductions, orders a beer, and sits down. The critic takes off his hat. He is determined to find out whether Zagg’s plays were lies, or whether they don’t matter anyway. So he sits down and is attentive.

ZAGG: I didn’t expect you tonight.

CRITIC: I wanted to pop in on you and your famous clique at a dramatic time. I hope my presence will not prevent the usual conversation and drama.

ZAGG: Ordinarily it would, but as there is beer tonight, we shan’t know about inhibitions, let alone you. Nick is on his way now.

CRITIC: Ah, the colorful silent boy who spits all the time. The wit, who says the most ridiculously senseless things I ever heard.

ZAGG: (Proudly) Yes, they are so ridiculously senseless that they are ridiculously funny and we all love him for it. He is not an idiot: he is a marvel, a simple, proud little marvel. A little universe of electric delight. Speak Nick.

NICK: What about?

ZAGG: Anything.

NICK: What the hell do you think I am, a machine gun? I ain’t saying a damn word. Who the hell am I to talk, hey Scotty?

PAUL: Right, Kid Nick. Keep Quiet. I’ll tell you a joke.

SEBASTIAN: (Drunk and bored) Another WPA joke?

PAUL: (Laughing wholesomely and with a rare good nature) Right.

The Critic gets his drink and tastes. Sebastian stops the bartender.

SEBASTIAN: Who are you?

BARTENDER: Lionel Bourgette.

SEBASTIAN: Why?

BARTENDER: Why? How the hell should I know?

The Critic was expecting some philosophy here, and was all ready with his notebook. But he got a typical New England mill town answer. Sebastian is very satisfied with the answer, and laughs with mighty lungs. Zagg is contented.

The Critic scratches his head. He is perturbed.

CRITIC: Zagg, there is no drama here.

ZAGG: You just saw some tremendous drama just now. But never mind, wait and see. Be patient. You’ll see some of the more obvious drama in a moment.

WALTER: (Drinking down large glasses of beer in half a minute, and making a painful face.) Baaaah! Here I am, sitting in a dirty barroom on Rooney St., drinking cheap brew, stuffing myself with lousy yellow crap. I shouldn’t be here. I should be somewhere else. (Looks up from his glass, to whom he had been talking, and sees the Critic.) Who the hell is this guy? Where did he come from?

ZAGG: (The only sober one in the famous gang. Sebastian has his tousled head on the table and Paul and Nick are singing, arms around each other. The Critic is now untying his tie.) He’s from New York. A friend of mine who’s read my plays. He’s come down to see what I’m writing about, and to figure whether it’s worth it.

WALTER: Listen you, anything that Zagg writes is good, because Zagg is Zagg.

CRITIC: Broadway isn’t you.

WALTER: Who the hell is Broadway? I say Zagg writes the best stuff in the world, and I say it with conviction, because Zaggo is Zaggo, and I’m Mouse, old Mouse, Zaggo’s most faithful friend.

ZAGG: (After a long swig of beer) And Zaggo is Mouse’s most faithful friend.

WALTER: See, you clown? It’s just like that. Just like that. Anything Zagg does is all right with me. It’s all marvelous.

CRITIC: But what about Broadway?

ZAGG: (laughing) It’s okay, Mouse. You’re drunk. Don’t bother. Now listen, you Broadway critic. Listen to Walter. Go on Walter.

WALTER: What the hell am I doing here? Speaking my head off, drunk as a doornail - - - that doesn’t fit does it, but who the hell gives a shit? - - - anyway, here I am talking, and drunk, so that this dressed up jerk, this jeep from New York can listen and take notes. Is he crazy? Well, no harm done. You tell the world this, Jeep. I’m Mouse, and some day I will have a tremendous fortune, and I shall have power. Power! That’s my word. POWER! And I don’t care how I get it. I will be the richest man in the world. Sure, I’ve read Zagg’s plays. I’ve read them, not avidly like Sebastian, but enough to see what he says. I know what Zagg wants. What he wants is what I want, because we are one and the same. We always have been. Zagg calls it poetry, some guy called it Shangri-La, and I call it money. Only, Zagg, he wants poetry - - - he doesn’t care for money. But I think I am a maniac for money. I’m money mad, so what I want is money. Then I can have what Zagg calls poetry.

CRITIC: I don’t think you know what Zagg wants. YOU are money mad, my boy.

WALTER: Listen, you jeep. Zagg and I have done a lot of things together. He is going to write all about it. So many memories come back to me even now. Memories, so insufficient. Why in hell do we have to grow up, Zagg? Why can’t we stay kids all our lives? Why can’t we go on living an existence which Zagg calls “casual poetry.” Why can’t we go back to Pine Brook in our bare feet? Why can’t we go back to the days of playing cowboys on the sandbank and nabbing the Moon Man up in a tree, and having a Wizard of Oz club with a hole in the roof, and running glassy marble races, or rolling hoops, or going out in the Hurricane of 1938 and being blown on our ass? I know, you jeep, that you don’t know what I’m talking about, because you didn’t do these things with Zagg. But I did. To me, they are unforgettable, and priceless. And to him too.

ZAGG: (Drinking heavily now) Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Always yes.

WALTER: Listen you poor jeep. Growing up is just another example of this Wicked World. And don’t shit yourself, it is a wicked world. One can’t live it the way he wants to. I mean this wicked life. I can’t. I want to keep laughing. But they won’t let me. You know how much I love to laugh, because you’ve read Zagg’s plays. I love to laugh because I don’t know why I do it. Does that surprise you? Well, shut up. Listen!! They won’t let me laugh. I have to work, and to brood, and to think. Either that or remain a poor slave all my life. A casual, poetic slave - - - but still a slave. But Mouse shall come back. The day will come when all I will have to do is eat, sleep, and laugh. Play cowboys on the sandbank. Kick cans over on Rooney St. Go swimming at Pine Brook. I shall be the biggest idiot in the world. I shall laugh at everything. I am only happy when I am laughing. I shall LAUGH, LAUGH, LAUGH, LAUGH, LAUGH, and then die. Or should I say, kick the bucket. Poop poop.

The fiddle music is going on full blast. The Critic leans back in his chair. He came to see if there was any drama in a New England mill town barroom, and he finds that there is. But, he speaks.

CRITIC: Zagg, I don’t think that this is enough for Broadway, though. There’s not enough scope to it. What about the Totalitarian menace?

ZAGG: Well, let’s see what I’ve got on hand. We can put that question up to Nick, and he will handle it beautifully. But people would call that nonsense and plain insanity. But let’s try. Nick, what do you think of Hitler?

NICK: (His song with Paul is interrupted. He looks at Zagg with a nodding head.) All I have to say is, forget it. Forget it, kid, forget it.

CRITIC: You mean, assume a pose of pacifism, or even escapism, in such times? Why, that would be suicide!

NICK: (Squinting at the Critic) Where the hell did this guy come from? Did he ever have any fun in his life? Is he talking poems too? Tell him to cut it out. Did he ever have fun?

ZAGG: No, he worries too much. He makes up his mind daily, doesn’t he Sebastian?

Sebastian is sleeping with his head on the table. Walter is brooding in his beer. Paul and Nick resume their duet.

CRITIC: Ah, this is all so pointless. We haven’t reached a conclusive decision. There is no message to your precious drama. I still say, what about Totalitarianism?

ZAGG: (To Nick) Nick, what will you do if war is declared against Germany?

NICK: Join the army and kick the blooming bucket.

ZAGG: Why?

NICK: Because, that’s the best thing to do. If we go to war, we’ve got to win.

ZAGG: Who’s we?

NICK: Us. My family, this city, us guys. All of us. I don’t know much, but I do know that we are all in it. ZAGG: In what?

NICK: In it, you sap. Right smack in it. Am I right Scotty?

PAUL: Absolutely!

NICK: You bet your ass. All right, let’s sing “The Old Oaken Bucket” you babe.

They both sing.

ZAGG: Nick, won’t you kick about your trammeled Democratic rights? I mean, won’t you kick about being forced to do things in the army?

NICK: As long as I have a little fun, I don’t care. I’m gonna take care of my family, I’m gonna stick with my gang, and I’m gonna do what the government tells me because it ought to be right by now.

ZAGG: (Turning to the Critic) You see, it’s up to us to see that it is right by now.

CRITIC: Of course. Of course. The government. (The critic’s eyes gleam diabolically)

ZAGG: But, you see, the government doesn’t bother us. We let that to the Senators and Presidents and stuff. We all have a right to be what we wish. Nick wants to drive a laundry truck. Therefore, the country to him is a passive policeman which takes care of his rights. He won’t mind, as long as they let him drive his laundry truck in peace. You see?

CRITIC: And what about the idealist, Sebastian?

ZAGG: He’s an intellectual. He has things to say about it, in his most melodramatic way. But right now he’s asleep, somewhere beyond all the symphonies ever written. A few miles beyond Sibelius Number one.

CRITIC: (Sipping beer) Well.

ZAGG: Excuse me while I get drunk. I’m not escaping anything. I just like to feel woozy and friendly and strange.

The music goes on, the old couple dances on with grim determination, the boys drink on, and the critic mops his brow.

CRITIC: But this is still too weak for Broadway. There is no plot, no suspense. Just a lot of talk.

ZAGG: No plot and no suspense, no, but there has been plot and suspense in the lives of all of us. If you wish, I’ll write my next play with a plot. How about the time that Sebastian told a girl that he loved her on the street, and then went to a canal and contemplated suicide because she wouldn’t marry him. How about the time that Mouse came home from a long journey to find his brother dead and buried. How about the time that Mouse and I took a drunk home one night and almost died of fright when he hit his head on his stove and looked dead - - - and the fog outside, and the night and mystery in it. How about the time that Nick was the only friend in my life when I came home once, all my other friends being away. Oh, I could think of a million plots and a million moments of suspense. But what happens here now is just a little square piece of life, I think, cut out of the main pattern with a razor blade and displayed to a plot-conscious Broadway audience and of course they won’t like it. Why there have been fights in here, great big arguments, tremendous love affairs, fine music, darkness and light, jollity and sadness, nostalgia and callousness, beer and whiskey . . . everything. It’s just a small, insignificant corner of the world in which you had the privilege to sit tonight. You are a Broadway critic; I am a casual poet. We don’t mix, but I like you because you are in the same boat. As Nick says, you are right smack in it with us.

CRITIC: I see. It certainly is the way you wrote about it. But I’m wondering whether it will go on Broadway.

ZAGG: I really don’t care. The money and fame would of course bloat me up, but I always have the satisfaction of knowing that I have released all this great life onto paper, and made it immortal.

Sebastian wakes up with a start. He goes to his feet, reels, excuses himself and goes into the john in the next room. There is loud music and dancing. The Critic watches it all, and studies the flimsy structure, dedicated to beer and beer only. Sebastian presently returns with an old whore, and dances with her. Zagg winks to the Critic and goes to the fiddle player to whisper in his ear. Paul and Nick are now talking to each other. Walter is still brooding, but begins to talk with Paul and Nick.

PAUL: Listen Nick you babe, remember when you were our third baseman?

NICK: Why of course I do. Of course I do. And Mouse here was our star hurler. What a windup he had.

Walter remembers, in his mind, the warm sun beating down on a dusty diamond, the young voices shouting, the laughter and sparkle of summer and youth, and he thinks of how it is gone and forgotten. But he also thinks about how wonderful it was. He suddenly goes into one of his laughing sprees. Paul of course falls in with him, as usual. Nick slaps his thigh approvingly, and spits on the floor. Zagg returns, sees the laughter, puts his arm around Walter and Paul and Nick, sticks his face into the circle of their faces and laughs right smack into them, long and loud and happily. They don’t know why they’re laughing any more; they are drunk, and they are gay. Now the orchestra starts playing “I’ll See You Again.” Zagg quiets down his friends, and tells them to watch what his request will do to the dancing Sebastian. The Critic looks on approvingly; it’s his sixth beer, that’s why.

Sebastian hears his favorite song, pushes the whore aside, jumps up to a chair, gets up on it, and starts singing loudly. Oh, what a tremendous voice he has! The gang is now rolling in the booth with uncontrolled laughter. The Critic forgets all about press time, plot, construction, and dialogue, and his typewriter. He has his seventh beer, and watches Sebastian and laughs - - - he doesn’t know why, but he laughs. The rest of the people in the barroom laugh also. Sebastian, the idealist, doesn’t give a damn. He sings happily. The Critic has his eighth beer, laughs some more, and has his ninth. He came all the way to New England to see what Zagg was talking about; now he knows. It’s nothing pretentious. It’s just a mixture of real friendship, loyalty, courage, and humor and intelligence. There are a lot of other labels, but the Critic doesn’t want to think about them. He feels all this Zagg stuff now. He can’t name it, but he feels it. He wishes with all his heart that he could have known a bunch of fellows like that, not because they were exceptional, but because they were extraordinarily human. Whether Zagg has something for Broadway or not, he cannot yet tell. He is still in the dark, and he has his tenth beer. The curtain comes down. The music is still playing “I’ll See You Again,” the old farm couple is still dancing in solemn righteousness, the boys are still rolling in completely unjustified hilarity, and the Critic is drunk with life and with beer. And Sebastian is still singing with his mighty lungs, for no reason at all. Sure, he’s going to make a living, but he doesn’t let himself go overboard on it, because that’s what manufactures Hitlers.

In “I Resort to Another Barroom,” Jack referred to his nightly prowls around New York City, which fit neatly into his notion of observation as a writer’s fuel. He called on Thomas Wolfe often as an inspiration: “he just woke me up to America as a Poem instead of America as a place to struggle around and sweat in. Mainly the dark-eyed poet made me want to prowl, and roam, and see the real America that was there and that ‘had never been uttered.’ ” (Vanity of Duluoz (1967), Book 4, part IX, p. 75). This work describes one such night.

Eighty-eight Cents Worth of New York

by Jack Kerouac

The room isn’t any bigger than a large closet, but has a fullness and unity that gives it a sort of spiritual largeness. There is a cot, profusely strewn with shirts, neckties (destined to neglect), books, pamphlets, and anything else that would prevent someone from lying on the cot. There is a musty desk, with an ancient typewriter as big as it is old, and a row of Greek and Roman classics facing down upon the confusion of the desk-top with outraged dignity. The lamp is bent down in order to keep the glare away from the rest of the room - - - a sort of mute genuflection to the sanctity of chairs, suitcases standing the corner, huge paper portraits of Wagner, small framed water-color originals, and a picture of a small town in the wintertime to remind the occupant of this turbulent chamber of his New England.

The monarch himself is washing at his tiny sink, singing liquidly along with the radio, which is next to the hoary typewriter on the desk. The program is the Make-Believe-Ballroom, the precise brass drags and halts, the dreamy reeds spiral and spin slowly around the room, the drummer chucks in assorted rim-shots; trombone squads vibrate the radio with their unsteady lament, and finally the voice of some gowned female, electrically transcribed of course, coos and caresses the ears of youth, who often interrupts his washing to address a solemn oath to the songstress.

This is a young man of America, in his room at Columbia University, washing up just after sunset, and it is Saturday night.

Here is what he puts on: A raincoat (it is raining out, and the South Hall Library glistens and glitters and winks at him, the owlish omniscience of all the Libraries of the world); a pair of old crepe-soled shoes; old gabardine pants, un-pressed of course; and a heavy sweat-shirt. A pipe and a pouch of tobacco is thrust into the raincoat, plus a book of matches. The dollar lies on the desk, twisted and curled and wrinkled and promising. This is smoothed out into the wallet, and the young writer is ready for an evening in New York.

Can you think of a happier youth than this?

Of course not. It is impossible. Alone, within himself, the youth steps out of his room, with the view of the South Hall Library through his window [now] promising him great joy as it thrusts itself into the room in which the light has just been extinguished. It is impossible to be happier than this young man. With a dollar, some assorted rags, and an inner confidence that might well stagger anyone, the young man sets out.

The first investment is the subway, and perhaps a newspaper too. He waits on the edge of the platform and watches the train approach from out of its subterranean haunts, like a gigantic caterpillar with many glittering eyes. The doors open, the youth flings himself happily into the broiling pot of New York, he thrusts himself into a seat, and distributes his eager gaze over all the faces in sight. There are many faces, some of them bearing the sallow jowl-gray depression of New York. Some of them bear the pink freshness of rain. Some of them are pretty, some ugly. Some are Jewish, some are Irish. They are all, however, having one thing in common: Suspicion, Indifference, Synthetic Poise - - - none of the warmth and friendliness of small-town bus passengers, but only pouting, excessive, eccentric disregard of each other.

Now the train lurches to a stop, the doors slide open, and new faces appear to supplant the old ones that have just left. More pouting faces, more of that unhealthy indifference, that suspicious peering. The young man of America opens up his 2¢ investment, the Daily Mirror.

Winchell,[1] who wracks his brain trying to figure out epigrams more vitriolic than the last one. Yet, a good newspaperman and a symbol of America.

Runyon[2] and his quiet wit, not Winchell’s loud Jewish raucousness.

Movie reviews; corset ads, “I spoke to God; this booklet will help you to speak to God!’; DiMag[3] hits a homer against the [St. Louis] Browns; Hitler - - - grrrr; the lovely limbs of damsels in bathing suits; divorce suit, marriage, birth, death; murder; rapine; war; tragedy; Little Abner and Donald Duck; editorials, frank and pleasing, because they always object I suppose; Chesterfields; White Owl, the best 5¢ cigar; Wall St. news, and a lot of little figures; Bangtail [racehorse] wins the 6th at Bowie, Jockey Shelhamer up; Over the Bridge, in Brooklyn, with Nick Kenny;[4] Columbia looks forward to good season, Little[5] admits; big sale at Bloomingdales and Saks Fifth Avenue and Macy’s; and in one obscure little corner of this tabloid, a new item:

MAN KILLED IN STREET

New York, Sept. 7: Charles Epps, 26 of

768 9th Avenue, was instantly killed

today as he was crossing the street

at the corner of 39th Street and 7th

Avenue. He was taken to the Medical

Center, but was pronounced dead upon

arrival. Epps left a wife and two

children and a dependant father. He

was employed as a doorman at the San

Quentino apartment house on Central

Park West. Mr. Epps was struck by

a taxi operated by Charley Epstein

of 808 Flatbush Avenue, Brooklyn.

Epstein was arraigned on bail.

CHARLES EPPS CROSSES STREET, THINKING ALL THE TIME ABOUT HIS ARGUMENT WITH TONY SOUSA OVER MILLIE THE HARLOT AT THE BAR. EPPS SORE. TUCKS NEWSPAPER UNDER ARM AS HE STEPS OFF SIDEWALK AND SHAKES HEAD WITH DISGUST. FIGURES ON GOING HOME TO SLEEP IT OFF, WORK TOMORROW ON DAY SHIFT, WIFE WILL BE SORE BECAUSE SHE WILL MISS OUT ON THAT TRIP TO JERSEY CITY TO SEE MOTHER-IN-LAW. THERE IS A DULL MOMENT OF DESPAIR AS EPPS FORESEES NOTHING BUT GRAY BARREN LIFE TOMORROW WITH NO MOMENT OF SENSUAL PLEASURE TILL SATURDAY NEXT AND THEN SUDDENLY SOME SON OF A BITCH GIVES EPPS A BIG PUSH IN THE SIDE, MAYBE A FLYING TACKLE? BUT BOY WHAT A HELL OF A NERVE GIVING EPPS SUCH A TERRIFIC SHOVE WITH THAT ANVIL OR WHATEVER IT IS, AND LOOK LITTLE PETER PIPER PEPPER LOOK ALL THE LIGHTS AND THE SOUND OF A HIGH SHIP’S WHISTLE PITCHED CONTINUALLY AND PIERCING HIGH AND WHEEEEEEEEE AND WHO THE HELL GIVE ME THAT SON OF A BITCH OF A SHOVE IT IS TOO ROUGH TOO HARD TOO VIOLENT - - - OH A HELL OF A VIOLENT SOCK IN THE SIDE AND THE SOUND OF THE SHIP’S WHISTLE AND LOOK THAT FACE STARING DOWN AT ME, WHAT THE HELL IS HE SO SCARED ABOUT, AND WHY AM I ON MY BACK NOT FEELING ANYTHING BUT NUMBNESS, JUST THAT, NOTHING MORE, MY BODY JUST AIN’T THERE IT’S NUMB AND THICK AND BULGING WITH NOTHINGNESS AND NUMBNESS AND HELL IS HE SCARED!! HE LOOKS AS THOUGH HE WERE LOOKING AT A GHOST. I’M ONLY CHARLEY EPPS, I WORK OVER TO THE SAN QUENTINO, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU SO AMAZED ABOUT? DID DIMAG HIT OVER 56 IN HIS NEW STREAK? HELL THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE. WHO THE HELL’S BLOWING THAT SHIP’S WHISTLE? OH IT MUST BE THAT COP PUSHING AWAY THAT SCARED GUY. BOY AM I NUMB AND NOW I DON’T HEAR ANYTHING. ALL I DO IS SEE THE COP, THE TOP OF THAT BUILDING, I’M NUMB AND I HEAR A WHISTLE - - - AND HOLY COW I’M DRUNK AS A DOG BECAUSE HERE I GO, THE BUILDING IS COMING DOWN ON ME AND I’M SWINGING DOWN AND AROUND IN A ROTARY MOTION THAT KEEPS TAKING ME LOWER AND LOWER AND LOWER? FARTHER DOWN, LOWER AND LOWER I SWING AND SPIRAL AROUND AND NOW IT’S DARK AND WOOPS NOW I’M FALLING AND I’M GOING TO HIT SOMETHING DAMN SOON. . . .

New York, Sept. 7: Charles Epps was killed in street yesterday.

The train stops again, and the absorbing story of Charley Epps is driven from the meditating mind of the young man by a number 42 which can be seen outside the windows of the subway, the eyes of the caterpillar.

Times Square.

Emerge from the train, walk along the dirty cement platform, and dodge the harried New Yorkers as they dash to make the train, climb the steps three at a time, on the run, in order to put it over on them, the unathletic fools. Pass the candy stands, the ice cream stands, the flower stands, all of which are packed inside the foyer which leads to the steps which in turn lead to the street.

Ah, here, here, here, and nowhere else in New York, can we smell the decay of New York. There is a cloying odor that seems to paste upon your person, there is a saccharine quality to the air that makes your nostrils revolt, there is mixed with that the faintly sweet death smell of the subway tunnels themselves, wafted up the steps into the busy foyer to mix with the feculent symphony of candy and taffy and pop corn and dripping syrup and fudge and penny arcades and chocolate bars and strawberry milk shakes and with that the fine, fine dust of New York’s streets and the even finer dust of the subways, and all of this striking one loud long chord of fine filth. Fine sweet delicate filth, not yet swill, but destined to be.

Now we’re out on 42nd street. The marquees of the movie houses glitter. The eyes of the youth are lit aflame in their search for a good double feature. Ah! There’s a good one. The French cinema house, a Jean Gabin-Louis Jouvet[6] picture, with a good English film, Robert Donat,[7] the lazy, efficient wit of the British. A continental contrast, in this 20¢ emporium. The nervous jelly-like humor of the French, the sleepy somnolent quick humor of the English. Hurry over, youth. Get a seat. Let the disease of haste, New Yorkia, get you and drive you. Dodge and weave and hurry, for it may be too late to miss nothing. Buy the ticket, hurry up the vestibule, move along - - - now the sound of the movie, the rich Gallic rolls of a French woman laughing, the twang of a Frenchman, going over his “r’s” with a thick porky gurgle. The most beautiful of the languages.

The youth finds a seat and moves into the row. He sits down with a smile, knowing that for the next three hours, his 20¢ investment will provide him with absorbing material, and at the least, fascinating escape. Three delicious hours, delightfully alone within himself witnessing a film document, laughing sometimes, smirking sometimes, all of the souls inside the hushed dark house attentively quiet toward the flicking screen.

This, seeing a movie in America, is a marvelous thing. In the first place, it is democratic. In the second place, it is civilized. And finally it is full and rich and completely enjoyable, providing the pictures are decently done. Anyone who is allergic to movies is a bore, because movies make demands on concentration, and anyone who finds it difficult to concentrate is quite a bore indeed. Nothing but an insufferable egoist who cannot concentrate on anything but his own meager self.

Jack’s solo trip to Washington is one of a disappointed adventurer. He does, however, come away with some interesting observations, although sad and disturbing as well. He gladly leaves Washington to return home and is once again in better spirits as he travels through the Maryland countryside. Jack says this in retrospect (1967) about this trip: “I wanted to see the Southland and start my career as an American careener. . . . I was on the road for the first time” (Vanity of Duluoz, Book 4, part III, pp. 93, 94).

1. Walter Winchell (1897–1972), whose gossip column at the New York Evening Graphic exposed the private lives of public figures, a practice considered off limits then by journalists. He was also known for his controversial radio commentaries for NBC’s Blue Network. Winchell was censored by the network in February 1943 for his proposed broadcasts criticizing the actions of Senators Burton K. Wheeler and Gerald Nye, who were attempting to block the trial of thirty-three alleged seditionists, but this gag order was lifted the following week. P.M. Daily followed the story and even printed statements issued in the commentator’s defense.

2. Alfred Damon Runyon (1880–1946), newspaperman, writer and humorist.

3. Joseph Paul DiMaggio (1914–99) played baseball for the New York Yankees (1936–42, 1946–51) and was elected to the Hall of Fame in 1955. Many rate his 56-consecutive-game hitting streak in 1941 as the top baseball feat of all time.

4. Nicholas Kenny (1895–1975), sportswriter for the New York Daily Mirror.

5. Lou Little, Jack’s football coach at Columbia University.

6. Jean Renoir’s 1936 film, The Lower Depths, starred both actors and was based on the play by the Russian Maxim Gorky, which follows the questionable activities of a group of down-and-out characters in the slums of Paris, whose lives are entangled by many elements including crime and poverty.

7. Robert Donat, Oscar-winning British actor starred in many pictures, 1932–58.

Washington in 1941

By Jack Kerouac

The casual reader may start reading this story in order to see what I think about the Nation’s Capitol, and its implications in the light of international complications, etc.

Well then, thank you for your interest.

I visited Washington this past summer, and the thing I remember best is three negroes standing on the corner across the street from my hotel, talking and joking. Up and down the street I could make out nothing but cars, store fronts, mail boxes, signs, filling stations . . . . in short, the same monotonous pattern of all American cities. I really didn’t think Washington was so hot. I saw the Nation’s Capitol, walked inside of it because it was so cool and crypt-like, studied the oil paintings in the National Museum, was amazed by some Rembrandts simply because there before me was the original work of one of the world’s really great artists, walked around the National Archives and froze [n]ear to death, but didn’t see Roosevelt nor Ickes, nor Knox, Mrs. Perkins, Hull, Rayburn, Wallace,[1] nobody. It was just as well, anyway. I do not care for politicians, not because I am jealous of their success as well as their brilliance, but because I believe they use their success and brilliance not to advantage, but the other way around.

So I went back to my cheap room that night and suffered. I wrote two letters to my two best pals. I told one of them that I was “weary and driven.” I told the other one that I was fed up. It was one of the worst moments of my life . . . you see, I was in Washington for a reason: I had just thrown up my cards completely and escaped from something fine, though arduous; escaped from that to nothing, which was neither fine nor arduous, but on the other hand, destructive. I wept considerably, inside, and watched the grimy brick wall outside my window as it stood in the Southern stifle, the southern heat-choke, in the night. All that night, I lay tossing on the bed with the sticky bed-sheet, swearing and scratching from the bedbugs and weeping and being at a point where I might just have died from the horrifying death of it all. It was empty, tragic, squalid, enormously hot and humid, full of tears, awful, dejected, mournful - - - - and sadly humorous, although I didn’t think so then. I was so down in the mouth that it is [a] wonder I came out of it okay. But I did. The following morning, I rose and found that it was a cooler day. This was a good start. Then I went down the street and stopped at a bookstore. For an hour I poured over the nickel books, and finally purchased a volume of Emerson’s Essays. The sky was very blue over Washington, and things were a bit better. I decided to go home right then and there.

I bought a bus ticket in the terminal, and went back to the hotel room for my bag. In the room I looked at the bed-sheets, all crumpled up and sad. My body was covered with bites. I threw my stuff into the bag and snapped its lock. Taking one last look at the shabby brick wall outside my window, there in Washington in 1941, and one last look at the skinny little tree which sprouted from between fences and barrels, I departed. As the bus pulled out of Washington, I looked at the streets and figured they were no different than any other. I took one last look at the dome of the capitol and shrugged. The bus pulled out of the city and headed for Maryland, where I found things much nicer: willow trees, ground-level porches on the houses, little villages like Elkton, and the white fences in the meadows, so green, so green.

That is all I have to say about Washington, from personal observation. Whatever else I know is not first-hand; I got it from the papers, and I don’t know which is which - - - - what I saw, or what they tell you in the papers, in the movies, in the stories about Washington. I don’t really care, anyway; New England is my meat, not Washington D.C.

jk

1. Harold Ickes, William Franklin Knox, Mrs. Frances Perkins, Cordell Hull, and Henry Wallace were all members of President Franklin Roosevelt’s cabinet, and Sam Rayburn was Speaker of the House.

PART III

Kerouac and the Young

Prometheans

Introduction

Jack Kerouac’s friendship with Sebastian Sampas was during a seminal period of Jack’s development as a writer. Their boyhood endeavors –producing plays, newspapers, and radio scripts – were often the collaborative result of their shared experiences growing up in Lowell, Massachusetts. Then a bustling confluence of immigrant mill workers, Lowell’s industrial climate provided a fascinating array of inspirational experiences for these young burgeoning writers. Jack and Sebastian, like so many of the children in Lowell at that time, were first-generation Americans, which had a profound effect on their early intellectual interests.

Jack and Sebastian along with several other Lowell friends – Cornelius Murphy, George Constantinides, Billy Chandler, George Apostolos, John MacDonald, Ed Tully, and Jim O’Dea – formed a group they called the Young Prometheans (among other names). They met informally to discuss various topics including literature and the arts, and they wanted to make an impact through self-expression, so they formed drama groups, such as the Variety Players and the Pioneer Club, to produce plays and radio scripts, recited poetry, created cartoon strips, wrote short stories, and sang to anyone who would listen.

Although there are no specific references as to why the group was named after the mythical Greek Titan, Prometheus, known as one of the Elder Gods before Zeus came to power, there are some relevant correlations between him and the objective of the Young Prometheans to embrace the brotherhood of mankind. Prometheus is often called the savior of mankind because to relieve them of their suffering, he gave them art and fire, and that gesture brought him great pain at the hand of Zeus. Growing up during the height of the Great Depression, the Young Prometheans probably saw this story, full of hope and despair, in many ways as a reflection of the world around them. Therefore, the analogy of bringing art to mankind as some great equalizer was the most probable connection. Another timely experience would have been the highly publicized building of Rockefeller Plaza and in it of Paul Manship’s gilded statue of Prometheus bringing fire to man, which was installed in 1934. Jack and Sebastian would have been twelve at the time, and coinciding with their growing intellectual interests this might have been a beacon of light for such young idealists. They were also reading Goethe and Byron, and listening to Beethoven and Liszt, all of whom had taken up the subject of Prometheus in their work. Byron’s “Prometheus” (1816) questions the injustice of punishing Prometheus:

Thy Godlike crime was to be kind,

To render with thy precepts less

The sum of human wretchedness,

And strengthen Man with his own mind; . . .

The basic philosophy of the group – the brotherhood of mankind – was often debated as were the successes and failures of the group’s attempts to make an impact. Jack writes to Sebastian in mid-March, 1943, that the group was an “awakening of the social conscience; youths are going through the same process everywhere . . . Ours was the Promethean Society, based on the Brotherhood of Man, and on the mass energies of several participants . . . as Connie once said, or Eddy, five twenty-year olds massed together equal a one-hundred-year-old sage” (see p. 366).

The 1930’s in America was a tumultuous time, driven by the Great Depression, growing fears of war, and an ever widening gap between the worker and the intellectual. Interest in politics fueled many intellectual debates and literary works. Jack and Sebastian and other young intellectuals of that time read newspapers, magazines, and books, trying to determine for themselves how these ideologies fit into their own notions of America and brotherhood.

As the Prometheans continued to absorb their experiences, reading voraciously the authors of their time, they began to expand their concept of the Brotherhood of Mankind to include politics, war, poverty, and exploitation. They added to their reading lists: Albert Halper,[1] William Saroyan, Thomas Wolfe, and John Dos Passos. In Union Square, Halper creates two characters caught in the web of radical politics. Jack and Sebastian quote Halper several times, and this journal entry by Jack connects Halper’s expression to the plight of all Americans caught in the headlights of poverty, war, and political upheaval.

– AMERICAN BLUES –

Halper said: “My arms are heavy,

I’ve got the blues. There’s a locomotive

in my chest, and that’s a fact. . . .”

Jack and Sebastian vacillate between political ideas that concern the plight of the worker and those of the American Dream fueled by capitalism. Although the various political doctrines of the time were certainly an influence on Jack’s and Sebastian’s lives and literary interests, they did not participate in any political parties and remained idealistically neutral. The struggle to find meaning in politics and sometimes the resignation that not all is what it seems are expressed in Jack’s “The Birth of a Socialist”: “This story, I admit, and am proud to admit, is against the Capitalist. But it is also against the Communists. It is against any form of slavery, the Shavian concept of slavery.”[2] Many years later he wrote:

Later me and Sabby hitchhiked to Boston several times to go see movies, lounge in Boston Common watching the people go by, occasionally Sabby leaping up to make big Leninist speeches at the soapbox area where pigeons hung around watching the argufyings. There’s Sabby in his blazing white shirtsleeves and with wild black curly hair haranguing everybody about the Brotherhood of Man . . .

(Vanity of Duluoz, Book 5, part I, pp. 84–5)

In addition to politics and the plight of the worker, the individual was another common theme of literature in the 30s. Thomas Wolfe led the way with his loosely autobiographical tales, expounding on his own life with great zeal. His internal investigations inspired many writers to examine their immediate surroundings for material. This type of self-examining prose often earmarks Jack’s early works such as The Town and the City and short stories such as “Farewell Song, Sweet from My Trees” where his own life becomes the tale. After being criticized for trying to imitate Wolfe, Jack later develops the style into a more universal theme of the observer, using rhythms and sound to create his American Odyssey On the Road, which has continued to connect to generations of young people seeking the spirit of life. Wolfe was an important influence for both Jack and Sebastian who discuss his works in their correspondence. Sebastian expresses to Jack his enthusiasm for Wolfe in a letter in 1940, while attending Emerson College in Boston: “All of us are Wolfe addicts. I am beginning to start my campaign to make Emerson Wolfe-conscious.” (William Saroyan too interwove autobiographical tidbits into his works, often carrying on conversations with himself as the writer/observer in the middle of the story, slipping in and out of the work with personal observations.)

These letters and early writings contain evidence of an intellectually fueled debate on the promise of mankind. The exchange of political, moral, humanistic, and literary ideas provided an explosive impetus for Jack’s early writings. Jack and Sebastian wrote in barrooms, parks, trains, and hotel rooms: getting out their ideas in the spontaneous style that Jack would later dub “sketching with words.” Often their letters and stories were illustrated and contained margin notes and interjections in a true free-association with the medium. Part III provides insights into their intellectual pursuits as they developed their individual writing styles.

In spite of their misgivings about war, both Jack and Sebastian joined the armed services. First, Jack ships out on a Merchant Marine ship in the summer of 1942 and returns to Columbia that fall. When Jack returns to Lowell in December of that year, he finds out that Sebastian had already volunteered for service in the Army. Jack then joins the Navy for a brief time in the spring of 1943 before being honorably discharged that summer. They continued to correspond during this period and these letters, many of which carry the military insignia, are both deeply personal and truly inspiring. They not only capture the connection between these two young men, but the lives of World War II soldiers and Merchant Seamen that they met along the way. In their exchanges you sense a fondness and rapport that offered each of them hope in a difficult time. This side of Jack Kerouac is rarely exposed in the many works about his life. He often comes across as the distant, troubled artist that doesn’t let his vulnerability show. These letters represent Jack’s growth as a man and as a writer and offer great insight into the foundation of his style.

Sebastian’s life as a poet and as a young man stopped midstream; he was wounded in the Battle of Anzio, in Italy, and died a few days later in an army hospital in Algiers on March 2, 1944. During his time at Emerson and in the Army he wrote many poems: a few were published in the Army’s Stars and Stripes, some in the Emerson Yearbook in 1944, and “Cote D’Or” and “Taste the Nightbane” appear in an anthology of Puptent Poets (1956). Outside of those publications and a few letters, his work until now remains mostly unknown. Jack survived the war years and his search for the brotherhood, although transformed through maturity, remained a part of his literary accomplishments. Through brilliantly inspiring works such as On the Road, Mexico City Blues, and Doctor Sax, Kerouac has taken us on the rollercoaster of the human adventure.

Jack Kerouac and Sebastian Sampas were both born in the spring of 1922 in Lowell, Massachusetts: March 12 and May 22, respectively. They lived in the same neighborhood in Lowell when they were young but did not become friends until they attended Bartlett Junior High School. Jack graduated from Bartlett a year early (1936) due to his promotion from the 5th to the 7th grade. (That same year Lowell experienced extensive flooding which prompted the Sampas family to relocate to the Highlands, a neighborhood across the river from Jack’s home in Pawtucketville.) Both boys attended Lowell High School but their interests were quite different: Sebastian served in the Brigade and Jack was a football and track star.

Jack tells many versions of his early encounters with Sebastian or as he refers to him in Vanity of Duluoz, Sabby or Sabbas, but most of them are fictionalized in Jack’s style. We do know however, through the accounts of their friendship in this collection of letters, that it was one of deep respect and admiration for each other’s individual intellectual and artistic pursuits.

As children Jack and Sebastian were interested in the arts; Jack as an aspiring writer and Sebastian as a budding actor. According to Jack, by the age of twelve he had written a novel about a runaway, and created stories for comics as well as a club newspaper.[3] Jack’s interest in writing was inspired by being with his father in the print shop. During his years at Horace Mann Jack wrote a variety of works, including football articles, jazz reviews, and short stories. Meanwhile, Sebastian’s interests in literature were inspired in part by his older brother Charles who was a journalist for the Lowell Sun. Although they weren’t close friends as children, they knew some of the same people and found themselves in each other’s company on many occasions. Jack tells us in “Farewell Song, Sweet from My Trees” that

Leo and Gabrielle Kerouac in Ozone Park, 1945

Jack c. 1930

Jack’s first communion at age 13

Bartlett Junior High School class of 1937, Sebastian is second row from the top, third from left

Jack, Bartlett Junior High School class picture, 1936

Jack’s track medals, won at Lowell High School, 1938–9

Jack, Lowell High School football team, c. 1938

Sebastian, Lowell High School, Captain in Brigade, 1939–40

Jack in his Horace Mann Prep School uniform, 1939

Jack playing baseball at Horace Mann, 1940

Once I ran a newspaper, the Daily Owl. I printed it by hand with a pencil, and pasted pictures at the appropriate spots, using my own delectable hand-wrought captions. Bill was my star reporter. . . . My Hollywood correspondent was a melancholy little Greek boy named Sebastian; he came from another neighborhood, but had heard from afar of my publication. He used to submit his daily column with a sad smile, and I would print it laboriously into my paper.

(Atop an Underwood, Part II, p. 104)

One of Sebastian’s earliest known poems was inspired by seeing Bartlett Junior High School burn to the ground and was written in early 1940. It is the only serious early work of his that we have, and in it he uses the term “brotherhood,” which became the focus of his intellectual pursuits for the rest of his life

To Thee Oh! Bartlett School

By Sebastian Sampas

I

Foolish flames slashed

Through every corner of my

Alma Mater

Heavy snow fanned by

A wintry wind

Kept its appalling

Falling

The cold melted snow

From my head

Joined rivulets

With the tears

Across my countenance

II

Bartlett School was not a

“School”

It was more than that

It was a place of Brotherhood

We’d all gone

To come back

And gaze at its eternal song

III

The fire sweeps on

The assembly hall is gone

That’s where I recited once

A poem by Edgar A. Guest

I had finished the first

Two stanzas

And then I gazed into

Mary’s eyes

And all was gone

I groped for words

As I do now

To properly express

My foolish melancholic soul

As it beholds

The burning of Bartlett School

IV

Cold arabesque figures of snow

Whipped and rewhipped

Against my face

But they refused to blind

Jack was attending Horace Mann Preparatory School in New York City but was home during the semester break. He remembers Sebastian on the night of the fire in Vanity of Duluoz:

Except, I s’pose, that time when Bartlett Junior High School was burning down and my train was taking me back to New York prep school and you [Sebastian] ran alongside remember? in the snowstorm singing “I’ll See You Again”. . . huh?

(Book 9, part V, p. 160)

When Jack described his father’s theater publication “Spotlight Print” in his “Background,” he said that “this early association with the printing and publishing business soon enough stained not only my blood but my hands and face with ink . . .,” and the stories he told me of his days “as an advertising man for the RKO Keith Circuit in New England filled me with an early dream of the theatre” (Atop an Underwood, Part I, p. 3). Such early exposure to the world of theater and writing was inspirational to Jack and he produced his works diligently. Together as a group he and other friends such as Billy, G.J., Sebastian, and others set out to create a market for their intellectual and artistic pursuits.

One of their first productions was written in 1940 before Jack started at Columbia: the artistic dream and idea are coalesced into a viable sales pitch for the group then called the Pioneer Club. Jack makes a reference to this work later in his Book of Dreams when G.J. and Scotty (Joseph Beaulieu) come to visit in 1940, and he describes the three of them moving through a crowded dance floor as “we file doorward from the back room (as Pioneer Club.)”[4]

The Pioneer Club

By: Jack Kerouac

The most amazing thing about the Pioneer Club is that it conceals us from the naked scrutiny of the heavens.

By some hook or crook? By some intellectual subtlety, by some tremendous metaphysical theory?

No.

By a roof. You are very well informed. By a roof. This my friends, is the Pioneer Club. Its name born of America. Its design for America. Its significance . . . its significance is everything.

Willie.

Ho, my lusty lads, have you ever [heard] Sebastian spout, “The Isles of Greece?” “The Barrel Organ?” Have you ever heard Jim play the Brahms Lullaby? Have you ever heard O’Dea make a speech? Folks, come to America, come to New England, come to Lowell, come to the Pioneer Club, and you’ll hear all this. The Greatest Show on Earth.

Naked scrutiny of the heavens.

Yes, you heard me. Man is naked. Nude, too. Also mystical. Also gross. Also hankering, very especially hankering. And we are all on the cold, exposed surface of the earth, naked to the heavens. Bare as the bird’s ass.

And so the Pioneer Club hides us beneath its roofs. Roofs.

At the Pioneer Club there are more roofs than you think. Here in the rancid mustiness of a rip-roaring New England barroom,[1] walls thin, place dedicated to drinking beer, only there are more roofs than you think. More roofs than you think, my brother, more roofs than you think.

Another version of the club was called the Variety Players Group and was busy in the summer of 1940 writing plays and radio scripts. Jack recalls the experience as the group was planning to stage a three-act play:

I wrote the script, the other [Sebastian] was to take the leading role, and the third [William] undertook the producer’s duties. In the end, our mutual money shortage made short shrift of our attempts, but we did manage to put on a 15-minute play over the local radio station.

(“Background,” Atop an Underwood, part I, p. 5)

There were several pieces written by Jack Kerouac for this purpose and they can be found in Atop an Underwood, edited by Paul Marion. One radio script entitled “The Spirit of ’14” shows not only Jack’s desire to write for the medium but also his ability to integrate the events around him, such as the war raging in Europe, with his interests in literature and film. In this script his characters Jack and the Legionnaire discuss H. G. Wells’ utopian societies.[2]

A work in progress by Sebastian shows his early endeavors to write a play as well. These character descriptions are of Jack and Michael (Sebastian). The play begins with this note at the top:

These certain ideals that he came to love –

To love and believe in with fervid enthusiasm.

Dramatis Personae

by Sebastian Sampas

Jack – A barrel chested but handsome young man, with a powerful Gallic physique, thick set features which smoothen around the joints. He has a certain intellectual quality which reacts superbly to his heavy but graceful actions. He appears to be a trifle slow but is quick to seize each and every word spoken throughout the play. He must ooze of unconscious virility. He is a writer.

Michael – Tall, and dark, vibrant in his manner of speech, awkward, but there must be a certain sophisticated charm to correlate his sloppiness, at first it is essential that he appears awkward – he is handsome but his clothing is ill fitting – His voice must always be sad and well-modulated. His parents both came from the same town and the same state of Greece. His actions are always superior. He is constantly on the defensive, he has a habit of constantly frowning his forehead.

The collective mission of the group they referred to as Prometheanism. Jack tells his wife Stella Sampas in Vanity of Duluoz that the summer of 1940 was the period when:

I finally started to talk to your brother Sabbas . . . big curly-haired guy, thought he was a poet, and was, and as we got to be friendly began to instruct me in the arts of being interested (as they say in Mexico, interesa) in literature and the arts of kindness. I put him in this chapter (say I archly) about Columbia, because he really belongs to that period which followed the adolescence of the prep school and introduces the serious business. Among my souvenirs, by God is the friendship of Sabbas Savakis.

(Book 4, part II, p. 61)

Sebastian makes a reference to a missing letter from Jack in his personal notes dated September 26, 1940.

Thursday about 11 and I am writing my diary and I am thinking of Jack Kerouac and his wonderful letter. How lucky he is. This morning I visited the Boston Common and thought of our idyllic experience together. Tears clouded my eyes but they were tears of joy –

I switched from French II to Elementary German.

Stage Design is grand with Mr. Wade. Professor Wilie [sic][1] I hear is also nice and very broadminded – how wonderful –

It was a clear crisp, cool, common September morning.

My brother, Nick, joined the army for 3 years – I hope he realizes what a great mistake he’s made –

Mother has learned to take those things now. She’s suffered so much! I am only waiting for the day when I can see her in a luxurious mansion ordering servants around.

Au’ voir

Sebastian

Among scribbled notes and other edited lines is this poem on the next page of his personal notes.

Cursed City

by Sebastian Sampas

Oh! cursed city of wring-wet squalor

That breaks men’s will

And sings the praises of

The almighty dollar

Oh! city cursed

The “serious business”–Jack’s intellectual pursuits in Vanity of Duluoz –began during his first semester at Columbia, where he started searching for Jack the writer while being Jack the football player. This postcard was sent to Sebastian at Emerson College while Jack was traveling with the Columbia football team.

To Sebastian Sampas

From Jack Kerouac

New Brunswick, NJ

October 12, 1940

Hello Emerson,

I’m sorry I haven’t answered sooner and that you weren’t able to come to New York. I’m sure you’ll make it at some future date however.

Meanwhile, expect a document from me soon.

Jean Louis de Kerouac

P.S. I spent the time on the way up here reading Saroyan.

Sebastian had been unable to make the trip to New York City with G.J. and Scotty to see Jack but begins to plan a trip to go before Thanksgiving. Here Sebastian adopts “Brotherhood of Mankind,” a term used by many writers during the Great Depression to invoke a common humanitarian goal. The nickname Zagg first appears here, and was used by the entire group including Jack. Its origins, Jack tells us, were on “a brawling hot night on Moody Street, we were all so exhilarated we kept grabbing everybody in the street and telling them they were God . . . This was when I was beginning to gain my reputation as ‘Zagg,’ which was the name of the Pawtucketville town drunk who kept throwing up his hands like Hugh Herbert and saying ‘Woo Woo.’” (Vanity of Duluoz, Book 4, part III, p. 63).

The following letter recounts events beginning on October 18th at the Emerson dance. Sebastian tells Jack of his newest poem, “Bloody October,” which he says he has lost, but, evidently, found later or rewrote as “Bloody Season.” He discusses Saroyan’s “My Heart’s in the Highlands,” which ironically is the play that Coach Francis Fahey took Jack to see when he was trying to persuade him to go to Boston College.

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

[Late October 1940]

I shall not put the date because an

erratic person never counts time

(Do you understand?)

Mon Chér Baron!

It is Sunday about seven o’clock and I am sitting at my desk and writing to Jack Kerouac. Is that name odd? If so, so is the person.

Jack – err – I mean – His Lordship, Baron Jean Louis le Brice de Kerouac is an idealist. I shall not delve into his idealistic beliefs because they coincide almost perfectly with mine. He is of medium height, a weather-beaten face that hides his mental powers, is placed at the front of his head. That’s not strange. I have spoken with Jack and have discovered that his life, like mine, shall be full. Unfortunately, however he has not discovered the beauty of flowers in life. The true beauty of the asters and dahlias in autumn; place Sebastian in a position to yell, to cry, to laugh, to live. Jack is going to be a playwright. Sebastian knows that Jack wishes, however, not to be filled with a burning ambition such as Sebastian’s to become successful. Jack likes to write. He lives to write. He was born to write and the damn fool hasn’t the burning ambition of success and Sebastian wishes to impress Jack with the wonderful talents he has been endowed with by God to write plays, books, novels, stories and philosophies.

Back to normal Jack, I am in poor health both physical and mental (not too poor). I shall write in the latter part of my boring epistle concerning the den of dramatic demons:

(continuez ici s’il vous plait)

I am hoping that I shall come down to see you a few days before Thanksgiving and that we shall come to Lowell together to celebrate Thanksgiving. I do want to do this very much and I am quite certain, almost positive that we have four days out during Thanksgiving. I want to see you very badly. I have so many interesting things to tell concerning Emerson, life, love, “The Brotherhood of Mankind,” and Saroyan.

I have just finished reading Saroyan’s three plays: “My Heart’s in the Highlands,” “Love’s Old Sweet Song,” and the “Time of Your Life.” Jack, when Scotty and George told me that they had gone to N.Y.C. without me I was the most enraged person imaginable, my Latin temper simply gave way.

George explained to me that the time that they went to New York and the circumstances concerning their glorious trip, it was impossible for me to go. When he asked that truck driver for the ride Scotty was with him and therefore he had to take him.

Jack, I do wish to emphasize the fact that I am positive that I shall be with you in N.Y.C. before Thanksgiving and it would be wonderful if George could come and the three of us could come home together Thanksgiving Day.

I think that you deserve a salvo of praises for the excellent literary style of your epistles. I shan’t go into further details, Zagg, I have so much homework that I cannot go into lengthy details concerning so many things that I have uncovered.

Recently, Friday, October 18, I went to the Emerson Intern-Class Dance with Lois Allard. I could of course have taken a wealthier girl but I would have to treat her as such. The dance was held at the Sheraton Riviera, a very exclusive and picturesque setting for a college dance. There were heiresses, orchids (pounds and pounds of them) strewing their breasts, their hair and their wrists, drunk, gay, hilarious and reckless!

A socialite whispering in Hope Duval’s ear, “I want you sexually.” Really Jean, Emerson is much more than I anticipated – I shall list a few of the girls that I have already met! Blanche Faye, who toured Europe, nigh drove me insane describing Paris, (eternally calling, beckoning Oh! Paris, Sebastian and Paris) the Riviera, Monte Carlo, Athens, Ladz, Dunzio, Sofia and Bucharest. Blanche is a singer and dancer and toured Europe singing and dancing at the leading nightclubs. She now has a job as a charm girl at the Mayfair in Boston and is taking courses at Emerson during the day.

Keara Kono, an Hawaiian student has described for me the magic of the South Seas – the beach at Waikiki – the island of Oahu – Pearl Harbor. Keara has a very Oriental flair for clothing, a tan skin, and expressive eyes. Her eyes seem to dance, sing and vie with life for life.

Jean Cooper – I went out, out with her about a week ago. I called for her at the dorm and then I walked her to the movies. The crispness of autumn exhilarated both of us as we were walking through the public gardens and Boston Common. She is tall, blonde, wonderful figure and wealthy. She, however is not as intellectual as I like my women, therefore she automatically is dropped.

Zagg, I do think and am perfectly sincere when I tell you that I was the talk of Emerson after the dance. Droves of girls, the next day told me that I dance gracefully, rhythmically and with ease. I was dressed immaculately in my tux with a red boutonnière and carried a Noel Cowardish composure the entire evening. I abandoned completely my Saroyanish attitude for just that night. Oh, but I love Saroyan. I live for Saroyan. Recently I met two people who have met Saroyan and he is everything that I expected him to be. Each day so many things occur. I could go on writing infinitely concerning so many things!

The West Point Cadets marching in perfect unison by Emerson.

My latest musical composition – the “Call of the Wild Naves.”

Being cast into two plays “Personal Appearance” is one of them. Zagg – I have impressed my teachers at Emerson very much and they believe that I can succeed. Professor Kenney has given me a salvo of praises concerning my voice. You know me too well to think that I am conceited. I did have a glorious summer. Oh! Those days I was simply filled with the fullness of living, Vermont, Moody Street, Dracut and the Boston Common.

Zagg, I do miss you terribly – your clever repartee, your debonair manner, your ecstatic moments and I see no reason why we cannot always be friends. Of course, of course, we are bound to have many combinations of friends but as you stated there will always be the two of us.

I too, have been busy abnormally so! Zagg, I do wish you would write more often and in lengthier details. I have made many new friends however I have not forgotten the old. George and I are still together. This afternoon for instance we were up at Scotty’s house –we sang at the top of our lungs. Scotty was playing the concertina, George the organ and I was singing. Oh we did have so much fun. We talked about you and how we all missed you and we all do miss you terribly. Zagg, I am enclosing my autobiography which we had to write for English Composition class. It is very brief, it must be brief because I have so many things to do; learn lines, poetry for recitation etc.

Jack, again I wish to tell you that I shall be with you near Thanksgiving and I do wish you would come back with me and (probably George) to Lowell to spend Thanksgiving. I have so many things to tell you.

Recently I came across this in one of the prologues to one of Saroyan’s plays. I am not quoting him verbatim:

Youth is wild, imaginative, innocent:

Adults are debauched, unimaginative, guilty!

How true! Of course this does not apply to persons who have through their youthful contacts, been able to keep eternally young; such people as teachers, etc. I wrote a poem, which I have lost entitled “Bloody October,” describing the human blood which is being spilled overseas and saying that it has been transported into the leaves of autumn.

I am indeed happy to hear that you have made an impression on the athletic directors and are “firmly” entrenched among the luminaries of Columbia’s contemporary athletic rolls. Zagg – you must pardon the errors both grammatical and orthographic but I am not in a very inspiring mood – I have a terrific cold laying me low.

P.S. Returning on the 2:45 A.M. I thought of our returning from Boston after our idyllic experience.

P.P.S. I beckon you, implore you, please answer soon. I know how difficult it is but I cannot possibly tell you how much I appreciate your letters.

Au Voir

Sebastian

Prince of Crete

Here is a poem by Sebastian from his personal notes, which expresses a similar sentiment as his reference in the preceding letter where he describes blood “transported into the leaves.”

BLOODY SEASON

By Sebastian Sampas

I

’Tis October – bloody season

Bleeding are boys & willows

and ’midst life’s dark-soothing sorrows,

There remains so few tomorrows

II

Bloody season, bloody season

Won’t you at least answer to reason

Bloody season! Bloody season!

’Tis October bloody season

III

Bursting shells & screaming flowers

Bleeding roses & heart-broken hours

Folly-polly Sin & Folly

And a girl named “Sinful Molly”

Although there are no other letters from Jack to Sebastian during the fall of 1940, there is evidence of Jack’s “serious” work toward becoming a writer. He was quite busy, not necessarily focusing on his studies at Columbia, but more on his observational skills as he wrote constantly in his journal.

To John Kerouac

Livingston Hall

Columbia University

New York City, New York

From Sebastian Sampas

November 23, 1940

Jack,

Am arriving at the midtown bus terminal, 143 West 43rd St. at 8 or 9 o’clock, Wednesday night. I am coming on Silver Dart Lines, Incorporated. I am leaving Boston 10 o’clock Wed. morning & will get there at about 8 or 9 that same night. I am coming alone & I imagine I will have about 5 or six dollars to spend – Please meet me as you know I will be the proverbial small town boy in a big city.

Sebastian

Due to the Christmas reference, this was probably sent after Sebastian’s trip to New York.

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

[Late November, 1940]

Sunday morning 1 A.M.

Dear Jackie;

I am sitting and writing to you from a friend’s home on Beacon St. Before me lies a package of Lucky Strike cigarettes and the orchestra that has been pouring its soft music over the radio is finishing off with a swing version of “Carry Me Back to Old Virginy [sic].” My friend has put on his pajamas and has asked me to wake him up at 8:30 to attend mass then we will both go to Lowell!

I had a rather pleasant day. In the afternoon we drove up to the Museum of Fine Arts. Oh! Zagg I can’t even begin to describe its beauty. There were paintings by El Greco, Rubens and Tintoretto. Sculptures by Praxiteles. The Colossal, Suggestive, Impressionistic, Realistic and Grotesque were superbly combined. Its beauty and power left me speechless. I was so overcome by the Rubens painting that I actually felt like stealing it. We must see this when you come down for Christmas. Thence we proceeded to his house where we had supper and winded up talking about sex, love, religion and racial prejudices. Leonard is rather practical with a tendency however toward following my idealisms.

When I returned from my glorious escapade I was moderate and practical to the ninth degree. But now my true self has once more dominated and my idealisms are all the more strengthened. You may think that a paradox, well it is. I saw realism Zagg realism that has made me cry myself to sleep every night of the past week. Just now, I was breathing the wholesome air of Beacon Street and the tears were running down my cheeks. Then suddenly they felt cold like icicles of eves of the rooftops on a clear sunny winter day. Now I am tiring I shall continue this anon.

The liquor and beer which I have been pouring into the bowels of my body is reacting something [awful]. I must visit the lavatory and dispense with it. I may live with this friend here in Boston after Christmas. That is if I can persuade my parents to the idea – Oh! But I am tired – rather in a stupor.

Continuez après

Sebastian

Sunday morning

Now it is Sunday morning a quarter past 8 and I am again sitting at the same desk. As I gaze down Beacon Street a feeling of peace and quiet prevails. For nothing is so quiet as Beacon Street on a Sunday morning.

Beacon Street Zagg is to Boston what Riverside Drive and Park Avenue is to N.Y.C. This is the street where the Cabots, the Lowells and the Lodges reside. This is the street where the exclusive Fox and Hounds Club is (Remember Fourth of July?) (Memories! Memories!)

Zagg, I am eagerly awaiting for you to come down [at] Christmas so you can meet my friend and see Emerson at work.

I am waiting for the coffee to start percolating. Thence I will go to a Catholic Church with Leonard and thence to Lowell. I am going to church simply to prove how tolerant I can be when the occasion demands. You must write and tell me your reactions to Vicki. Success or Failure?

I am corroborating with Life and circumstance and am beginning to realize that an idealist must make some sort of sacrifices to life if he wishes to succeed. Now that doesn’t mean that I am not as great an idealist as I ever was but simply that I have come to recognize that some compromise with circumstance and life must be made.

[letter ends]

The Prometheans began to focus on the idea of the brotherhood of mankind, and this quote from Saroyan’s “Seventy Thousand Assyrians” is a perfect example of how it had seeped into the consciousness of the 1930’s intellectuals: “I want you to know that I am deeply interested in what people remember. A young writer goes out to places and talks to people. . . . If I have any desire at all, it is to show the brotherhood of man.” Sebastian describes below the passion he experiences in meeting a Merchant Marine who also claims to be seeking this brotherhood of mankind. Here is the first time Sebastian calls Jack “mad master of Columbia,” which is used by Jack himself in his “Journal of an Egotist.”

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

February 1, 1941

From: Sebastian, the fool of fools, The Prince of Crete, Grand Duke of Candia, Marquis of Kana –

To: Jean Louis de Kerouac, Grand Duke of Bretanny, Marquis of Normandy

Jack, Pardon me, please pardon me – but I’m wild and mad – stark mad – I can’t bear life and the tricks that destiny has chosen to play upon me.

I was coming home Jack, home to pour my mind and brain (if not my soul) into guttural German. I was normal, quite normal, I assure you, until fate destined that I was to meet this person or have I any right to call him a person. I suppose that he and I could both have gone on living our lives and never met.

We met like two ships that pass in the night, whistling salutations to each other. Well to go back now – I was on the five-fourteen train to Lowell and sat quite satisfied with myself reading a newspaper. This individual sat beside me and a conversation ensued. He was about twenty-two years old, clean cut and an idealist who had harnessed his idealism to serve his purpose. He was a sailor in the Merchant Marine working for the Standard Oil Company of New Jersey.

Imagine my complete astonishment and bewilderment as he started discussing Khayyum.[2] He recited passage after passage of that Persian genius – Omar Khayyum. He told me of his experiences – of Leningrad and the river Neva. Russia, Glamorous, Glorious Russia. Russia, where the Byzantine Cross stands in defiance of atheism.

Leningrad and the Czar’s Winter Palace (it’s a museum now) –Oh! The bells of Leningrad pounding, pounding, Bells, Bells. I’m going mad – I can’t bear it. He told me of the White Czaristic Russians of Shanghai. Of New Orleans and the bayous (remember Yvette?) Gay Montmartre streets of New Orleans – and I must go on dying away in this hole. I like Albert Halper,[3] have a locomotive on my chest.

I want to see Paris – He told me of Paris and the palpitating (that word is used correctly) paramours of Paris. The Grandeurs of Versailles – Southern France – The Riviera – of South America, of Cuba, Hawaii – the soft South Seas.

We discussed Nietzsche in a barroom, Schopenhauer in a nightclub, Spinoza at the Blue Room (in Lowell) – gads man we even discussed Tiffany Thuzer.

Now I’m sad – the happiest unhappiest man alive.

Russia, Leningrad, Paris, – oh Paris (the Paris that I love) Bells, Bells! Pound on you God-damn bells pound on and let this God-damn bastard rust in his fucken hole.

On the train we started talking in French and burst into “Alors! Enfants de la Partir” (Le Marseilles.) This letter, I suppose is incomprehensible, but I’m mad, stark mad.

I felt my body quiver as he told me that he was pursuing the “Brotherhood of Mankind.” We drank beer and gin and rum and became two drunken idealists roaming the streets of Lowell – Snow and cold everywhere but our hearts were burning – burning.

(They have not retreat[ed] – those who must do or die – those who have no retreat.)

And yet, I must be normal and staid and attempt to dismiss this incidence as though nothing had occurred.

I’m bawling Jack, yes I’m bawling, but I don’t give a damn. I can’t bear life and the dizzy whirl that fate plays upon my soul.

I’m twisted and tormented and lost – lost – in a world of reality. Society has built a set of evaluations and they expect every individual to abide by them. Well, I refuse!

Jack, this isn’t just the silly underage freshman who believes in being radical and who continually advocates changes. I’d rather die than be hypocritical to myself – I would rather face shame in the eyes of the entire world than be untrue to myself and my ideals – (God damn that word idealism – I’m beginning to hate it.) I’m riding now on the wings of Hermes – Far above, above, my thoughts are beautiful and clean.

Summertime, Gloomy Sunday, Begin the Beguine, I’ll see you again. I’m wild and mad – mad, stark mad.

“To die, to sleep, for in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil.”[4]

Jack, he told me of his escapades; clean, conventional, husky mistresses of Russia named Sascha and Olga, big, fat, jolly mullatos [sic] of Africa, of Cairo and Egypt. Tempting paramours of Japan and China and yielding French sensuous whores of Paris.

I just received your letter and I can’t possible express how much it has affected me. Yes, Jack, people like you and I are foolish to talk of such silly crap as friendship as regards relations between us go. We are the Voice of Youth – you – I – Wolfe and Saroyan.

Jack – I told you once that someday you would be a great writer. I mean it Jack, you will be. Any criticisms that I may have made at times can very easily be dismissed and that expression “wailing wonderfully across the alabaster wastes,” very definitely is not cliché – because I know as well as you do that – that is exactly the picturization.

That poem also is definite proof that you will succeed. Try to get a more definite rhythm, (Purely, constructive criticism, you sensitive bastard.)

Jack, I do intend to strive to harness my idealisms – why do you think I worked in those sweltering days of summer at Emerson, if not to see my idealisms come true.

I’m young and healthy Jack and I intend to travel and discover and uncover life before maturity makes me moderate.

I do so want to see the spires of St. Stephen (Hungary and Budapest), the mosques of Constantinople, and Singapore. I don’t intend to go on rotting away in this hole with a narrow-minded society continually gasping at my actions.

I shall attempt to follow your advice, however and practice idealisms at the proper place and time.

Jack, perhaps I have been very egocentric. But remember what Plato once said – know thyself – how can I pretend to know others when at times I don’t even know myself?

Jack, that poem of yours does have a rhythm. Only try to make it more definite. The idea it expresses is superb.

I have many papers for you to read but they shall have to wait until you come back home? – to Lowell.

Joe (that M.M.[5] sailor) also told me that it was his first time home in three years. He told me that he knew that he couldn’t go back home again.

And now I shall have to close before I go completely insane.

Au ’Voir

My mad master of Columbia

Au ’Voir

Sebastian

The Prince of Crete

Au ’Voir

P.S. I got myself a green pencil striped suit and accessories. You see I have to be conventional to a certain degree – (Untrue to myself?)

Jack, meeting Joe (the M.M. sailor) has really affected me very much. I want to travel and don’t be at all surprised if I even see Singapore and the Argentines this summer.

I’m wild, wild, wild and hopelessly insane.

Au ’Voir

Sebastian

Jack, Answer immediately

s’il vous plaît

So we can keep our correspondence going at a rapid pace

To John Kerouac

413 Livingston Hall

Columbia University.

New York, N.Y.

From Sebastian Sampas

2 Stevens St.

Lowell, Mass

Feb. 1, 1941

This card was sent specifically to make certain that you gather your wits together and flood me with mail – my exams are over, Thank God! I went through a week of hell – I think that I passed them with flying colors. I don’t know as yet. It is now 3 p.m. Saturday, I am about to board the bus and see Fouch [G.J.] –

As ever

Au ’Voir

Sebastian

Prince of Crete

[written in the side margin:] I realize that my letters have not been masterpieces – just thoughts and ideas

In this letter Sebastian asks Jack: “Remember the Bells of Boston?” This reference is to Jack’s play “There’s Something About a Cigar,” where the character Sebastian springs to his feet, shouting at the top of his lungs “Bells.” Sebastian’s innate ability to see through Jack’s rhetoric and get to the matter at hand is expressed here.

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

February 20, 21, 23, 1941

Jack,

For the first time in my life I’m afraid – afraid of myself and afraid of what Fate intends to do to me . . . God! I am afraid – So god-damn afraid; my heart is a space of void waters which refuse to distill –Jack, you’ve no idea how horrible and awesome this feeling of anguish can be – I’m afraid – afraid of myself – I still have confidence. (A great deal of that.)

Jack, you’ve asked me for advice in regard as to whether or not you should stay at Columbia and so I shall attempt to give you some. This still is Sebastian talking calm, cool and collective. The first thing that I would do Jack is to try to indicate to Lou Little by some kind of subtlety or by some other action what Notre Dame has offered you. You should be very tactful and subtle in letting him know. Then, see if he can’t make things still easier for you at Columbia.

Jack, I’ve no right to hand advice to any ordinary individual. You’d be a downright fool to go to Notre Dame – I know the prestige etc. that goes with that particular school Jack, but you want to major in journalism and you do not intend to coach. (or do you?) Notre Dame would mean just that – You would probably have to spend the major part of your time with football and football alone . . .

Why leave Columbia and New York? You know what opportunities abound in N.Y. – Jack, please, please, be sensible.

I did read “My Name is Aram”[6] about three weeks ago; the grocer from Yale to any common individual would represent a fool – But to you and me and Wolfe and Saroyan he represents much more than that. We see tolerance, honesty and sincerity in his every move – My enthusiasm concerning that has almost completely died down. I am very enthusiastic over it but things have been happening so swiftly that I did not have time to go into hysterics (as I usually do).

What shall I tell you Jack? Shall I tell you of my Galatea (A French Canadian girl called Therésa Parée whom I am molding into any particular pattern that I wish. She has a beautiful body and a lilting laugh. I intend to make her my first victim. I’ve taken her out several times and apparently the damn fool considers me a God. She gives me a feeling of assurance –) You should have seen the second time we went riding and when the other two couples exited to go bowling she insisted in staying in the car with me – I just struck my match, offered her a cigarette, took one myself and I gazed at her heaving breasts – I continued to remain cool, diffident and detached –She cuddled herself up to me and proceeded to denounce me for being cool. She handed the general line of affection – “Oh! Darling etc!” but I continued to remain cool. Finally I gave vent to my emotions!! My hot hand slid between her breasts as I kissed her violently – Jack I am perfectly sincere – I am not “Throwing the bull” – Of course, you realize that she does not mean anything to me – Just a passionate affair – She is temporarily fulfilling my sexual urges –

I’ve got a date with her tomorrow – Saturday nite – (who knows?)

Jack, you know how tolerant I am – so tolerant that people often make the mistake of thinking I can be very easily pushed around –But I was furious about not hearing from you – You could have at least dropped me a line saying you were confused –

Friday, February 21, 1941

Aboard 6:35 Train to Lowell

To break this overpressing feeling of insecurity I went with Leonard De Rosso and Cornelius Murphy to see “Father Malachy’s Miracle.”[7] This production was sponsored by Boston College and was fairly well distributed with humor and touches of narrow-minded Irish Catholicism. Later in the night the three of us fell under the spell of Bacchus and passed out of the picture completely – so I stayed in Boston overnight –

At times like these I feel so insecure, twisted, lonely (Forever those black vultures!!).[8] Nevertheless my heart is enchanted into ecstatic eeriness and my soul totters into whirlpools of despair –

I love Emerson, Jack (You know that) My soul however has a constant yearning for life in Singapore – dirty and filthy and through it all a feeling of wholesomeness and refinement – The bells are constantly ringing those fucken bells – They’ll never let me alone – Paris! Paris!

Recall that trip to Boston and the way we watched a city awaken and continue on its march ahead. Remember the Bells of Boston? Oh! Those Bells, Bells, Bells. Jack, for a while I tried to capture the same feeling that you had as you left Lowell. Now I gaze with clenched lips into the pits of vacant darkness.

Wilmington 7:00

Jack, Jack, I feel so miserable

Au ’Voir

Sebastian

Prince of Crete

Sebastian writes poetry, prose, and letters on the train ride to and from Lowell to Emerson College, recording the time, train stops, and scenery as part of his spontaneous flow of thought.

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

February 23, 1941

Again – Time, Time, Time, Time –

God damn Time

Aboard the 6:35 Train to Lowell

Monday February 23, 1941

Eventide, time of repose, bliss and rest –

Eventide – yes eventide, but I’m thinking of those tantalized individuals whose minds are in constant confusion –

Jack, I feel secure again – Mrs. Shaw told me that if I can stand the gaff I could become [a] successful actor. Dr. Wiley told me to continue writing – but, damn it all – I hate security

Silver Lake – Time 7:20 –

I hate normal conditions – I’ve got to be striving for something –It’s amazing Jack, how hard and realistic man can be – How intolerant, biased and foolishly prejudiced – Persons who are secure and who frown on “strugglers” – They’re nothing but iconoclasts –Damn them – I suppose that I am esoteric – but then we all are esoteric at times –

NO. Bellirica – Time 7:28

Mills – and I think of George [Apostolos] now in the den of some god-damn capitalist. His hands working to and fro – trying to look active – The monotonous infinity of corduroy – His nose, stuffed with cotton. Trying to sneak a cigarette in this dead man’s job – The beads of easy gotten sweat, the nauseating smell of hair, perspiration, water and cloth – But through it all – Through his bitterness and sweat I’m sure that George realizes it isn’t life that counts but the courage you bring to it – Lowell

Page 2

Jack, the name of the young fellow was Joseph Zusin (of Russian ancestry). I swear upon my honor that none of his stories were tinged with fiction.

Jack please pardon my grammatical errors and the sloppiness which continually mars my letters –

Repondez toute de suite

Sebastian

Prince of Crete

Good night – my mad master – master of Columbia

Write immediately

Answer & tell me if you’ve come into any decision regarding your status

Sebastian

The last page includes one of Sebastian’s wonderful drawings of his crown as “Prince of Crete.” Nearly all of his letters had this, with many variations of the crown for different topics etc.

The focus on time is significant for Sebastian as he travels on the train, and this poem echoes the sentiment in the preceding letter.

TIME

by Sebastian Sampas

When the world has reached its crescendo

And its greatest men have gone by

Then will they know that their greatest foe

Was time; but too late will they say

These early poems show great compassion in the observations of Lowell. The following one was published in Sebastian’s honor, as part of the Emerson College Yearbook of 1943–4.

MS page of Sebastian’s letter to Jack, February 23, 1941

YOUNG POET REMEMBERING LOWELL

By Sebastian Sampas

Eventide . . .

Prismatic sunsets,

That Sweeter melancholia

And the Stark Locale,

Red, as the crimson-red of sumacs in the fall.

I shall remember,

Not for the mere sake of remembrance

But for our eager striving that remains

Integrated with eternity and impatient

Struggle for the best

Cries, lost now

In nether world find no refuge

In the cold catastrophe of tears.

The next poem reveals Sebastian’s feelings toward what the mills represented, referring to the Merrimack as a “River of exploitation,” and touches on the anger and sadness in the previous letter, when he thinks of George in the “den of some god-damn capitalist.”

Summertime in a Mill City

By Sebastian Sampas

Summertime!

The workers swear on –

The huge wave – the heat of noon

The Greeks

Rises from the asphalt road

The Poles

Seeps into the first floor of a factory

The French

And climbs

Summertime

Successively

And lovers walk

Into the

Along the riverbank

Second and third –

Along the Merrimack River

Soon the red building

(River of exploitation – but no matter)

Is an oven

They are happy lovers

The workers,

Who can walk along

The French

A riverbank at night

The Greeks

And watch the

The Poles

Trees sway and

Swear as they stand

Hear the tender rustle

And pull the wet cloth

Of tree leaves

From the vats of dye –

The moon beams on

The colors are rare

The river and they can

Verdant velvets

Forget the gaseous ebbing

Violet velvets

Of their souls

They will adorn

As they cry out in vain!

A jeweled box

And now they near the bridge

A casket

For a moment they stop

The cloth will be cut

And stare at the blue

Into a gown

And yellow lights

And worn

Of factory windows

By a woman with red hair

Sending postcards became a regular practice for Jack’s and Sebastian’s correspondence in 1941, with occasional long letters often written in a stream-of-consciousness style. The sometimes daily notes provide immediacy to their rapid exchange of ideas.

To Sebastian Sampas

From Jack Kerouac

[New York City

February 26, 1941]

Sebastean –

I’d like to have you drop me a card like this daily, and I’ll do the same – of course, still continuing our regular documents. Good idea? Fouch and I are going to do it also. This is to inform you of my suggestion. The second card is my first official Daily Chat.

Jean, BARON DE BRETAGNE

P. S: I’m going to mail these cards to your college because your sister[9] may read these at home. I’m being boyish. . .

To Sebastian Sampas

From Jack Kerouac

New York City

February 26, 1941

LETTER COMING

Sebastean –

J’ai vu “Mayerling”[10] l’autre soir. C’est tout ce que vous avez dit –très triste, magnifique, et noble. Charles Boyer est une homme quie est extrêmement irrestistible. (The suicide is PERFECT!)

I read Wolfe at 4 a.m. this morning – “Four Lost Men” – he uses too much language, but hits the nail on the head, which counts. Am reading Jan Valtin’s “Out of the Night.”[11] Arise Masses! J B de B

Sebastian’s reflections during his first year at Emerson on the emptiness of the young man he is observing and the tears he sheds for the brotherhood of mankind are what make him unique as an individual and incredibly compassionate as a poet. Part nostalgia and part memory, he cries: “Weep not for poets! For they / Carry the tears of a million years.” Jack describes this part of Sebastian’s character very accurately in The Town and the City: Peter (based on Jack) “was always wonderingly aware of the essential fury of Alex’s [Sebastian’s] really sensitive heart” (Part II, section 11).

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

[Early 1941]

FEELINGS OF A STUDENT RETURNING HOME

By: Sebastian Sampas

Aboard the 6:35

(Local to Lowell)

Jean –

On my right a soldier,

Laughing eyes and clean white teeth,

Pure and clean 100 percent American –

Uniform immaculate –

With a high-school graduation

ring on the fourth finger of his right hand.

Brown Russian leather strung

Over his shoulder –

On my right, a soldier, Jean

What does he think of Jack?

As he stares at the mauve-pink colors of sunset?

Does he see the sunset? Or does he see beyond it?

Does he think of his youth Jean?

Or is he thinking of the

Best Place of Ill-Repute

In the next stop!

Oh! Soldier – Lost! Lost!

And I do not pity you –

I cannot feel a glow of

Brotherhood –

It has all gone too far

beyond me –

and I cannot feel what you feel –

I can see you in your

Uniform and I cannot pity you –

I look out Jean at the

Autumn sunset –

And the trees, the red,

The purple & the green

Take on darker shapes –

The black waters reflect

The black from the white

Jean, Jean,

Where is that night we knew

When sitting on your doorway

In the middle of a summer night

We could have put a finger

On a star?

Jean, Jean,

The crescent moon appears –

Laugh! Moon! Laugh! Laugh!

In your lunar fossils!

The trees now are black

Against the last light of day

A lone bird flies –

Soon all birds will go away

They fly in V formations

And glide into a Southern Trail –

Jean, Jean,

Weep for Sebastian – He is dead

Weep not too long – I wonder!

Jean, Weep not for him!!

Weep not for poets! For they

Carry the tears of a million years

Weep not for poets! For they

cry and yell –

Knowing too well – To hell with hell!

What are you waiting for?

the train stops – and he exits

The engine pulls away and the train

reverberates with motion –

The wheels are fascinating and

the huge bars of iron pumping

back and forth

Like a gigantic sexual intercourse

The wheels are fascinating –

Damn fascinating

Finis

Well, Jack, another letter to inform you that things are beginning to get in a groove – Mike Smith was asking about you – Helen is lonelier than ever, and this afternoon Freddie (female), Seymour, Doris Miller, Bobbie Levine and myself – had a wonderful & stimulating discussion revolving around Wolfe – All of us are Wolfe addicts. I am beginning to start my campaign to make Emerson Wolfe-conscious. Please answer soon –

Au’ Revoir

Sebastian

P.S. I miss you very much and I have so much to tell you –

Jean, Jean, Forget! Forget!

Jack, I know that my last two letters were scarcely legible but try to understand – I do not pretend to have uncovered any new & marvelous philosophy but simply to describe my feelings at the present time.

Another undated and untitled poem by Sebastian, written around the same time, reflects upon the outside forces which he feels are tumbling down

upon him.

By Sebastian Sampas

I

Why do they tumble down

Upon my soul

Only to crumble

The last light

Left within me

II

Why do they kill

All, All my love

And surely fill

A broken soul

With more despair

III

I stare into the night

And stare again

And Weep! But where’s the light

And love dies fast

And there’s no more

To Sebastian Sampas

From Jack Kerouac

New York City

March 5, 1941

DON’T TELL FOUCH

Sebastean –

Very sorry about the delay – unavoidable – typewriter broke down – helpless without it. Anyhow, I have something better than a letter for you – I hope you’ll be pleased to know that I’m hitch-hiking home Thursday (6th), casually and poetically. I will stay till Sunday or Monday. So that we can get together and discuss over a banana split at Marion’s,[12] I am bringing a one-act play I wrote this morning at 3 a.m.

ZAGG

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

[Emerson

March 14, 1941]

8:15 P.M. Friday

Duc,

Thanks, ever so much for your letter, really you have no idea how much I appreciate it – But now away with Foolish Effeminacy.

Your play was highly received by Dr. Wiley (my English teacher.) She liked it very much. She claimed that you have more to say than Saroyan and went about saying it in a unique and compelling manner. She also felt (in regards to such words as bastard, whore and fuck) that it does a man much good to get them out of his system.

The play is now in the hands of a friend of mine from Tufts (who incidentally has read over 600 plays.) I will send his opinion later along with the play and the book “My Name is Aram.”

Last night I read a condensation of Jan Valtin’s book in the Reader’s Digest. It is almost incomprehensible to me how a person who faced such horrible ordeals as he did can come out of them so nobly and bravely. I couldn’t help but bawl as I sat there in the library reading as he talked of Ferelei and of his son. Here was a man Zagg who simply wanted to alleviate the conditions of the lower classes – a person disillusioned with an economically unsound Germany –inspired with the (fire of destruction at the Moscow Communistic School) – it seems rather pathetic that the government should now want to deport him.

What adventures abounded in his life!

Zagg, once more I want to emphasize the fact that I am young, healthy and footloose and if I deem it correct to travel (as I do!) – I shall – away – away – away from this blasé monotony – from this overpowering boredom.

But now I feel so twisted inside – to prove how twisted I feel – here are some of the million thoughts running through my mind – (not literature, I assure you) entitled “Dead Men Tell No Tales.”

Ten dead men standing on a railroad track

Walking slowly and back to back

The green-black train that then whizzed by

Cut each man’s head and each man’s thigh

[written in right margin:] Written under spell of symphonic music. [written in left margin:] Tonight I meet George and walk him up to Marions!

“The airplane”

Silver bird with grizzly groan

Follows the birds that have just flown

The frustrated sun gives a sarcastic smile

And follows the plane along the Nile

I walked with Nubar to the Y.M.C.A. Down through Beacon Street (Capitalistic Lair) we flaunted our theories of Communism but Nubar transcended even me in displaying his ideals!

Zaggus, Jan Valtin has made me realize even more the Brotherhood of Mankind – not the Communistic viewpoint but the Literalistic one.

As Ever

Sebastian

P.S. I shall continue dropping you a card a day – et vous arui si’l vous plait!

P.P.S. More letter anon – Jack please send me another letter as soon as possible.

P.S.S.S. Try to pen me a letter over the weekend.

To Sebastian Sampas

From Jack Kerouac

New York City

March 18, 1941

Sebastean –

I’m sorry I didn’t start sending cards sooner . . . but I had to buy a batch – and here we are.

I’m glad you read Valtin. However, read parts of the original to get wanderlust in your blood! Remember our dates – Nov. 18, 1950 ’Frisco house of ill repute – March 12, 1946 Gray Sunday in Moscow with vodka and a room overlooking the roofs (Sam, please go to the library in Boston & look up “War & Peace” Chapter 3 or 4 dealing with a Moscow nite – please – the long “War & Peace”) – I propose a date for the Casbah also. . . .

P. S.

Howie Marton[13] is in NY for two weeks. The other night we sat in his Capitalist father’s lavish study and chatted till 5 a.m. – I smoking Bourgeois 50 cent cigars. He would like very much to meet you. Why don’t you come down this weekend? Soon I’ll have to start going to bed early on account of football. Howie & I took a stroll in Central Park that morning to watch the sunrise & the rosy skyline –and the famed Park birds . . .

J.

To Sebastian Sampas

From Jack Kerouac

New York City

March 25, 1941

Sebastean –

My daily remittance hath arrived at last. Did you get my document? It is singular that we both thought of Spring at the same time. Last night, as I was coming out of “Philadelphia Story” I heard “I’ll See You Again” from a cheap penny arcade – and I felt tears come to my eyes. It is the most beautiful of all songs, plus “The Man I Love” and “You Go to My Head” and others. Remember the night I left? I hardly studied this semester, yet am getting good marks. I roam the vast and rich web of the city almost nightly.

To Sebastian Sampas

Emerson College

Beacon St.

Boston, MA

From Jack Kerouac

April 15, 1941

Sebastean –

I spent the afternoon reading Saroyan by the Hudson River. Just yesterday, I was sitting in the same bench with Fouch, enjoying his humor. George finds the world completely idiotic, and laughs whole-heartedly at it all.

I was reading “3 Times 3” which is Bill’s new book. I think it’s marvelous. Get it. He says plenty in it. “Man is salvation. Man is God. There is no hope for the masses. There is hope for one man at a time.” The masses are too greedy and essentially unkind. Saroyan raps communism and loud-mouthed Jew orators.

J

The following three pieces by Sebastian show his varied attempts at getting across his ideas of the brotherhood of mankind both to himself and to Jack. Each covers a particular aspect of his ideas and therefore all three are presented together. The first is a poem from his personal papers, the second and third versions are included in letters.

RELIGION

The Brotherhood

By Sebastian Sampas

PROLOGUE

Next month when May dips into bloom

When lovers gaze at lost desires

And see them rising into spires

When melted waters mold into bubbled streams

When heart is gay and brain is keen

I’ll tell the world I’ll be nineteen!

I

Dimitri came and spoke to me

And said, “Sebastian tell me more,

Tell me Sebastian, I implore!

Tell me for what you stood

Tell me Sebastian, of this Brotherhood.”

II

With wild and starry eye I said

“Dimitri, you cannot realize the poignant and gripping force

That leaves me grasping, groping, praying;

This force that soothes the melancholia of a million

miserable moments.

III

I call it God! and stand unafraid

Before all that this wild world has made.

I call it God! and stand alone

And cry to all humanity,

Are you so blind you cannot see?

You sad, sad folks!

Oh! If you could only see;

If you could rise above your bigotry. . . .”

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

April 15, 1941

11:00 Monday Night

Zaggers;

Tonight my perfect and incongruous blend of atmosphere.

A jazzed version of Dvorak[14] humoresque, the wail of Wolfe’s whistle and the tottering pencil.

But then tonight I am wild – I do not wish to temper anything –my idealisms with a sad and lonely world! For I’m mad! mad! wild! Quite wild I assume you – and therefore try to interpret this miserable piece of literature as best you can.

The Brotherhood of Mankind!

STANZA I

I last saw it in the pathetic countenance of a crippled seventeen-year old

I felt it when I shook the hand of my sick friend

Then as Keats stumbled into Chapman’s Homer I knew

What all the melancholia of a million miserable moments sought

II

As a poet pursues the parched sun

I pursued and caught faintly this vague

This marvelous ideal – I call it God! I call it Life!

It is so fine and so sacred and divine!

And what else can youth call anything that soothes

and sweeps his sad soul

And rocks it through ecstasy

III

Tenderness and Tolerance enraptured

Kindness and sympathy in harmony

Life for life and reality!

Elusive, concrete, abstract,

all molded into this intricate pattern of brotherhood

IV

I call it God! And stand unafraid

Before all that this wild world has made

I call it God! And stand alone

And cry to all humanity –

Are you so blind you cannot see

You sad, sad fools! You quaff life and vomit death

V

And all through life you grasp!

Grasp! Grasp! Nothing!

Oh! If you could only see!

If you could rise above your bigotry

And seize and try to analyze this force

But why should I attempt to make you see it from my source

When even HE failed!!!

Au ’Voir

Sebastian

P.S. Zaggus,

Frankly I would appreciate a letter from you very much – why not write one tonight. I’ll be expecting a letter Wednesday!

This letter is where Sebastian focuses on attempting to create a doctrine for his beliefs in brotherhood and includes the third version of his ideology. He begins the letter with a tone of acceptance, recognizing the changes in his life and commenting on how the Prometheans are spreading apart and then uses Thomas Wolfe’s title You Can’t Go Home Again as a metaphor for what is happening to them. The title becomes a repeated motif as the young Prometheans begin to grow up and find their way in the world. Its protagonist, George Webber, is a writer who returns home after using the characters of his home town in his first book, and he is seen as both a hero and a traitor. Wolfe’s autobiographical style and his examination of the lives of ordinary people spoke to Jack’s and Sebastian’s vision as artists.

This letter also records some of the political interests Sebastian is exposed to in the more intellectual climate at Emerson College. The rallies, speeches, and newspapers in Boston begin to influence him as they will Jack at Columbia University in New York. Sebastian uses Jack’s phrase from the barroom play (and letter of March 5) that he might drop in “poetically and casually.” The radio script that aired locally is lost but the idea of the writer who resolves to commit suicide might have been inspired by Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther with its story of unrequited love (see p. 405).

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

Aboard the 8:45 train to Lowell

[April, 1941]

Duc,

Repose, eventide’s past – and then repose – Dream away ideals and hopes – This mangled web of humanity could so easily be loosened –Everything is so heavy – Everything could be gay and lilting – and now as one rides back home – as one speeds fast through his beloved N.E. landscape one does get so gloriously idealistic.

I feel so clear, fresh and alone all alive – alive – alive with spring –one breathes joy in the air and [breathes] it to everything he touches. The people about him want to join with his joy but they don’t (what fools these mortals be!) done!

And yet I know that I shall forever go on fighting for man’s understanding of man, for sympathy and kindness, tolerance and honesty –

Jack, there is a clique that must be abolished. A clique that must be made to realize poverty and misery and LIFE – I am referring to the aristocratic clique that abounds and is mercenary and cynical. What has finally completely changed me and made me realize that this aristocracy must be done away with was a conversation that ensued between myself and a couple of N.Y. sophisticates – I get along famously with this group – but I have failed to make them realize the filth and squalor that abounds.

This aristocracy, (this does not include all aristocracy –) is mercenary, conceited and too self-centered. They are completely satisfied with themselves and the foolish lives they lead –

I gaze at them with cold sympathy!! I pity them – They are so pathetic –

To me the two happiest people are an ordinary Frenchman and his wife – Mr. and Mrs. Armand Gugnon – I see what beautiful lives they lead!!

I marvel at the simplicity and crudity of their humor –

I love them because they are kind and ordinary and tolerant –

But now the train reaches its destination and so au ’voir

P. S. I enjoyed and appreciated your letter very much –

As Ever

Sebastian

10: 15 Friday, 1941

Jean,

Cornelius was in Lowell last night and so we took a walk until we found ourselves on top of Pat Cogger’s sandbank –

There we gazed at panoramic Lowell – The lights of the city were flickering in glorious harmony with Time with Space with everything. The invigorating, keen spring air lent itself so remarkably to our mood. A mood encompassing all of minds, emotions, melancholia and sadness, gaiety and ecstasy.

From the brink of the bank the colossal cyclorama of New England hills – Those blue and yellow lights of cotton factories and the nearby Merrimack and along Riverside St. the Gay Rendezvous and continuing this glorious circumvention – The moon, the haunting Spring moon, playing on the distant graveyard and beyond all this Pine Brook.[15] Shangri-La, Utopia –

Everything was so poignantly beautiful last night. Gazing at the distant lights – and underneath it Wolfe’s undercurrent of life –

I was walking along Beacon Street to-day and I saw a flower in bloom. Just imagine Zagg – a flower – a purple, white studded tulip on Beacon Street –

Spring – Spring – Spring very definitely is here and through me pulses a feeling that I can ne’er express yet cannot all conceal! Nor do I want to conceal it Zagg – Everything is going to be so wonderful –

I think you are quite true in your statement regarding the two M.C.’s – How strange! How strange, indeed because I saw the same sunset you saw, with the same hues – only it settled on the Merrimack – and I also thought of “When the Deep Purple Falls” – I am going to try and arrange to be with you and Marton [sic] in May (I do so want to meet him.) I am arranging my schedule in school so that there shan’t be any conflict.

That fellow from Tufts also found your script very interesting and unique so continue the fine work!

As for my radio script it goes on Easter Day – The plot as I have previously, told you centers around a struggling young writer in Brooklyn who resolves to commit suicide – I would like to read those two short stories you wrote.

Jack, I’m so happy to know that you are happy and that you are living – because so am I, living with Spring and Life –

Your letters are appreciated ever so much – I read and reread them –

I was remembering the other day and thought of our escapade that morning in Pine Brook – To prove Wolfe’s point – You can’t go home again –

Bill Chandler is in the Philippine adventuring in jungle swamps and you in N.Y. and I in Boston – So you see You can’t go home again – You Can’t You Can’t You Can’t – Nor Can I –

Things certainly are happening in Boston. Dorothy Thompson[16] was due to speak at Symphony Hall and Women representing the “America First” Committee roamed the side-walk wearing such placards as –

Is your Son Ready To Die Dottie?

You and Winchell and Jergen’s Lotion

Is Uncle Sam Santa Claus to the Rest of the World?

It was all so amazing –

And yet I cannot possibly do justice to all the emotions I feel by means of written words. I should let such things to John “Wolfe” Kerouac (This is not meant to touch your ego) –

Right now we are on a two week’s vacation –

If Howie were in town I’d drop in next week-end – poetically and casually –

Zagg, try to get hold of the song “My Sister and I” – it’s marvelous –To-nite on the train, I rode as far as Lowell with Pallie ( a N. Y. sophisticate) Reandon who was heading for N. H. (skiing and the like) on the same train were reporters hastening to Bette Davis’ premiere of her latest picture in Littleton, N. H.

Zagg, I’m so happy – so happy to see you leading a beautiful life –I think that you are finally arriving and I am so so so happy for you – As I am of anyone who leads a beautiful life – a full life –

Over the radio, Shep Fields is playing from N. Y. and I know that within a stone’s throw you are there – pondering, gazing at the Hudson beyond – and I know that above the virility of Columbia, you and your ideals search for cool clouds to bathe your weary brain –Cling on Zagg – for that as you yourself have said is the only way you can become a great writer. The Gods have gifted you with a keen sensuousness that is imperative of all successful writers –

And Zagg, see if you can’t answer soon, very, very soon – I have appreciated those 3 letters I got from you ever so much –

I have only outpoured a minor portion of my thoughts and emotions – I have learned to control my emotions Zagg – and that to me is very important – I know when to give vent to my idealisms – I still have your play – And now good-bye – or rather goodnight.

I’ll see you again

Whenever Spring breaks

through again

Goodnight &

Au ’Voir

Sebastian

Written Thursday

THE BROTHERHOOD OF MANKIND

I last saw it in the pathetic countenance of a crippled seventeen year old boy. I know it’s there – there in his countenance. My ideal – the ideal that we are all searching for, the brotherhood of mankind. I know now that, that is what I was always searching for. To me it reeks with limpidity. The prime requisites of my ideal are sincerity, honesty, tolerance and kindness. It’s all so holy and sacred above, way above and beyond any physical reaction. Life is a gigantic and complicated symphony but under the eye of a fellow man it becomes a clean vivid and vibrant chord. I recall [going to] a town [in] Vermont with a few of my friends. I recall how on the way back David felt ill and I distinctly remember how when he called for my help, I pressed my hand on his and instantly I realized my ideal. A person, biased with the calluses will immediately shout homo! Cannot the groping fool arise above himself and his wicked prejudices. Can’t he feel this sweeping ideal, that ranges all over this world. This ideal which goes through poverty, disaster and misery and arrives at last on top of a mountain – It is forever on top of a mountain. It can only reach a certain group. A group that opens its hearts and says welcome stranger.

This group may include anyone a mill-hand or a doctor. As long as the spark is there – The divine spark. Oh! I see it so often – so often. In the face of a soldier, a sailor, a millionaire, a beggar. It’s God to me – but because it is the only fine thing on this world. It is abstract and yet in its final analysis ever so concrete. It’s give! give! give! For other people’s happiness

Zaggus please mail this paper back because I am going to do my research paper this semester on the Brotherhood of Mankind –Whatever you do Zagg – Don’t misinterpret “The Brotherhood of Mankind”

As so on the spur of this letter

Answer –

Soon – ever so

soon

A violin solo is coming over the radio –

Noel Coward’s Green Carnations

Noel was in N. Y. recently –

As I see by the papers

This period of Jack and Sebastian’s friendship marks an increase in correspondence focusing on their intellectual interests. Melancholy reminiscences of October permeate these writings, symbolizing a lost youth, and become the inspiration for several poems and Jack’s play Oktober. They begin to seek adventure: Jack ventures to Washington D.C. and Sebastian to New York. Fueled by their driving ambitions to read and experience everything they can, the mad master and the prince begin a new phase of their friendship, evident in their honest exchanges about life’s intricate balance between the beautiful joys and the ugly, empty sadness.

To Sebastian Sampas

From Jack Kerouac

New York City

May 5, 1941

Prince –

Sorry if I let you down this last trip. With those guys around, I despise intellectual talk. It’s not polite, nor considerate. I mean Scott and Salvey.[17] And sometimes George isn’t in the mood. I’m hoping to recrudesce my lost prestige as an intellectual this weekend: –Howie’s coming in Saturday, and if you come down, we’ll go through with our Manhattan interlude.

Zaggo

Sebastian writes about growing up and his coursework on the night before his nineteenth birthday and of his desire to “cry for a lost youth.”

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

May 21, 1941

Zaggus,

Well, I simply had to write and tell you that tonight I am through being a child. After tonight I am nineteen – tomorrow is my birthday. Ecstatic eighteen – gone – after tonight, tonight, my last hours of adolescence – tonight I press away all childish things. Tomorrow I shall get up early and see the sun rise and say I am a man – I am nineteen. Do you understand what it is like Zagg – so much of life severed – so much uncovered – yet Zaggus – I do not regret anything I have ever done, not primarily because I’m an egotist but because I live for my sensations and not my thoughts – therefore I am happy to live for sensations.

Jack, thank you ever so much for your letter. No, I did not receive the first letter that you mentioned (I would like to know more about it.) Your last letter made a splendid birthday gift – I sincerely hope that you come through chemistry with flying colors.

Our exams come up week after next and I shall be caught the way that you were. I shall have to cram and cram – the only subject that I am worried about is German, I can understand the God-damn stuff but I can’t write it (grammar.)

But tonight I refuse to worry about German. Tonight is the last night that I am eighteen – tonight I must [halt] briefly and check –tonight for a moment before my soul once more is jarred by the constant turmoil and whirlpool of mankind.

Tonight, I shall cry – I shall cry for a lost youth, a youth who cannot cope with the realities of mankind – a youth who discovered the viciousness of living and still came through with his soul as fresh as the dew-drops on the sunny grass in May.

Your letter, once again, was such an inspiration – I hopped like a fool along the Esplanade, then I sat reading by the lap-lap-lapping waters of the Charles.

Zaggus, I can’t possibly come down this weekend because I shall be tied down with homework. I assure you that I am financially able to.

If I can clear up as much as I can, I shall be down a week from today. That is next Thursday (but I doubt it.)

Pardon my writing

Pardon my grammar!

Germans land on Crete!!!

Please answer tonight!

Au ’Voir

Sebastian

Prince of Crete

A letter with similar content in Sebastian’s personal papers does not appear to have been mailed. It includes an important addition to the ongoing discussion with Sebastian’s advice concerning Jack’s idea for a novel.

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

May 22, 1941

This – my nineteenth birthday – Nineteen – nineteen – Crete captured by Germans on my (The Prince of Crete’s birthday) Is this the present I receive. The loss of my island?

Jack it’s 3 A.M. (Thurs) Friday – I have just finished more homework and somehow – I don’t know why – I had to write to you.

That definition of yours on Enthusiasm is so true – The more and more you write to me the more you seem to be improving.

As regard to your book next summer I do not know what to say – I would not, however, venture on an autobiography as a starting vehicle. Should this book become famous (as it will undoubtedly) the blasted critics of a blasé world will continually take you “over the hurdles.”

Musings 3:20 A.M.

The cigarette smoke caresses the ink – the green – black – yellow landscape looms with a pallor of foreboding –

The sing-meowing of vicious night-cats –

Oh! child – sick – weary – hopeful with the tinge of a new era

Jack – (On His Enthusiasm)

Faiths broken

Silver token

Morning glories

Tied in rows

Sliver embers

Oft repeating

You’re the soul

of Life entreating

Greater Flame on

Flame and Fire

Softly everything

does retire

I found this poem among my memoirs – (It of course is original!)

I feel rather peculiar now –

Realistic, idealistic –

3:25

I better hit the hay –

I am sending this letter airmail – so that I may receive one from you

Saturday night –

I hope you shall be reading this by tomorrow night (Friday) and I hope to be reading your message by Saturday Night.

I am not having a birthday party now – I shall wait until June –when you will honor us with your presence –

I haven’t seen George for quite sometime – I’ve been so hellishly busy with homework –

Au ’Voir

Sebastian

Prince of Crete

Repondez ce soir

In the following letter Sebastian discusses reading Byron for an assignment at Emerson that is directly referenced in the character study by Jack for Christopher (Sebastian) of Galloway on p. 303. In The Town and the City, the Sebastian character, Alexander Panos, paraphrases Sebastian: “Yesterday I read and wrote for eighteen hours [doing research on Byron] straight and in that time I drank sixteen cups of coffee and smoked three packs of cigarettes. The place is literally a battlefield of paper strewn all over the bed, the chairs, the floors!” (Part II, section 11).

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

May 24, 1941

Musings

Zagg:

8:00 PM

Ah! Zagg, if you only could see the sun set as it is setting down now. The west a million shades of pink, purple and blue all blending in perfect harmony. The colors – reaching thru the trees – each leaf-dotted space (a chamber of beauty!)

Sunday – 12:10 P.M. –

Well, here I am steeped deep in literature concerning Byron – God! What an egotist he was – but still I can feel his brilliant personality surging through the pages – The east is hurling a wind –

2: 00

A Greek love song plays on the radio – How romantic Greek music is – It has an oriental background!

4:30

Andre Kostelanitz plays Tchaikovsky’s Andante Cantabile – shades of the blue-hazed mountains of Vermont.

5:20

A folk song from France, played on a solitary piano – Claire de La Lune

7: 20

The Man I Love – remember that tall brunette that you took to the formal – The mirrors and below 5th Avenue – Back to Byron

10:45 P.M.

I finally got through my research paper on Byron. I’ve been working steadily since 10:40 this morning – I have already drank 18 cups of coffee and smoked about 3 packages of cigarettes – If only you could see my desk – papers littered – books opened. God! What an amazing personality Byron had. I shall tell you more about him when I see you. I rather consider myself an authority on that poet now. But now Jack more work. –

8:00 P.M. Monday

Jack, – Two lines from Byron

“’Tis time this heart should be unmoved since others

it hath ceased to move.”[18]

Do you see the sweeping remark. That is probably why we both have chosen a profession in which we wish to move our audience.

[letter ends]

This undated letter from Jack is written on the Hotel Normandie’s stationery in Philadelphia, PA, while traveling to Washington D.C.

To Sebastian Sampas

From Jack Kerouac

[Philadelphia, PA

Fall of 1941]

Sebastian –

This is just a note written from Philadelphia – since both of us have that mutual delight for “endroits,” or variegated spots of the map. I just sit under the Pennsylvania sky and say to myself: – “that is Pennsylvania gravel there, and the sky is hanging over Philly – old Quaker Philly! And this is a Pennsylvania bench!”

And so on.

You know what I mean. You will have the same feeling in New York.

Jean Louis Le Baron

de Kerouac

This fragment of a letter was written during Jack’s trip to Washington and is probably the “long, hand-written, desperate letter from the South” referred to in the following letter. Jack not only relates the misery of sitting in that hotel room, but exposes a rarely seen vulnerability as he reveals some of his fears. The return address of the envelope had printed on it (AFTER 5 DAYS, RETURN TO) to which Jack adds: “The Department of Futile Energy.”

To Sebastian Sampas

[Lowell, MA]

From Jack Kerouac

Washington, D.C.

September 11, 1941

II

There, Sam, I must. And then? What then? . . . I don’t know, Sam. I don’t know! I sit in this cheap hotel room on a very hot night – the sound of the trolley, the surging pulse of the city of Washington, the night breeze and no trees, no trees, yes no trees to sing for me. . . .

Oh Sam! I’m driven and weary. I’m mad, desperate. Yes – “My arms are heavy, I’ve got the blues: There’s a locomotive in my chest, and that’s a fact. . . .” I don’t know what I’ve done – afraid to go home, too proud and too sick to go back to the football team, driven and weary with no place to go, I know not a soul, I saw the Nation’s Capitol, the F.B.I. building, the National Gallery of Art, the Dept. of Justice building, “Dive Bomber” and a stage show, and I was lonely, sick, and cried. . . .

To Sebastian Sampas

From Jack Kerouac

[Fall of 1941]

Thursday morn

Sam . . .

Just read your letter and am hurt by your inference that I have written you one letter to George’s three. Didn’t you receive that long, hand-written, desperate letter from the South? As far as I can remember, I mailed it. Seems George got his letter from the South . . . . wrote it on the same night as yours. George’s was a buoyant little thing. . . . yours was what was in my heart. . . . the bitter desperation of a young man-alone in flight to Hegira; and Hegira yet to be heard from at present. (Don’t mind my esoteric cryptics.)

Sam, truth is, you received two of my letters to George’s three, which is slightly more digestible than latter accusation. I guess the long one I wrote from the South didn’t reach you. . . . . . too bad. . . . . it was probably the best thing I ever wrote, because I was young man-alone in South, tired, driven, mad, lonely, hopeless, started with: “I speak to you from the hearts of all the lonely young writers that have ever lived on the earth. I speak to you from their hearts because now I am one of them. . . . suddenly, quickly, without a warning: I am one of them. . . .” “I am driven and tired, driven and tired”. . . . etc. Fact that I wrote you such a letter in my moment of plight, and a long one, and that I wrote George some pleasantries proves my deeper friendship doesn’t it? Sam, you give me a pain in the ass.

I write this just out of bed, have just finished reading my mail, am going to hitch to Hartford this morning to see Mike, and to see about a job [an] old pal has for me up there.

Sam, don’t let your friendship grow egotistical . . . worst thing. You talk more about my writing one letter to GJ’s three, and nothing about my trip to the South - - - - if you had taken such a trip, I would pester you with inquiries about it, would demand minute description of it all, etc. Friendship should not be egotistical. . . . should be earnest, concerned, unselfish. Talking through my hat, because you said you were worried. Well, guess all this sprouts from my letter-from-South not getting to you. . . . too bad, was a good letter. . . . . earnest, concerned, unselfish. . . . two letters to GJ’s three, and one of GJ’s was not worth damn . . . two to two, really. Sam, you give me pain in the ass . . .

Jack-hammer! Jack-hammer!

Dig for dear old Sam!

Dig for dear old Sam!

Jack-hammer! Jack-hammer!

Belt and pound and gouge

Rattle and curse and blast!

Jack for dear old hammer!

. . . and dig for dear old Sam . . .!

Last night I was reading Whitman, and he said:

“My final merit I refuse you, I refuse putting from me what I really am, Encompass worlds, but never try to encompass me, I crowd your sleekest and best by simply looking toward you.”[19]

Sam, you give me a pain in the ass. Tell me if you didn’t get that letter from youth-alone in South. Too bad . . . it was good; good.

My love to Emerson. Keep telling them about me - - - my debut is coming, and I want it to be a good entrance.

I live by the sea now, and an oyster steamer has been anchored for four days just outside my window. I can picture the men on board, working all day, and playing cards in the musty hold at night, and perhaps one of them, young, is writing. . . .

Adieu, Sebastean. Que le soleil ne descendrais jamais par dessus votre grandeur . . . . c’est la dernier chose qu’un homme peux garder, sa grandeur . . . . gardez la

Jean Louis le Brice

de Kerouac de

Gaoz

Sebastian’s “The trees are singing for me” refers to Jack’s short story “Farewell Song, Sweet from My Trees.” This is a reply to the preceding letter and a great example of the stream of consciousness at play as Sebastian intertwines memory with his present thoughts of the squirrel and the imaginative sounds of Thomas Wolfe’s typewriter.

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

[Emerson

September 1941]

Jean,

I am now writing to you from the top of Boston Common where you and I spent that morning and saw the city get up.

There is that same intent man inspecting that same cannon. The frozen sculpture is hatched in the afternoon glory of September.

Jean, I cut a class in order to come here and sit on the same bench and gaze at the same things we gazed at so long ago. The trees are singing for me! Oh! Trees sing for Jean, Jean, an ugly squirrel comes and begs for my lunch.

“Soon these golden hours will pass – Will you perhaps someday recall these hours in Boston Mass.”

Silly, foolish, poetry – but I like it Zagg – for it reminds me to be what I always want to be – sincere, tender, gentle, simple, unselfish, and if the den of dramatic dragons makes me hard-boiled and coldblooded, sophisticated – Remember Jean that I am being forced into it – but I will fight tooth and nail all the way.

2:00 a.m. (Cornelius’ apartment) Well, Connie is sleeping soundly in the next room and I am up here gazing across and below. I see a sailor sitting on the stairway, cigarette in mouth and he is lost. Well, Jean, I am tired and will end this epistle. I know that it, like the last one is abominable both in wordage and orthography.

Fraternally yours

Sebastian

P.S. Please answer this letter like you did the last one and please, please send me that short story.

P.P.S. Please don’t use that expression “You give me a pain in the ass!” (Remember the sensitive soul of Sebastian) Ha! Ha! Au Voir Mon Cher Ami – Across the street are the ravenous, singing voices of students – Connie and I walked Connie’s sister to the hospital and returning to the Harvard dorm I heard the clat-clatter of a typewriter of a young writer – T.W.

In the following letter written sometime in late September 1941, Jack refers to helping his folks move to New Haven, Connecticut and returning to school in the next fall: see Vanity of Duluoz, Book 6, part I, p. 106. Page 1 of the letter is missing; pages 2 and 6 have been published; pages 3–5 contain a previously unpublished short story.

To Sebastian Sampas

From Jack Kerouac

[Late September, 1941]

[page 2]

Well, Sam, what is there to say?

I’m home, going to work for a year and help the folks back to their feet, and will go back to college, possibly Notre Dame. Will read a lot, study a lot (have many projects in mind,) will have music, will write in torrents, will go to New York so frequently. In the fall of 1942, will return to harness. In the meantime, will see if I can’t write a novel, a play, a book of short stories, a radio script, and at least one deathless line.

At any rate, write to me immediately. I have as yet to hear from you. I am making extensive plans to go to Lowell often, and hope that you can come to New York with me a few times. I saw Howie, and he still wishes to keep that appointment. The night I saw him, he said that he was feeling superior to everyone that night. I said that I was superior to him any time. He said we would spend a whole night, till dawn, on that subject very shortly. I also told him that I envied him for his wealth, and he said I had never done so before, but I told him that now I did, and he said that will take another whole night, till dawn, to discuss. Then he sat at the piano and began to play “Deep Purple” very beautifully, and offered me a cigarette - - - cork-tipped from England - - - and I refused, and he said that was a sign of my inferiority. He said people of his set never were inferior . . . . he said I was inferior because I did not belong to his set, and that probably some day he might allow me to join his set. I told him that people of my set were superior to all creatures, I said the poets. He laughed and said people of his set were beyond that by now.

I laughed.

He said that would take still another night, till dawn, to discuss.

[page 3]

Conversation on a Street Corner

By Zagguth

“Why don’t you shut up, you Nazi. You ought to be locked up . . .”

The young man turned to look at the quiet speaker. It was a small man with greasy features, a loose-jowled pouting mouth, and enormous horn-rimmed glasses. The young man grinned.

“Now wait a minute, my Hebrew gentleman. Let’s see what the issue is, here.”

“Don’t call me no names. I ain’t afraid of you.”

The young man produced a cigar and ran it in and out his mouth.

“All right then, Mr. Jew. But I repeat, let’s see what the issue is . . .”

“Stop calling me names, you Nazi. Don’t worry . . . I ain’t afraid of you.” The little man was stiff and bristling, his feet planted firmly and at divergence on the solid American soil of Union Square.

The young man lit his cigar, patient eyes flickering in the match-glow.

The crowd edged around eagerly to get the words. There were broad-faced Irishmen, stopping on the way from work; silent Italians, dark and menaceful; down-and-out bums with baggy pants; delighted youngsters who had come down to listen to the arguments for the romance of it; thin young men with glossy, waved hair and colorful neckties, edging unusually close in the midst of the crowd; young women with low heels and horn-rimmed glasses, prim and intellectual and sexless, always ready with a sharp rebuff; old men with canes, gibbering and silently gleeful at the spectacle of the world’s folly.

The young man spoke:

“I was thinking that perhaps we had better be a little cautious about this guy Hitler. You know, he’s been planning to give us a good reception, and maybe we shouldn’t stick our necks out too far in this issue. You know . . . he must have something really hot in store for us!”

The little man threw up his hands in supplication, turned his head about in order to get the crowd’s attention, swung his body around, and pointed at the young man with arrogant contempt and sarcasm:

“LOOK at him! LOOK at him! This guy is afraid . . . . yes, you people, you heard me the first time . . . . this guy’s afraid of . . . of . . . of . . . of HITLER! HITLER! Can you beat it? Now I ask you, can you beat it?” He was warming up, he had the crowd in his sway, and now his tone became purring, low, confiding. “Listen, you Nazi, I’m not afraid of you, and I’m not afraid of Hitler. I’m not afraid at all. Not at all.” Now he spoke as if the fact had suddenly dawned on him. “NO! I’m not afraid at all !!!!”

The young man puffed on his cigar with deep relish and scratched his left buttock.

“I’m not afraid. I am an American, and I want to fight for freedom . . . for democracy. There is no room for Nazis like you in this country. There isn’t room for Hitler in this world! He must be destroyed! He and all the German peoples! DESTROYED!”

The young man looked at the little man, and said very softly:

“German-baiter.”

“What’s that?” screamed the Jew.

The young man smiled. Efficiently, neatly, he whipped out an important looking notebook, and a fountain pen.

“Nothing . . . nothing.” The Jew took out his handkerchief and wiped his righteous brow. The young man smiled brightly.

“Name and address please?”

“I’ll give you my name, you Nazi, because I ain’t afraid of you. I, Milt Sternberger, am not afraid of Hitler, and I will fight him, destroy him, to the very bitter end . . .”

“Fine!” smiled the young man. Then added: “Address?”

The little man peered through his huge windows:

“Address? Why?”

“Why, Mr. Sternberger, don’t you know who I am. I’m the local Army Recruiter. Uncle Sam has sent me out to find people who think like you do. People like you, fine upstanding citizens of America, ready to destroy Hitler, ready to defend their rights. I’m Nolan from the Army Recruiting Station. Why, Mac, don’t you know? You’re in the Army now!”

“What!!!” stuttered the little man.

The young man smiled warmly:

“You’re in the Army . . . . age please?”

“Age?”

“Age . . .”

“But . . . . but . . . b . .”

“What’s the matter Mr. Sternberger? Didn’t you just say you wanted to fight Hitler? Well, you’re going to. I told you a while ago, we must see what the issue is. The issue is War, my dear Mr. Sternberger. War. Occupation?”

“But . . . but . . . I’m not. . . . I’m only . . .”

“No buts, Mr. Sternberger. I asked you: Occupation?”

“Occupation?”

“Yes. Occupation.”

The little man grew red. He sputtered saliva:

“But . . . but . . . I . . . . no . . . I don’t . . . but . .”

The young man put the pad back in his coat pocket, bowed low to his audience, and bade them good afternoon, followed by a group of eager youngsters who wanted to hear some more.

The little man laughed.

“Now there’s a guy that should be in the nuthouse. Holy Cow, what a nut!!”

The silent, swarthy Italian in the crowd grunted loudly, his black eyes glittered for a flashing second, then he walked off with his lunch-box. The little man shook his head sadly:

“Wow. What a nut.”

[page 6]

With tenderest apologies to sad-eyed Helen . . .

Sebastian, I must leave you now. Tomorrow, I’m going to see about a clerical job here in West Haven. In the meantime, write!!!

I saw “Citizen Kane” - - - and it was really great, wasn’t it? That Joseph Cotton is good . . . . and Dorothy Comingore . . . . yet none touch Welles himself, who is so meticulous about his acting that when he is breaking up his wife’s room at Xanadu he throws the suitcases out of the room like an old man . . . and that, Sam, although unimportant, is something I noticed that was really terrific. I’m going to see it again. The other night Welles returned to the air, and he had a short story called “Schrednivastar,” about a little kid whose concealed lion cub kills the stern mistress in charge of him . . . . it was done beautifully. And isn’t that a magnificent word? Schrednivastar . . . . . . say it slowly, with Russian ampleness . . . . . . . . . S.C.H.R.E.D.N.I.V.A.S.T.A.R. . . . . .

Ecrives !!!

And tell George that if he doesn’t write soon, I’ll really be sore. After all, there is a limit . . . it’s been weeks, and already I’ve had four letters from Scotty, who makes no attempt at being non-committal.

A la vue . . .

Jean

This card with the cry “Oktober is coming” could have a double meaning: the season and the play (see letters of March 5 and 14, 1941).

To: Sebastian Sampas

Hartford, CT

From Jack Kerouac

September 29, 1941

MS of Jack’s postcard to Sebastian, September 29, 1941

The following letter has Sebastian’s first reference to the play Oktober.

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

October 4–5, 1941

Jean,

I came into Lowell so late because I have just arrived from the Emerson Sophomore-Freshman night. It was one of those hazing affairs.

There was one girl there Jean, Eleanor Aiken, a beautiful girl –sensual, sensuous and sensitive.

The freshmen were all supposed to attend in costumes. Well she came in a low-cut French costume, and the other bitches here – the damn sophomore girls – got extremely jealous. Oh! Jack, I cannot describe her – she was beautiful! Beautiful! Well, nevertheless as she was being hazed, I noticed her face and I knew she was about to start crying – so I rushed and whisked her off to a corner and she cried on my chest as I whispered words of consolation to her ears.

Jack, Jack, what was this feeling that gripped me? That made me forget time?

Well, the evening passed, I danced with her and she said to quote her – “You have eyes like Charles Boyer and a voice like his – here look in my eyes and tell me what you see?”

I replied “I see only silence and emptiness.”

She replied “Your eyes cry for love.” The bartender just came and asked me to finish my drink, as the café was closing and so “bon jour.”

S –

And now I am home and it is 2 a.m. and music plays: What is this force Jack, that drives me? I know, I know underneath it all, Jean we are brothers each crucified and stoned. The rain drips down on fallen leaves – old melancholy Oktober – (October.)

Jack, I enjoyed that “short story”[20] very much but you know what I want to read is that story you wrote last summer. I have told Wiley about it and how wonderful it is and I do so want her to read it.

The rain

Oktober

Soft music

Memories

And so good morning. Write immediately and for God’s sake enclose that story.

(At the barroom across from the depot)

Time 1 a.m.

I speak to you Jack, I speak to you

from the heart of a humble poet

I speak to you from a barroom

I speak to you above the raucous laughter of a whore

I speak to you amid her hearty French laughter

I speak to you between my beer and the inhalation of the smoke

from my cigarette.

I speak to you because, now, sitting in this barroom in the city of

Lowell, Mass I can feel strange feelings.

Feelings which I try to capture but which continually flee by me

I speak to you as I watch a soldier staring blankly into space.

I speak to tell you of the gentleness and brotherhood of mankind

which is the keynote of the barroom at 1 a.m. on Saturday

October 4, 1941

I wonder what they all think of me as I write (but I don’t care and

they don’t care)

Let it be always so

Sunday night after the Walter Winchell broadcast.

Jack, I have reread that short, short story of yours. You really hit something there. I’m going to save it. With just a little more development you can sell it when the initials of J.K. stand in the light of blaring truth before the world. I am also sending you a group of cards – I got a job working for this concern after school. I have to go back to my lessons for now.

[note added in ink:]

At the post office – Mt. Vernon St. (Boston)

Well, I just dropped off Michael Smith and I am on my way to North Station to catch the 5:14. Jack, I just got your short story and handed it to Dr. Wiley. She has taken it overnight to read it.

Au Voir

Ecrivez Toute de Suite

P.S. Two weeks from today is Columbus Day and it may lead to an extended weekend with you and New York City.

Sebastian

I[21] am speaking to you from the beer joint at the lake. The place where: George, you, Scotty and myself, vowed eternal friendship. I am seated here alone – alone. You see Jack, I will always return. They all stare at me! I am alone.

The nickelodeon plays! Gay, lifting – a polka. Four French youths avow their virility in a drinking bout. I will quote a few phrases that I can hear in this Babel of brotherly.

“I worked two more hours and I got two more bucas.”

“I got no change.”

Oh! Jack, I am alone, alone. I came here alone for I did not want to contaminate this place by bringing a friend.

Out there is the lake and I think of the first time I came here with you and the rest of the fellows.

Do you remember those two Greek girls and the way we took one of them down the lake – and I recited – and the way the three of us reveled? Where is that night in June? Do you remember that poem you wrote in the barroom?

“Beer on the table and women too

I am not able to see it through.”

The nickelodeon again – “When you[’re] feeling low, and you got no place to go . . .”

Tempus fugit and memories, tender memories remain.

The nickelodeon again – “We ought to do this more often.”

Damn –

And a fucken old buck stares at me

Cigar in hand – and I suppose he feels virile

Stop looking at me – I know I am alone but there are times when we all want to be alone – Do you understand? You God-damn fool, stop staring at me.

And all is ugly and I want to run away.

This on the table

Raucous laughter and whores

Smoke and ugly faces

I must rush down to the lake

And now I am at the lakeshore. There is a high hazy moon and a vast landscape of New England lakeshore. I want to rush out there into the waters – rush and feel the cold waters rush into my ears and nose. Across on the side the sweat mucus and myriads of boys and girls dancing.

Good night!

[letter ends]

To: John Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

Emerson College

Boston Common

[October 8, 1941]

1:45 P.M. Wed.

Sad, melancholy October –

The winds rustling –

A million leaves are singing me their song –

From here, I can see the speakers arguing – The fast traffic of Boston looms in the distance – An airplane zooms overhead and everywhere falling leaves – falling leaves of melancholy October.

Ecrivez –

Sebastian

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

Emerson College

Boston, Mass

October 8, 1941

Aboard the 5:35 train to Lowell

Jack,

Your story was enthusiastically received but will give you the details in my next letter. I have just finished re-reading your last letter –c’est en masterpiece – I have re-read the F.S.S.F.M.T. story innumerable times – Jack, this after-school job I have with Wolff Fording Co.[22] is fascinating. I am dealing with ancient costumes all day long. I try on the different hats, Louis XVI and look at a mirror (I do this on the sly of course) – The different colours of the costumes dappled silks, purpled-velvet jackets etc. – I took a trip to N. H. over the week-end – Honestly, Jack there’s just something about October that gets you! All things point home in old October; sailors to the sea, travelers to walls & fences, the lover to the love he has forsaken: All things that live upon this earth return, return – but we can’t return home again.

[letter ends]

Jack is still contemplating a return to school with Notre Dame as a possibility.

To Sebastian Sampas

From Jack Kerouac

Hartford, CT

October 8, 1941

Sam –

(Deeply grateful for your letter. . . .)

Got following writers from Hartford Library – Wolfe, Saroyan, Halper, Dos Passos, William James[23] (Psychology.) What men! And Wolfe the Giant – you must read “Of Time and the River” – all about Boston – Public Lib., Esplanade, Docks, etc. May go to Indiana soon to settle with Notre Dame. If so, will take a room in Chicago hotel and write “Young Writer Remembering New York.” Am going to perfect “Oktober” and send it to Orson Wells. “FSSFMT” still at Harper’s. . . .

Jean

YOUR LETTER SWELL

To Sebastian Sampas

Emerson College

Boston, MA

From Jack Kerouac

106 Webster St.

Hartford, CT

October 11, 1941

[written in top right margin:] Another letter shortly

Sebastian –

One short note to express my regret – I have misjudged George horribly, and I am miserable over it. He is still the same irresponsible fool that I like, and I’m sorry I didn’t think so last week when my conclusion complex went the wrong way. He isn’t bloated up over anything – still the same old G. J., only now a more mature G. J., kinder and more aware of life’s pity & brotherhood, a bit more reconciled with himself, (you’ll see for yourself when you speak to him soon –you’ll be pleased & surprised.) He wants to go home [in] the worst way and take a swim at [sic] down in Pine Brook . . .

REMEMBER BILL, ON THE HILL,

AND THE BUGLE TRILL . . .

He wants to be transferred to . . . Alaska! Same old Fouch. I have a million things to tell you – must wait till I get a typewriter. And then the torrent!

Among a few – I do not need a job here because a beautiful waitress has set me up as her master in her apartment, where drinks abound. My visit so far has been one huge, debauchery – for instance, I have committed fornication 9 times in the past 7 days, 4 of them on Saturday night, when we had a wild drinking party at Jean’s. (My mistress.) She wants to buy me [a] new suit, gave me a dollar for food this morning. I sleep with her every night and I love her . . . . and don’t ever let me hear about sex again.

[letter ends]

These early letters often show that Jack was already experimenting with his style, and frequently the exchanges between him and Sebastian dropped the formalities and moved through time and reality, omitting punctuation –and sometimes using so many dashes that the letter becomes one long continuous thought.

To Sebastian Sampas

From Jack Kerouac

New York, NY

[Fall of 1941]

[written at the top:] Cross-section of American Public – Welles [written to the right of printed “Menu”:] MAIS, OUI!

Sam –

William Tell in a barroom!

There is a phone-in nickelodeon in here, where I’ve just finished my supper – (massive steak, whore waitress with kind eyes [Food! Food! Love!], myself wearing lumberjack shirt.) I put in a dime and asked for “Rhapsody in Blue.” A soldier put on William Tell! He stands at the bar, listening and drinking. Amazing!

And now, I have put on WAGNER – “Ride of the Valkyries” – (I’ve ordered a beer) – Oh Sam! Beer and Wagner! Wagner! Wagner! Fury! Fury! Ride, Valkyries, Ride! RAGE, brass, RAGE!!! Thou great master of mine – Richard! Richard & Wolfe & Goethe! Wagner! Enormous tempests rage, the wind screams, and somewhere amid the huge din of the elements can be heard, Oh Sam my friend, the protest of the Man, Wagner; of Man; of Goethe; of Wolfe; of the German soul; of every poet since Homer; the protest, the defiance, the fury of Man!!!! Rage, Wagner, RAGE ON!!

[written at the bottom near an advertisement for Pabst Blue Ribbon beer:] I have succumbed to your commercial [with two arrows pointing at the bottle:] BACCHUS.

MS of first and second pages of Jack’s letter to Sebastian [fall of 1941]

Got your cards. Tell me of Dr. Wiley’s response. Sam, do you realize that she is the only person who has stamped a mature mark of approval on my work! I am deeply, deeply grateful. Perhaps I shall never be recognized, but at least I’ll have been recognized by Dr. Wiley, which means as much judging by your opinion of her.

–

I shall work on “Oktober” and will send it to Orson Welles. A man on a train, talking about the football game with a fellow-passenger, suddenly becomes conscious of the voice of Oktober. Sound effects and all. But I guess “it won’t sell.”

–

That damned soldier has turned military on me – no more Rossini or Wagner. Doesn’t he hear enough tin-soldier’s ego-music all week?

–

Very picturesque old man in front of me. Short, fat, old cane & old derby, small pipe, walrus mustache, worn clothing – “Govenali’s passing will offset Columbia’s backfield shortage” – this from the radio – and Old Bing over the juke-box. Hartford, sing with Bing, Keep ’Em Flying, and Forget the Blues, forget Halper’s voice, Wolfe’s denial and defy, Saroyan’s Gypsy music, the weird & profound flutings of Joyce, Wagner’s fury. . . . Forget them all – sing with Bing, drink and drink, and Keep ’Em Flying for your deceitful confrêres, your public liars, your insufferable charlatans, your knife-backing leaders – Keep ’Em Flying for dear old Sin, Keep ’Em Flying for dear old Corruption, Wolfe [saith]: America is Sick – yes, Hartford, Yes Indeed, Keep ’Em Flying, There’ll Always be an England, and Barnum was Conservative, Yes, In-deed!

II

[written at top right:]

Your cards from the lake affected me deeply!

Read them to Mike . . .

I hope to see you soon, I believe that I might go to Lowell soon. I wish my family would move back to Lowell – I might try to go home again. At any rate, Sam, as soon as I’m settled as to College, I’m going South to North Carolina and get a job in Asheville for a while. Then I’m going through Kentucky, Tennessee, Alabama, and finally Louisiana, where I shall lie down by the Mississippi and drowse and drawl with the mud-hens. I’m serious. This is my year of complete freedom. I’ll also try Texas, Mexico, Calif.,

[letter ends, page torn]

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

October 15, 1941

(Aboard the 4:40 express)

Jean,

I have just received your letter and postcard – Both splendid. Jack, you probably don’t realize how much I miss you and Christ! I miss you a hell of a lot. Remember; the way we both said au revoir and I can still see you standing there in the ball field (Sunset was in my eyes and it was August and I did not cry.)

Musings

Farewell green earth (Ferelei)

Jean, Dr. Wiley was really enthusiastic over your short story – She said “he set a mood, asked philosophical questions, just enough, was extremely successful in his effect.” She said that you definitely can write, which is what I’ve been pounding to you. [sic] Oh! Zagg, Zagg, how true were those phrases in your letter concerning your deceitful confers.

Forget, forget, whatever spark of decency there is – forget, forget –sing with Bing, Laugh with Bing, be gay with Bing.

Aboard the 6:35 local – Tuesday – Jack, if it’s one picture you’ve got to see it’s Bette Davis’ “The Little Foxes” it’s superb.

Jack, if you can wait until January I am planning on completing my first semester and then dropping out, because I am bored! Bored! Bored! Then we can tour the country; go to Hollywood, to Frisco (Saroyan.) Please don’t think that I am being idealistic because I mean it.

Probably I should stay in school but I can’t see where I’m heading. I know what I want to do and I’ll move heaven and earth until I have reached my goal.

You know, if you had told me about a week before you did that you were not returning to Columbia I would have stayed out a year. But your letter came about a week too late. I was going to send you a telegram but I just didn’t.

Please excuse the illegibility of my writing.

Sebastian

To Jack Kerouac

106 Webster St., Hartford, Conn

From Sebastian Sampas

Emerson College, Boston, Mass

October 17, 1941

Jack,

October is dying in the afternoon glare – Doris[24] and I came up to the P.O. together via Charles St. – We heard a barrel organ playing and we started to rhumba on Charles St. (It is a rather quiet district of Boston and Besides we didn’t give a damn.)

Répondre S

Page 3 of the play “Oktober” is all that survives. An early poem by Jack entitled “I Tell You It Is October!” reiterates several phrases: “End of something, old, old, old . . . Always missing, sad, sad, sad . . .” (Atop an Underwood, Part II, p. 129). To both young men the month of October was in many ways magical, transcendent to the everyday.

[OKTOBER]

Fan:     (Impetuously)

You bet! (Pause) Have another cigarette?

Boy:    Thanks, I think I will[.]

Fan:     Here, have a light.

Boy:     Thanks a lot.

Fan:     Nothing at all. On a day like this, I can’t be wrong with anyone. Ha ha ha ha ha.

Boy:     (With fan) Ha ha ha ha ha.

(Music returns softly, magically)

Boy:     Oh my strange and beautiful Oktober, how you have affected this man! What magic have you, what magic have you?

Oktober:     It is the oldest magic of them all.

Boy: What is it, O Ancient Oktober, what is it?

Oktober:     It is the magic of love.

Boy:     Love?

Oktober:     Love.

Boy:     I do not understand, my olden and golden father.

Oktober:     Listen. . . . End of something . . . old, old, old. Missing something . . . sad, sad, sad.

Boy:     End of something . . .?

Oktober:     The end of youth. The coming of wisdom and the coming of love. The going of green and the coming of gold. Have you seen my burnished land? Have you noticed the tender char in my skies? Have you observed the melancholy frowze of my harvest stacks? Have you worshipped my tremendous shaggy skies?

Boy:     Oh great and loving Oktober, you know I have.

Oktober:     Then you will know that I am green palpitating Spring grown old and withered. I have lived; and you will know that to live is to suffer. You will then know that to suffer is to know pity, which is love. See my old colors, old light, old earth. Youth has fled; I have come, sadly striding across my meadows. I have fused myself into the soul of all living things. I color the forest with old light, and I color man’s heart with my old and tender love. You will know these things, know them clearly, if you will look more closely. See me! See me! End of something . . . old, old, old. Missing something . . . sad, sad, sad.

[page ends]

This very long letter from Sebastian includes two poems teeming with sentiment and sorrow. He suggests visiting Jack on Thanksgiving and surprises him at his apartment in Hartford. In Vanity of Duluoz, Jack describes that moment: “Then comes Thanksgiving and I’m lonesome for home, turkey, kitchen table, but have to work five hours that day, but here comes a knock on my cockroach door with the stone wall view: I open it: it’s big idealistic curly-haired Sabbas Savakis” (Book 5, part VI, p. 97).

To Jack Kerouac

Hartford, CT

From Sebastian Sampas

Emerson College, Boston, MA

November 6–8, 1941

Jack,

And now you never write; no, you never write! You never write!

Why? For Christ’s sakes – what have I done? What have I implied? Or do you feel that you have in any way whatever fallen in my estimation. Remember Jack, you are my best friend. I can’t say any more. Remember that Jack – I know that you are facing overwhelming circumstances but I also know that you are capable of rising above them. Jack, you don’t know how hurt I am because I haven’t heard from you. After every class I rush to my mailbox and close my eyes and pray that there is a letter from you and no, no, damn it there isn’t. I’m hurt Jack. Can’t you find time to write to me? I hate like hell to come out with such proletarian malarkey – but Jack it’s the truth.

Well, the play went up today and it was enthusiastically received. I was in two one-act plays and believe me they stunk. I don’t mean that the acting wasn’t any good – no far from it – First I shall describe the character I was to portray. I was thirty-five, English, effeminate and a coward – as a matter-of-fact, I die in the end. It was a very melodramatic and choice part to which I really feel I did justice – restrained, yet effective, English – but not too English – The play, as I said before was received good [sic] but I know that I have much more to learn, ok, yes much more. The play though, that is the plot, dialogue etc., stunk as far as I was concerned. I received praise etc. – Incidentally, Erich Von Stroheim and Alan Dinehart[25] were in the audience. The head of the Dramatic Department is planning on having it sent out this winter to exclusive schools, senior preparatory schools etc.

But now to continue with you, Jack, I’ve got to see you and have a long, long chat with you. Don’t get me wrong – that is Jack, I feel that there are certain factors of life that we have to go over – discussing the future etc. Oh! Jack, you will never know how much I miss you. No, Jack, never – the way you stutter and pause when you find yourself in an embarrassing position, I’m laughing with tears in my eyes – I don’t know how to describe that “boyish” quality that you have no, Jack, never.

And that night at the dorm at Columbia concerning who was to sleep on the floor – Jack, I’ve got to see you – God, I miss you, miss you Jack, believe me.

I know that George will always be your best friend, I know it Jack, but you see Jack, you think I don’t like George, but I do, I really like him much more than you think. The only thing is that he and I do not see the same way – and that is what I am afraid of Jack, that the way he thinks will influence the way that you think.

Jack, I am determined and even if it kills me Jack, I’m going to be a great actor – the greatest this world has ever known and I know it means work, work, work –You’ve no idea Jack, how hard we rehearse.

Sunday I came home and my nerves were all shot. I began to think of my father and I went into a complete nervous collapse – but I am O.K. now.

I still cannot understand why you have not answered my letters and the postcards I sent. Jack you’ve got to write and I hate like hell to ask you to write.

By the way how is your mother and father? Will you please extend them my regards?

Jack I hope to be down to see you in the near future – I can’t be any more definite than that. I hope to be down sometime in late November. How about Thanksgiving? Jack here are a couple of poems I have written.

I

October, 1941

Lonely stark beauty

Of Zinnias

Seep into my soul

Low sumachs spilling blood

And eyelids close

The world spins

And bloody red streams

Flow more concretely then

When the world whirls

II

Market Street[26]

He was born on Market Street

And he remembers only

A man losing his balance

A truck ploughing through

Brains and blood splattered

On the grimy grey bricks

Of Market Street

Sebastian

And remember, Jack, remember Sebastian

I

Remember, Jack, lest we lose

Remember, Jack, sunsets

That glimmered on

Two laughing, swimming, youths

Oh! So long ago

II

Remember, the mists of

Early New England

The sun glaring thru

The trees and chambers

Of beauty

Remember the way we

Leapt from hill to hill

And there was Bill on the first hill

III

The dawn, the flowers you

Brought home to your

Mother and then back

Back to realism

You only knew

You needed sleep

And Bill and I went

Ploughing home, for

We were tired

But both our eyes shone

Did your eyes shine too?

Sometimes they do

You know, sometimes I

Still close my eyes and

Open them and close them

But I know they no longer shine

Oh! Jack, from where we

Stood we could have

Put our palms on the

Sun and molded it

’Till it suited us

But now you have

Gone and I am alone

Alone with memories

Alone with time

Time, (“and time persists”) – with apologies to J.K.

(“Time persists”) – all things

Vanish, decay, are lost,

And “Time persists”

I will never go back

Amid the mists of early morn

Lest I should find

The mists are smoke

From the embers of

Something that was

And can never be

Again

And I am more

Certain, Oh, yes, I

Know, that I lost

Something ever since

Those days of lolling

Yes, I know now

Gone is the gay Sebastian

Gone is that boy imbued

With joi de vivre

Oh! Let me die

For my soul is dead

It died long long ago

Among the moors and

Mists of a New England morning

It died with the teeming vapors

And now I am a body

Curse me, strike me

And I am nothing

Attempt to amuse me

And I cannot laugh

Think you I’m bitter

Or dried – or old

No, I am drunk

I have seen too much

Much too much

Rising moons and rising suns

Did I say rising suns once

Again oh, no, let the

Sun set – do not ever

Let the sun rise, no, the

Sun must always set

You see when the sun

Rises I see the mists

And moors – and then

I see my friend and then

There is more agony, too

Much – So I must be

Always, alone with memories

Sebastian

Jack, this of course was written as I was going along but I think that to get the effect that I want to get to you, you must read it out loud. And please, please read it in a low sad voice the way Sebastian would do it . . .

And now

Goodnight,

Jack,

Goodnight

And please write

Please write

Time persists

Au ’voir,

Your friend,

Sincerely,

Sebastian

Prince of Crete

[written in left margin:] n’oubliez pas votre ami Sebastian

[written in right margin:] I have just finished reading The Hills Beyond – T.W.

Thursday

Sitting in the espy – listening to the Nickelodeon – the last yellow leaves have fallen and the rain of November falls on my sugar-yellow leaves of November. The voices of my classmates – and now I know I hate them – or do I? God – I hate these bunch of unemotional Philistines –Over [sic] more I am bored, beyond endurance, beyond belief.

Jack, I received your letter and it was grand to hear from you. Could you suggest when I should come down and see you. Should I come during Thanksgiving and probably we could then go to N.Y.C. for a couple of days – If so, tell me the dates and then I will come. –

And dusk is falling over the Charles River

Dusk and brown bared leaves of October,

sentimental leaves that will not detach themselves

from the trees

A fellow just came up and told me he was going down to Virginia to see his girlfriend – and what the hell do I care?

Jack, I have decided not to go to Emerson next year – no, I’m going to N.Y.C. and attempt to crash the stage – I’ll stay there for one month and if I can’t succeed I’ll head for California. Please believe me, I am serious and intend to go through with this plan. I am bored – Bored – Bored

God, Jack, I am Bored

At home –

Well, I read your letter, over and over and over and over again.

I also read the letter you sent to Doris[27] for which (pardon) I am sorry but the temptation was too much for me – you must excuse me.

Now Doris is a fine girl – to sit and discuss with – In spite of the fact that Doris is sensitive, vital, alive and damn fascinating I feel certain (as though I were an authority) you would not want to be too intimate with her. (Don’t get me wrong, Doris is a nice girl, very nice, but beware.) Yes, answer her letters, but please watch out, do not give your soul to everybody.

Refuse them that –

Oh! Jack, I don’t know – I’m lost now more than I have ever been before. I have gone through amazing self-analytical tortures. Impressions and sights and smells and tastes and ever loneliness, loneliness. Where is that pattern of life I had? Where the joy? No, Jack, everything is gone – I am very reserved nowadays – much more reserved and aloof than I have ever been. But this I know that I simply have to see you – to explain – (if I can possibly explain) what stage of life I am going through. I assure you that this letter does not reek of literary gems – but remember they are truths which I have seen and experienced and which I express simply and honestly.

Jack, you know I haven’t been happy for a hell of a long time – I haven’t been happy – oh Jack, I have suffered so but no, I mustn’t make myself a martyr that would never do – Oh Jack, Jack – I am lost, unhappy and bored.

As far as school work is concerned I am doing very well – handing papers in before they were due. Conversations with Dr. Wiley, etc. but through it all I am bored and disgusted. I know now that I have a “locomotive on my chest.”

I would like to travel through this country – through its small villages and large cities and observe life. I am sick of all this theatrical background for I do not see anywhere any definite steps which will lead me to Broadway – I must make contacts etc. I have written a long letter, chaotic, wild and in “passionate passages” and now I must tell you to read Thomas Wolfe’s The Hills Beyond. You must, you must. I haven’t as yet read Of Time and the River but I will as soon as I get a hold of it. As far as Doris is concerned again, she is a nice kid – The only thing wrong is her Jewish practical-ness, which I abhor in anybody. I met a very interesting young Norwegian in the Boston Common. He was married and had three children. He was telling me concerning his brother who had died leaving huge unpublished manuscripts. We sat on that same immortal bench that you and I sat [on] that morning in Boston.

He was a perfectly normal man, who spoke sincerely and understandingly. He went into ecstasies describing his wife and children –Just an ordinary man but in his commonness there was a touch of greatness.

Write and tell me when I should come down.

Sincerely

Sebastian

Saturday night –

Jack, once again we disagree concerning life. Well, here is the way I feel about it. So may I humbly express myself? You stated in your letter to Doris – that you live for the fulfillment of passion, taste, sensual sensation – All well and good Jack, so you do. Now here is my point of argument. Here is where we differed from the first. Don’t you see Jack, that we must learn to discriminate. Of course, there are greater things and finer things to be done than having sexual intercourse with strumpets.

The world is opening up with new hopes and new and greater ideals and you want to fulfill minor and cheap sensations. Isn’t that silly? Oh, Jack, I hate like hell to say it – it would be so much easier to praise instead of disagreeing with you. I am not trying to defend my position Jack – What would you rather be a cheap imitation Thomas Wolfe or William Saroyan – or would you like to be the Jack Kerouac. When you are yourself Jack you are great. But when you try, (without realizing it) to be somebody else you are not great. Even if W. Saroyan and T.W. went to whorehouses does that mean we have to be the same. (Not that I do not believe in sex – but moderation, a good deal of that!) Remember Carl Sandburg, Whitman, Dante, Virgil and Homer? If we do lose ourselves entirely in some whorehouse or drunken soirees remember that we sink down to its level. Experience is only valuable in its significance.

Why do you think you turned out such masterpieces as “Farewell Song, Sweet From My Trees”? Why do you think I praise that letter concerning the football session? Because you were yourself, don’t you see Jack that you can accomplish something in yourself. Of course I admire T.W. and W.S. but I would never want to be T.W. or W.S.

Jack, again, discrimination. God, Jack, I hate like hell to write those things I did write. I almost feel like bawling but I sincerely feel that it is the truth. Remember and I quote you – “There is good in everything but we must learn to discriminate.” I’m sorry once again if I have hurt your feelings. Really sorry, Jack, for I do not want to seem like an authority but I feel I have spoken the truth.

Jack, again I feel like bawling for I know I have hurt your feelings. I know I have but please forgive an old friend. If you remember that time in N.Y.C.; I had a hold on something that was truly fine –therefore I could not let anything encroach upon it.

My faith and belief in you will never be shattered for I know that you have the stuff of greatness and someday I know that the world will see it. I know that as surely as my name is Sebastian, I swear to that by T. W.

And now to practical matters, are you going to Notre Dame next year? I simply must see you and have all these problems straightened out.

Please write to me soon and tell me how you feel about these matters. Again, I’m sorry, really sorry, if I have hurt you.

As ever,

Your friend

Sincerely

Sebastian

The year of 1942 was one of great personal change for both Jack and Sebastian. While they are still searching for the brotherhood of mankind, they get more interested in the escalating war and the politics of their time, reading voraciously about current events and contemplating ways to serve their country. The hiatus from football and academic study began to bring Jack down, but the terrible news of Pearl Harbor and the U.S. declaration of war was all it took to put direction back into his life once again. He is a sports-writing cub for the Lowell Sun during January–February 1942 as he contemplates his next move, and he begins to write a novel that would become Vanity of Duluoz: “It was the greatest fun I ever had ‘writing’ in my life because I had just discovered James Joyce and I was imitating Ulysses I thought . . . I had discovered James Joyce, the stream of consciousness . . .” The next piece is Jack’s character studies for his Galloway story, which later became the Duluoz story. Christopher, who became Alexander Panos in Vanity of Duluoz, is based on Sebastian. Jack has taken material from several of Sebastian’s letters and in some places he nearly quotes him verbatim (see pp. 311–19). The notes provide insight to Jack’s process of composition; he often lets his characters just be themselves. Unfortunately “Notes on Christopher of Galloway” is in poor condition: the pages are torn at the bottom, leaving some words illegible which have been indicated with square brackets.

Notes on Christopher of Galloway

By: Jack Kerouac

He says to Mike: “Please watch out; do not give your soul to everybody . . . refuse them that.” (This may stem from jealousy.) (He is very jealous for Mike, especially in Mike’s relationships with “non-intellectuals.”)

About his life and emotions: (Christopher’s): Oh, Mike, I don’t know . . . I’m lost now more than I have ever been before. I have gone through exhaustive self-analytical tortures; impressions and sights and smells and tastes, and ever Loneliness, Loneliness. Where is that pattern of life I had once? Where the former joy? No, Mike, everything is gone. However, I am very reserved nowadays, much more reserved and aloof than I have ever been. What stage of life am I going through? Mike you know I haven’t been happy for a hell of a long time (in a letter during Mike’s absence.) I have suffered. (Allan Mackenzie[1] considers Christopher Santos the “original I-suffer-type.”) I have suffered so . . . but no, I mustn’t make myself a martyr; that would never do. (He often alludes to excessive boredom, which is also a strong characteristic of Fouch’s.) He uses Halper’s phrase a great deal, “there’s a locomotive in my chest and that’s a fact.” His ambition is to become a great actor, where he would find emotional outlet not only appreciated but lucrative as well. His plans, in the “Galloway” are primarily concerned with working and saving money for a desperate fling at Broadway or Hollywood.

Christopher relates to Mike, in “Galloway” of meeting a Norwegian sailor in the Boston Common who tells him of his brother in Norway who died leaving behind him huge unpublished piles of writings. The Norwegian is simple, friendly; married with three children in Kristiansund. Chris says: “He was a perfectly normal man, who spoke sincerely and understandingly. He went into ecstasies describing his wife and children. . . . Just an ordinary man – but in his commonness there was a touch of greatness.”

One of the arguments Chris and Mike carry on concerns a distinction between living for ideals and living for sensations: “Don’t you see Mike that we must learn to discriminate – Of course, there are greater things and finer things than having sexual intercourse with strumpets. The world is opening up with new hopes and new and greater ideals and you want to fulfill minor and cheap sensations. Isn’t that silly? Oh Mike, I hate like hell to say it – it would be so much easier to praise you than to disagree with you – I am not trying to defend my position. You are not yourself when you indulge as you do with wenches; you’re trying to be a cheap imitation Jack London or something. When you are yourself, Mike, you are great. Experience is only valuable in its significance. But have I hurt you talking like this? Oh if I have, I could bawl . . .”

Christopher is a devotee of the great Barbellion. He often likens the spirit of Dalouas[2] to Barbellion’s. He says: Barbellion is so much like you, or vice versa. May I quote? “All things attract me equally. I cannot concentrate. I am ready to do anything, go anywhere, think everything, read anything. Wherever I hitch my wagon to a star I am sure of an adventurous ride. Somebody says, ‘Come and hear some Wagner.’ I am ready to go. Another, ‘I say they are going to ring the bull’ and who wants to complete his masterpiece or count his money when they are going to ring the bull? I will [go] with you to Norway, Switzerland, Jericho, Timbuktu. Talk to me about the Rosicrucians, or the stomach of the flea and I will listen to you. Tell me that the Chelsea power station is as beautiful as the Parthenon at Athens and I’ll believe you.” This shows that Chris is devoted to Mike, very much.

Christopher is aptly named. He is a Jesus in the mill-town. Tears will save the world with Christopher. He has a Saroyanish intensity which bases progress on love. (He loves Mike’s poem “Tears”.) All things are sad,

All things are sad, [ ] and cruelty both, and beautiful. He is the Byronic, pain-in-the-ass yellow [ ] poet. He has a Slavic craving for self-sacrifice, self-torture, and [ ] tender emotions. He is disposed to endless quoting, tear-stained letters [ ] a princely, arrogant deportment. He is possessed of “the sadness of [ ] shares the poet’s plight.” Friendship with Mike is filled “with [ ]” “The symphony of comradeship and brotherhood.” Though [ ] be forced to experience “his secret ecstasies” [ ] able to communicate. He believes he and Mike [ ] and gamut of emotions.” Artemis’s mind [ ] Ready’s mind is too “absorbed with technical [ ] and [ ] so called: [ ].

[Page 2]

feel particularly antagonistic against them – Walter Berlot I like very much and am trying to help out intellectually as much as I possibly can. But he has the Brotherhood.”

Christopher divides the world in two, those who have the “brotherhood” and those who haven’t. He claims he can tell by the eyes in most cases. Those who have the brotherhood are kind, gentle, sympathetic at heart; are, in brief, good men at heart. They are most likely to enter the “cause.” The “cause,” to Christopher, is the “gentle battle against blindness, stupidity, cruelty, bigotry, etc.” Politically, it is allied with the “Great Liberal Movement,” even with Russia. (Allan Mackenzie says: “Christopher’s apotheosis of the New Russia is not in the least convincing. He clings to it as one clings to a fad.”)

Chris on Artemis: “he favors whatever favors him . . . the New Deal because he obtained his scholarship through it. He does not favor liberal thinking because he fears the masses. He hates the Jews. He favors Russia because he hopes to be a physicist there after the war.”

Chris is a typical Marxist. He refers often to the “masses,” pities them for their ignorance, loves them for their simple honesty. In “Galloway” he is reading Nietzsche and interprets the Superman as N’s call for improved “masses” outdistancing themselves in development. Sadly, Chris admits the whole thing can only be evolved, not revolutionized overnight. (There may be a great deal of wisdom there.)

He often feels that he may make a greater playwright than actor. He is continually quoting from books to Dalouas in an attempt to keep his nose to the intellectual grindstone, which all annoys Dalouas. Chris also is worried at Dalouas’ disinterested attitude toward politics; fears he may take the wrong side of the doctrinaire fence. (Dalouas and Pater[3] share the same hate for politicians and administrators of any hue.)

Chris likes most people inherently, and contemplates winning them over to the cause. He is more intense, intellectually, than anybody in the book. Dalouas thinks often of him as the “glorious happy weeper.” Chris thinks of his emotions as extremely delicate; he has a “sensitivity” sense, which Allan does not at all share after a visit to Chris’s dilapidated bedroom.

During “Galloway,” Chris is, among other things, embarked on an intensive study of Byron, a research paper. He works for stretches of 12 hours, smokes 3 packs of Luckies in the time, and consumes (he counts them) about 18 or 20 cups of coffee. He is prone to quote: “Tis time this heart should be unmoved since others it has ceased to move.” “Do you see the sweep in that remark? That is probably why we both have chosen a profession in which we wish to move our audience.” He is crazy about Saroyan primarily because Saroyan sees beauty in sadness, feels the same warm Mediterranean emotions, the crazy Armenian foibles (Chris is Greek). One of Chris’s main ambitions is to get to know Saroyan.

He is fond of Alice Meyer, a former classmate of his at Whittier’s in Boston. He reads her letter in the cafeteria in “Galloway”: “Hail, Prince of Crete, etc.”

Both Chris and Mike are bereaved over Tommy Campbell[4] of Bataan, who with them one morning in June of 1940 went to see the sunrise. (TC letter, to D.C. “Galloway” is Feb. and March of 1942. (or 1941?) [)] (His brother’s S. of C. in the green letter.) (There is a vow.) Chris expects to find the brotherhood in the coming war. Dalouas expects romance and glory.

Then after a fight with his father Jack resigns from the paper and heads to Washington D. C. once again, to work on a construction crew at the Pentagon with his Lowell buddy G.J.

To Jack Kerouac

[Washington D.C.]

From Sebastian Sampas

[April, 1942]

Jack,

I am really sorry to let my emotions get the better of me but I cannot help it. All day at work I think of Bill. Oh! Jack can I help it if I bawl my eyes out! That poor bastard! Do you realize he hadn’t had a chance in life yet? Do you realize that he was just beginning to mature – to test things out! To find out what the whole thing’s about.

As for myself, my situation is not quite as pathetic as may appear on the surface – Jack, I do not regret leaving Emerson – I think I have discovered a broader world by leaving there. That does require an enormous amount of elucidation I know.

As a matter of fact, I think that you too, will be rather amazed at yourself when you go back to Columbia. You will notice how infinitely mature (I hate to use that word but I must) you have grown in the past year.

I don’t mean to say mature exactly – rather I mean to say that you will have a more solid and clear understanding of life than the other students will. As for myself again, I hope to do either of two things – I am planning on saving $200 and taking a trip to Hollywood next September, or I may go to New York and board a Merchant Marine vessel for Russia and fight for the U.S.S.R. Jack, I know now that unless I suffer any great physical blow I shall succeed. I know it. I am certain – I have more belief in myself than I have ever had at any time, and now for once I feel that I am capable of doing anything. I can work in a steel mill and I can cope with any situation whether it be in mixing in with the “mob” or exchanging subtle remarks with the “elite.”

Tomorrow morning I shall awake early as I am going to go to Pine Brook for the last time. My next letter shall be from Pine Brook. I am really very tired Zagg.

You don’t know how good it is to hear from you in the familiar way of old (by letters.)

Au Voir

Sebastian

Long live Crete

Never before have I wanted so much to live

Jack, please answer as soon as possible – one of those long, long letters which are typically you. Oh! I have so much to say – and always, always the huge glory of life.

Tell G.J. to write

Au Voir

Jack hitchhiked to Boston to June of 1942 to join the Marines, but instead signed up as a scullion on the SS Dorchester and shipped out for Murmansk. He remembered how Sebastian had wanted to come with him and in retrospect wrote: “if Sabby could have got his Coast Guard papers on time and sailed on that ship with me he might have lived thru the war” (Vanity of Duluoz, Book 7, part I, p. 119).

To Sebastian Sampas

Lowell MA

From Jack Kerouac

Sydney, Nova Scotia

September 26, 1942

Sebastian –

Hello my comrade and cher ami! I shall be home soon – was not able to write before – and from Nova Scotia, here in the excellent Seamen’s Club, I write. I’ll be home for a week immediately after signing off the ship. Then I shall go down to Washington for memories of last Spring, Jeanie, G.J., Paul Myerson, Ed Dutton. Following this, with a possible dash down to Asheville, I am returning to N.Y. for an apartment in the Village – at which time I expect you will join me (10 days of life) and enter the Merchant Marine also. At the expiration of my shore freedom, we can grab a tanker for Texas (be home for Xmas), or a coal boat to Newport News, VA (several trips), or So. America, West Indies, Far East, Russia, etc. What say?

Jack in Merchant Marine uniform with his mother Gabrielle and his sister Nin (Carolyn) in WAC’s uniform, 1942

Jack and Nin in uniform

Are you still in the Navy Yard? I have further suggestions – we can discuss them my first week home, including everything under the sun from Picasso, Corot, Interpretive Dancing, and Prometheanism to the subtlety of Johnny Koumantzelis[5] and the Doris Miller affair, etc.

See you then. Fist up!

Your brother,

Jean

P.S. – Warmest regards to Connie [Murphy], Eddie [Tully], etc.

P.P.S.S. – Was I drunk last night! Went up to the Collieries near Sydney and conversed biologically with a woman thrice, to the sound of sad mine-whistles. How Green Was My Wallet then –

Jack arrives back in Boston on the Dorchester and receives a telegram from Columbia asking him to return for the fall football season which starts the next week (according to Vanity of Duluoz: “four days later here comes Sabbas from Lowell with his droopy big idealistic eyes wondering why I can’t go out with him and study the Brooklyn Bridge, which we do anyway . . .” (Book 8). Jack and his father are both shocked when the coach doesn’t let Jack play at all. After some soul searching, Jack decides to leave Columbia to do what he feels he is destined for: writing.

Meanwhile, Sebastian has left Emerson and is working in Lowell. He is becoming increasingly disillusioned and in his personal journal notes that he is “weary of working the night shift, making depth-charge sacks to kill my fellow-man. I am weary of fighting for all the noble causes and finding out that they are lost causes,” and tells Jack that “of all my friends you are the only one whose intelligence and gamut of emotions, is quite similar to my own.” Sebastian volunteers for the Army on December 17, 1942.

To Jack Kerouac

Columbia University

From Sebastian Sampas

[October, 1942]

Jack,

There is only rain, fog, mist and yellow leaves . . .

There is the sadness of one who knows the pact’s plight

There is the stab of beauty which the land receives . . .

And all are dying . . . in October’s frosty night . . .

How are you these days? I have not joined the Coast Guard – I don’t intend to – I shall wait until the Draft calls me or I shall join the Merchant Marines. I am still waiting to hear from Washington in regard to my application. Damn it Jack, why can’t we capture the beauty that lies within our souls? Before I began to write this letter, my brain was teeming with the subtle richness of our friendship –To pose it all . . . all the sympathies of comradeship and brotherhood, the sadness and the groping, before the great leveler descends to silence us within our dusted bones.

Jack, I am quite happy these days, although I must forever share alone, my secret ecstatic and my profound thoughts . . .

Perhaps this does need clarification, you see Jack, of all my friends you are the only one whose intelligence and gamut of emotions, is quite similar to my own and when ever that is temporarily gone, I am too apt to feel futile and frustrated.

Cornelius’ soul and mind, unfortunately, is much too compartmental while Eddie’s mind is absorbed by the technicalities that involve and coordinate human behavior. Eddie, however, has character and comradeship to a remarkable degree.

And as for me, well, I live out my days in darkness and in pain, O? Do I strike my lyre I do not live in vain.

I was with G.J. and Scotty and George Dastous[6] having a gay –positively gay evening! If you can reconcile yourself with the belief that Sebastian can be gay with the aforesaid personalities.

Not that I either blame them or feel particularly antagonistic against them – George Dastous, I like, and am trying to help out intellectually as much as I possibly can. Scotty, well, Scotty will be Scotty I guess.

However after Scotty and George D. left, G.J. began to question me regarding one – “Zagguth” –

To quote him –

G.J. “I don’t understand Jack – we’re both geared differently I guess.”

Sebastian “I’m afraid I don’t understand you, George.”

G.J. “I don’t know Sam, it’s just that we don’t mean as much to each other. Last time we talked I noticed the difference.” (Remember my commenting upon the “cracking” of G.J.’s voice)

Sebastian “Well, I don’t think it’s Zagguth’s fault, George, but remember, we aren’t always the same. We grow up and our very ideas if not our soul changes.”

G.J. “Time, time’s made all this difference.”

Sebastian “Would you want to go back to yesteryear?”

G.J. (Silence)

Jack,

I can respect your friendship with G.J. I can even respect G.J. I think he’s a swell feller – I think that your friendship with G.J. is one of the rich things in your life.

However Jack, remember this, while G.J. was displaying what we both termed his “pseudo-virility” Jack was the sad poet, brooding and beckoning the recesses of his brain and soul to aid him in finding a solid foundation – a way of life. Jack was brooding trying to elucidate his ideals, while G.J. was trying to develop the art of seducing Layo.[7] While Jack was studying H.G. Wells, George was quite busy laughing with Scotty.

Jack, I hope that you will not consider this as a diatribe against George J. I also hope that you will not consider yourself “a martyr” as is wont with all poets. It is simply the reaction of two personalities – one unfortunately weak, the other strong – It is an analysis of the stimuli of youth and the reaction of two quite similar personalities – for G.J.’s is a poet at heart also.

I have tried to lay the fault upon G.J.’s environment and circumstances but certainly he had as much opportunity and intelligence to strive for truth as either one of us – in fact maybe more so . . . I don’t think it’s too late for G.J. to alter his ideals – (Frankly, I don’t think he has any.) Why don’t you begin to coax him and make him realize the greatness of our cause?

Damn it, Jack, Damn it, everywhere about me I see blindness, stupidity, frustration, disillusionment; what the hell is the matter with mankind? I know! I know! There’s so much to do and so little time to do it in – even Cornelius, and I can respect his logic, even though he does not respect my poetic soul, lacks – lacks – lacks – woefully of the stuff of greatness.

Unfortunately B[oston] C[ollege] has fed him too much science, logic and epistemology – The damn fool does not realize the fallacy of his thinking – in his course in epistemology, he is using a textbook, written by some Jesuit. Never in my entire intellectual career have I encountered such stupid miscalculations in regard to religion. Cornelius, one night, spent five hours attempting to prove to me that there exists a God via the cause and effect method – I agreed that as far as mankind could deduct, everything as far as we know was effected through a cause – (Everything quantitative.) We eventually came down to the first atom – from this we went on and decided we did not know what caused the first atom; therefore he said since we knew the quality of everything which was caused previous to the first atom [,] we must assent that the first atom was caused by something greater – God! More stupid, illogical, ridiculous, dogmatic reasoning I have never seen – you see since we last argued I have been studying “logic.”

And here is something quite egregious “No exact cause will ever produce an exact effect.”

Another night we argued for five and half hours because Cornelius objected to the remarks by Bertrand Russell, famous philosopher and mathematician.

“That man is the product of causes which had no prevision of the end they were achieving; that his origin, his growth, his hopes and fears, his loves and his beliefs, are but the outcome of accidental collocations . . .”

He objected to the term “accidental” and again reverted to his cause and effect method. Is not a cause an accident? God! How many things have been effected through accidents. Apparently, Cornelius has been and still is exposed only to one side of beliefs.

Why even Eddy, who has “studied religion;” even Mansfield [,][8] even John MacDonald disagree with him on every major score. I admire Cornelius’ straight thinking but again it is too compartmental. He cannot seize or grasp ideas in their universal meanings.

That is the result of Aquinas and scholasticism. Mansfield majored in a course of philosophy and she said “Science cannot and has not yet proven the existence of God. God is something qualitative and not quantitative.” God is a spiritual thing that is the egregious point in the invalidity of his argument.

All this is ancillary of course, in regard to Cornelius’ personality. He favors whatever favors him. He favors the New Deal because he obtained his scholarship through it. He does not favor “liberal” thinking because he fears the masses. He approves and continually restates the necessity of dogma.

However, there is still hope for him. I shall attempt to make him a liberal even at the expense of our friendship. Damn it, one day he compared the editorial policy of P.M.[9] and that of W. R. Hearst[10] equally detrimental – (He hates the Jews.)

But I think he is gradually beginning to be a little more tolerant.

He favors Russia because he hopes to be a physicist there after the war. Eh bein! C’est Cornelius.

I am having many stimulating evenings re-reading Thus Spoke Zarathustra. One night, I spent four of my precious hours, reading and analyzing one page. Nietzsche is terrific. Although logic is one of the paramount categories of philosophy, I defy anyone to prove Nietzsche via logic. God: the entire thing is written in an ecstatic creative thirty-day period. The reasoning behind Thus Spoke Zarathustra is quite faulty but is great reading for it is “spiritual” and tries to be a logician [sic]. May I quote you a few phrases?

“When Zarathustra was alone, however, he said to his heart: ‘Could it be possible! This old saint hath not yet heard of it, that God is dead, . . . And Zarathustra spoke thus unto the people: I teach you the Superman. Man is something that is to be surpassed. What have ye done to surpass man? All beings hitherto have created something beyond themselves; and ye want to be the ebb of that great tide, and would rather go back to the heart than surpass man. What is the ape to man? A laughing-stock, a thing of shame. And just the same shall man be to the Superman: a laughing-stock, a thing of shame.” Man evolved from the ape! Although I admire Superman, Nietzsche is preaching revolution. And it will be the revolution again that will create him.

Try logic on that! Try it! Here is one of our greatest philosophers presenting his Superman entirely from an aesthetic and spiritual angle.

I am half-way through H.G. Well’s An Experiment in Autobiography, great book! I have been reading some plays – namely The Women, The Children’s Hour – Hellman (very good), Idiot’s Delights – Sherwood (very good), High Tor – Anderson[11] (fair) with one very good passage.

“Live – We stay so long – so long; Asher, at first the days were years but now the years are days; the ship that set us down to watch the river palisades becomes alike with supper-stories round a hearth when we were children. Was there this ship at all, was there a sailor-city, Amsterdam, where the saltwater washed the shallow piers and the wind went out to sea? Will the ship return, and shall I then see the Netherlands once more, with sabots clattering homeward from the school on winter evenings?”

Dead End – Sidney Kingsley (fair), Golden Boy – Odets (good!), Stage Door – Ferber and Kaufman[12] (poor!) All of which leads me to the conclusion of our unwritten play “O! I have loved you all!” I think playwriting may be my forte, after all! I had a grand time in N.Y.C.

And Henri [Cru] is a great personality – un gentelhomme – Donnez mon regards to Howie. How is the old boy by the way? I’m quite sure we couldn’t interest him in the cause – O! Well, he undoubtedly is another one of these nouveau riche Americans but Sebastian maintains the sad superiority and his egotistical plight.

How are your studies? Are you enjoying Van Doren?[13] Football?

Since this was such a scientific and analytical letter my next on[e] will bring copious tears upon the Kerouac cheek!

Why not drop a line to C. Murphy, 85 Hall St., Eddie Tully, 64 Jay St., Mansfield, 13 White St., John MacDonald 43 Weker St. and Michael Largay 321 Summer St. Malden Mass. Drop them at least a postal card?

My pain is in the yellow leaf!

Answer soon!

Fraternally yours

Sebastian

Prince of Crete

[written at the top:] P.S. I had written you another letter but I lost it.

Sebastian tells Jack about writing to William Saroyan in this heart-wrenching letter, where he expresses tremendous sadness for all he will be leaving behind. The letter was mailed to Saroyan in October of 1942 and a copy was given to Sampas archive by the Saroyan estate confirming its receipt.

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

[October, 1942]

Jack,

I have lain awake reading all night and I just finished writing a letter to William Saroyan, very brief and enthusiastic.

Anyhow, I was reading Barbellion[14] and he is so much like you . . . May I quote? “All things attract me equally. I cannot concentrate. I am ready to do anything, go anywhere, think everything, read anything. Wherever I hitch my wagon to a star I am sure of an adventurous ride. Somebody says, ‘Come and hear some Wagner.’ I am ready to go. Another, ‘I say, they are going to ring the bull’ and who wants to complete his masterpiece or count his money when they are going to ring the bull? I will go with you to Norway, Switzerland, Jericho, Timbuctoo. Talk to me about the Rosicrucians or the stomach of the flea and I will listen to you. Tell me that the Chelsea power station is as beautiful as the Parthenon at Athens and I’ll believe you.”

Another quotation (partial)

“those silent, instantaneous flashes of collusion with beauty, of which even the memory so electrify the emotions that no mental analysis of them is ever made. The intellect is knocked out in the first round.” –

Flashes of beauty – remember the time we journeyed into the Dracut woods, with the planets soaring away, and the green blades of grasses emerging into hues of blues and the small larch trees, with their firm cones, and the hillside of New England. The brook, lolling and the twisted birches through which the brook ran – and you puzzled and sad “What does it mean, Sebastian?” Flashes of beauty – That Thanksgiving in Hartford and you walking across the street in your garage uniform. And Hartford, the busy raw city – the sprouting industrialism, the beer and the sad tall kid who came with that fellow who looked like Ronald Colman –

Flashes of beauty – The black waves of the Charles, a heaven besprinkled with a million stars, and the lights of M[assachusetts] I[nstitute of] T[echnology] across the river.

Flashes of beauty – The frosty windows of winter, woven in a million intricate patterns and the sadness – the poetic serenity and peacefulness of Christmas. “O! Little town of Bethlehem! How still we see thee lie!” And too, the sadness of farewell at the depot –

O! well, October’s here, I’m 1-A in the draft, my friends are gone and I have said “Farewell to Art.” And I am building my foundation of Truth, building it with tears of doubt. I am building an altar, building it here in the middle of the night, I am fashioning it out of humility, frustration and defiance and it is growing into a garden where the roses are not choked by weeds.

Over my radio a husky-throated negress is crying out “Stormy Weather,” rendering it with all the misery, bitterness and futility of the negro –

Mon Dieu, Jack, I’m gay! Positively gay. Suddenly one of those moods moon-struck me – Tommy Wolfe is peering over my shoulder and Billy Saroyan sits guffawing in the corner of my room . . .

“But it is not always possible to be living on the heights.”

So I bid you au ’voir

While I am still feeling gay

Fraternally yours,

Sebastian

Prince of Crete

P. S. Why haven’t you written?

To William Saroyan

From Sebastian Sampas

2 Stevens St.

Lowell, Mass

[October, 1942]

My Dear Mr. Saroyan,

This is a letter I was never going to write but somehow brooding here in the middle of the night I find myself perplexed by many things. Also I find that there are so many things I must tell you. You see October’s here. I just left college. I’m 1-A in the draft . . . my friends are gone. But let me tell you about my friend Bill, because it was enthusiasm of your works and your ideals that bound us in comradeship.

Three years ago Bill Chandler, a friend of mine came up to my house and asked me to read The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze and I remember it.

“Horizontal awakening. . . . [”] (Oh! That’s not quoted correctly but you get the point.)

That night Billy Chandler and Jack Kerouac, another young man nurtured in the Saroyan humanism and I went to see the sunrise. We stayed up all night Bill, discussing our ideals, life and all humane matters.

Jack Kerouac, Billy Chandler and I had a wonderful summer back in ’39. Oh! I’m not saying what I want to say. I can’t project the enthusiasm, the fire, the burning zeal for truth. Anyhow Billy joined the U.S. Army that summer and was shipped to the Philippines. Where is Billy now? Jackie went to Columbia and I continue my own schooling.

Bill, do you see what I’m driving at? It isn’t my fault that I wake up in the night with half-a-million broken dreams.

Well, we read all your plays and all your stories and we were enteared with happiness the next summer when you made that statement regarding Thomas Wolfe.

Last spring Jack joined the Merchant Marine and after one trip he went back to Columbia. He is playing football there. I have reams and reams of letters Jackie sent me and one short story in which he meets Billy Saroyan. That kid really is a great writer.

Anyhow we have followed you[r] career very closely and admire you very much. It’s so hard to make this statement. I guess it’s the American tradition on frowning on emotions.

I went down to see Jack three weeks ago and caught your play, Hello, Out There and we got tight along with two females and we went down to the Village exhorting mankind to seek truth with the words Hello, Out There.

Later, that week, while Jack and I were discussing – well here’s what Jack said.

“I wish we could talk to Billy Saroyan and tell him how much he means to us.” But there was such a sad look on his face when he said

that Bill.

God! If only you could read his manuscripts to all [sic] the stuff he has got. Look, my main reason for writing this letter was just to tell you all this – tell you how we were moved to tears when your plays folded on Broadway and how awful you must have felt because we both knew it was a defeat hard for you to take.

Do me this favor Bill. It means a lot. Drop a postal card or letter (I know how pressed you are for time) to John Kerouac, 209 Livingston Hall, Columbia University, New York City and write a few lines – anything. It would mean so much to him. I’ll finish this letter with one of Jack’s paragraphs.

“If tears alone shall wash away the cruelty of the years, and nourish the white flower that grows in our black and broken hearts and teach us that life is not long and foolish but brief and lonely, if tears alone must serve, then let it be with tears.”

Fraternally yours,

Sebastian Sampas

Jack is still at Columbia but restless; he explains his desire to ship out again and tries to persuade Sebastian to do the same.

To Sebastian Sampas

From Jack Kerouac

[New York City]

Friday Eve

[November, 1942]

A relic of battered pasts and buried projects

Sebastian . . . This is going to be a short letter, and to the point. I’m asking your advice, and not only that, I’m assuming that you will make an important decision yourself.

I personally have seen enough of the Navy regimentation here at Columbia. . . . I don’t believe I shall join the Naval Reserve. My money is running low, and my family is once more in financial straits. And being truly myself, I am not too conceited about the prospects of a Naval officer’s uniform. In brief, I believe I shall go back to the Merchant Marine for the duration of the war as ordinary seaman. I am wasting my money and my health here at Columbia . . . it’s been one huge debauchery. I hear of American and Russian victories, and I insist on celebrating. In other words, I am more interested in the pith of our great times than in dissecting “Romeo and Juliet”. . . . at the present, understand. These are stirring, magnificent times. I feel like a fool each time I think of Pat Reel.[15] And I am not sorry for having returned to Columbia, for I have experienced one terrific month here. I had a gay, a mad, a magnificent time of it. But I believe I want to go back to sea . . . for the money, for the leisure and study, for the heart-rending romance, and for the pith of the moment.

Sebastian, come with me, come with me! Your Maritime Cadet business will last 22 months . . . why, Man, the war will be over by then. Do you want to waste 22 months of your poet’s life in strict, militarist regimentation at $65 per month? I certainly don’t, for I also considered that branch. Don’t you want to travel to the Mediterranean ports, perhaps Algiers, to Morocco, Fez, the Persian Gulf, Calcutta, Alexandria, perhaps the old ports of Spain; and Belfast, Glasgow, Manchester, Sidney, New Zealand; and Rio and Trinidad and Barbados and the Cape; and Panama and Honolulu and the far-flung Polynesians . . . I don’t want to go alone this time. I want my friend with me . . . my mad poet brother.

If you don’t want to relinquish your present training position, which is perhaps forthcoming, then of course I shall go alone, but alone, Sam, and palely loitering.[16]

Think it over. This is not an offer . . . it is a suggestion to meditate upon, and to convey advice therewith.

Write immediately! . . . and tell me what you think. I shall be home for Thanksgiving. As soon as you take your papers out, we shall go down to New York or Baltimore and grab a nice clean tanker or freighter, not a rotten swarming tub like the Dorchester. We may come across George Murray, Jo Souzin, Hank Cru (recently left for the Mediterranean, because he told me about the second front in Africa before he left, which was a week before it happened), and others. You may write the novel “A Seaman’s Semen.”

We can stock up with enormous quantities of books and plan huge study schedules, discussions, and debates. And I shall teach you chess. If we get killed, it is only in homage to Bill Chandler.

Your Comrade,

Jean

By the time Jack returns to Lowell to wait for the Navy to call him, Sebastian is already in boot camp. In The Town and the City, Peter (Jack’s alter ego) recalls walking the streets of Galloway thinking:

. . . his friends all gone, something gloomy and finished at home, and the war sighing far off. Everything was coming to a close in Galloway and something else was approaching. He was ready for new things and sick of soul with the old haunted vanished ghosts of life.

It is December 1942 and Jack begins hand writing his first novel, The Sea is My Brother. These next letters portray Sebastian’s conflicting feelings, joys, sadness, and fears of the next few weeks in the army. A barrage of correspondence from Sebastian floods Jack but he is consumed by writing and doesn’t reply until February 1943.

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

Monday, December 14, 1942

Jackie,

I am leaving for Devens’[17] Saturday. I am on a seven day furlough. Can you possibly make Lowell before then?

Write immediately via Air Mail

Sincerely,

Sebastian

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

December 21-22, 1942

Monday

Jack,

Well three days of army life are over and Sebastian who entered as a “Russian Prince” soon learned the glory of the common man and the Russian Prince became an American Soldier. –

Sebastian in U.S. Army uniform, 1943

I like it Jack but maybe I’m speaking prematurely – I like it all –the sad youths, with death in their eyes – collective living, which at times appears to be callous but is amazingly beneficial to all – We expect to be shipped out soon – some to one camp and others to another –

Tuesday morning 11:30

Well, a group of fellows were shipped out this morning – Practically the entire contingent I came up with and as for the rest of us well we don’t know –

We have already seen the rather “tough” life of the army but it doesn’t affect us much –

We work hard, eat and sleep well, play cards, read and stare sadly at the blank barrack walls – If we stay here until Friday (X-mas) we may be given a weekend pass – This looks rather doubtful as we expect to be shipped out come morning –

Sincerely –

Sebastian

P.S. Why not write?

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

X-mas Day [1942]

Jack,

Well here we are way down here in Camp Lee, Virginia. The weather here is just a little milder than the weather we had in Mass. God, we nearly froze to death there waiting outside for our meals with the thermometer registering 10° below zero –

The army of course is strict – too damn strict – but nothing that I did not expect. X-mas day in Virginia – quellè ironèe! No snow, no snow! O! I am sick and sorrowful – I’ve been attached to the Quartermaster Corps & Saturday our basic training begins – This comprises of tough physical maneuvering – such as scaling walls, jumping ditches, climbing ropes, rifle-shooting and hiking overnight. Of course, this will help me out some but comrade I am a poet – Eh! bien, c’est la vie.

I met a very interesting chap who has spent the last six years in Europe, he is a liberal, and has lived in Germany, France, Holland –He served two years with the French Army –

God! What a strange man he is in this group – He’s not afraid of anything or anyone because he has the initiative to carry almost anything through – (within bounds)

He nearly starved to death once and he described for me all the psychological and physical reactions – As we haven’t been definitely attached to our companies I’ll write again soon. Regards to G.J. and Scotty –

Sincerely,

Sebastian

P.S. Qui’est

Le Prince de la Crete?

The “sapphire” of Sebastian appears in some letters and can be traced back to a rough draft of Sebastian’s autobiography, which contains interesting insights into his self-perception. He says at age twenty in regard to his sapphire: “I tell you it isn’t my fault that I wake up in the night with half a million broken dreams – I tell you I am saddened for I know I have lost my sapphire and I am weary of having said Farewell to Art.”

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

December 27, 1942

Sunday

Jack,

At last they have definitely assigned us to our respective company – and we are beginning to get down to brass-tacks. The hard work starts tomorrow and I can’t say I’m too eager for it.

The change from civilian to army life is so complete and overwhelming, that you wake up in the middle of the night wondering if you once had a soul and trying your damnedest to know you have one –

Unfortunately, comrade, there isn’t as much comradeship in the army as I had hoped – you’re too god-damn busy trying to carry out the different instructions that you don’t find time for anything but work –

This is, after all, basic training and I suppose that it all changes after this period is over. But right now it is difficult – I hate like hell to complain and I have no regrets –

The fellow who sleeps on the next bunk is a Parisian, a Communist who also fought in the civil war in Spain. He is terrific – He is continually complaining and continually getting in trouble – He gives a damn for no one and isn’t afraid to tell anyone anything –

He knows what he knows and that’s all there is to it – He is as sensitive as a woman and likable as hell –

We sleep in a tent and brother it is cold, cold. We will be sleeping here until our basic training is over. (Five fellows to a tent) This letter of necessity is chaotic and hasty –

Last night Philippe sang for me the German Comintern Song also a song from the civil war in Spain. He talks with an accent and he really is a great and charming fellow –

I’ll write again soon when I have more time. In the barracks cockroaches seep all over the top of the walls – You go in to urinate and a cockroach says “hello’ and now my friend I write to you from the South – the solid South – past the James and Appomattox River and my sapphire is still on Moody St. – Sapphire of a weary soul –

Yours until victory is ours,

Sincerely,

Sebastian

P.S. Write to me, my address is now definite.

P.P.S. Won’t you send me George Dastous’ address?

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

Camp Lee, Virginia

New Year’s Eve, 1942

Jack –

“Do you remember last damn New Year’s Eve?”

We really have got going with our basic training – Up at 6:00 – Calisthenics, Close Infantry Drill, Manual of Arms, Bivouac Training, First Aid, Continual Inspections of Arms, Personal Hygiene, Aircraft Training –

I was inoculated twice again yesterday – Once for tetanus & once for typhoid –

Philip, the Frenchman, is amazing –

Here at the U.S.O. check [sic] in Petersburg Philip & I are listening to Marche Slave & it’s raining in Virginia – It’s raining, my old friend, and the eyes dream of New England & the snow – Rhapsody in Blue and the staccato & brevity of happiness –

We won’t be allowed a furlough for at least 6 months & as for me I have my memories –

Write

Sebastian

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

January 6, 1943

[written top left:] P.S. Philip is interesting – Someday

Monday

I’ll tell you all his experiences

Jan. 6, 1943

Jack,

It’s past ten o’clock, my work for the day still uncompleted, and the lights may go off any minute so pardon me for whatever consequences may result – We took a twelve mile hike this afternoon with full field packs – When we finally got our “break” I went into the woods, set my rifle against a pine tree & lit a cigarette – Oh! Jack, you should have been with me when the wind rustled through the slender pines, as the cones danced away – as the cerulean wall, lay grey and blue and ever the dreamer Sebastian, tasting the salt of sentimental tears, thought of New England –

Jack, I saw the “melancholy frowns of autumns [sic] haystacks,” old black & battered negro butts – I cut the green undergrowth, but my soul was weary-laden.

Old friend! Friend of my youth, whatever happened to Sebastian three years ago, that dawn of sunlit stars like sapphires silvering the land, with lucent beams?

Old friend! Old friend! They’re cheating us – I’ve talked with my 1st lieutenant & asked him about the peace “après la guèrre[.]” He said –

“They’ll be another war in 20 years. We’ve got to watch out for pacifists.”

Old Friend –

Lights are out

I’ll write later –

Sebastian

Enteared

Weep,

Prince,

Weep!

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

Thursday January 7, 1943

Comrade –

Where are you now? Are you still the brooding dreamer? Do you still take long lonely walks and rest on top of a boulder, and ponder over the cycloramic event of New England dawn – if so – then you are still Jean – my comrade and the comrade of all mankind.

Ah! Jack, you’ll never know how lonely I am; how I yearn for the brilliant and en-flashing [sic] conversations and all our subtle understandings, that made life an event and increased its color by you realizing the vital significance of all circumstance. Here in my barracks among the ugly talk and broken lines, my heart is ever set on beauty.

Were you not with me when we walked the old blue earth? When the planets soared wildly in the fiery sky, and all spun and re-spun of a Spring night.

Heart of my hearts – You are lonely now. Sebastian as man was lonely from the start. If my heart was on fire then, if my soul was afire with the scarlet wine of youth, where is it now?

Sadly I speak, sadly have I always spoken, sadly shall I always speak, for life is but a vale of bitter tears and nothing avails – nothing avails –

When shall I dance the conga again? And let my body lose itself in wild impassioned music? Shall I ever see the Southern Cross, the stars be-silvering a naked tropic sky, and wild green trees swaying to the solid breeze of the Atlantic.

When shall I walk the streets of Paris, the French gay as all the heady perfumes can ever be?

O! comrades – O! comrades

Let us believe

That man can rule the world with love

O! comrades, comrades

Let us walk the weary

Walk of all wise man [sic]

And after all the rain

The sunlight will astound us

I’ll write anon

Sincerely,

Sebastian

To John Kerouac

125 Crawford Street, Lowell, Mass

From Sebastian Sampas

3817 W. Broad Street, Richmond, Virginia

Postcard: postmarked January 11, 1943

“Deep in the solid South” –

Sebastian

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

[Mid-January, 1943]

Monday Night

(From a guardhouse at Camp Lee, Virginia)

Jack,

Here I am assigned to guard duty once again, and as you know I have two hours on duty and four hours off.

The guardhouse is divided in two by a wire screening. The guards sleep on one side and the prisoners on the other – The sun goes down my friend, here in Virginia, and the prisoner’s day is over –

Man, brother of brothers, blinded by his own, the brainless ego –

The second lieutenant of the guard, came along with the corporal and they were engaged in some silly conversation regarding how impossible it is for the prisoners to escape, when quite astonishingly a noise broke out – One of the prisoners said & quoted Thoreau –

“You are the prisoners, not I” – Magnificent, stupid, man – crawling through the mire of your own selfishness, pride and vanity – What can I say when I see those men pent up? Their dreams made blacker, their souls tottering in dung and foul-breeding recesses of mankind –It’s wrong to see them have a minute space of floor – To see them pass wild hands through these heart-broken faces – The wire divides good men from bad. The wire divides and shatters into hell whatever salvation these barren souls may have received –

“I know not whether laws be right

Or whether laws be wrong

All that we know lie in gaol

Is that the wall is strong

And that each day is like a year

A year whose days are long

But this I know that every law

That men have made for man

Since first man took his brother’s life

And the sad world began

But straws [sic] the wheat and cane’s the chaff

With a most evil fan

This too I know – and wire [sic] it were

If each could know the same

That every prison that men build

Is build [sic] with bricks of shame

And bound with bars lest Christ should see

How men their brothers maim

They do not talk to each other, “Est ist Verbiten”

A guard, rifle in hand, stands outside the wire screening

To guard these horrible creatures whom God with accusing finger

Has told man to shut them up [”]

Are they not our brothers Jack? Do they not sleep, eat, breathe the same foul air as we? Do they not have hopes, aspirations, ideals? Don’t they like jazz, symphony, swing and the blues – O! Shut Them Up! Shut Them Up – Hide all this grief and shame – (You god-damn bastards, you penuser rotting within diseased souls – I hope with all my might there is a God – I hope with all my might there is a God –

Sincerely,

Sam

This poem by Sebastian was printed in the 1944 Emerson College Yearbook in his honor, refining the subject of the preceding letter.

GUARD DETAIL

By Sebastian Sampas

I

They watch the sun go down

Sinking in orange glory

Beyond the yellow desert sands

Another sunset closer to the hour

Watching the sun go down, weeping inside

Knowing it all can end, even youth’s pride

II

Lonely, the sentry walks the stars

What matters now the bayonet

When beauty passes in the night

And spent waves break upon the shore

The stars so brilliant in the sky

Look down and laugh at you and I

III

The heart grows weary

With the twisted moon

As dreams of home press down

The swimming brain

Will Freedom once again be ours?

Will sunrise find us closer to our goal?

Watching the sun go up, knowing inside

It doesn’t matter, even youth’s pride

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

[January, 17, 1943]

Saturday night 3:00 A.M.

Jack,

I’ve got those blues.

I sit here in the latrine, the faucet dripping its waters and with each drip, my soul waxes nostalgic.

It’s hell Jack, to have to stare at these walls, your body leaning against the walls watching the inebriated youth spilling out its guts of food and liquor.

Jack, if only you knew how noble the American youth is – or rather zouth.

I haven’t known such a splendid group of fellows honestly, Jack, they can move one to tears as you listen to their tragic and noble experiences.

I have been profoundly mistaken, particularly in the Southern youth. Jack, they are splendid chaps, warm-hearted, sincere and generous and respectful of intelligence and emotions. As a matter of fact they are more sensitive if not enthusiastic as myself.

I walk about the latrine, stare at my countenance in the mirror and say “Wherefore Sebastian?”

Jack, you’ve no idea how hurt I am to hear that relationships between you and Cornelius are strained.

Ian[18] sent me a letter, the latter part of which I am sending to you. Under no circumstances shall you allow Ian to know that you have seen it.

Don’t you realize the importance of keeping relationships between Cornelius and yourself at a maximum in spite of his domineering personality. Cornelius has much to offer. His genius of organization and getting work accomplished is unquestionable.

(Two days later)

I just got a letter from Scotty – (good boy!)

He seems to be very disappointed with G.J. to put it mildly.

Jack – you know the work I do is very scientific and mechanical (and you know I’m not inclined that way) still, I have the highest marks in our first two examinations.

One more oral examination to go (in four weeks) and I’ll know definitely if I get my Master Sergeant’s rating!

The fellows in my class are very interesting – one young Canadian has crossed the pond ten times since the war broke out. He’s been to Murmansk twice and he is another great liberal. They are all an efficient and intelligent bunch and the marks I have got seem astounding even to myself.

I haven’t heard from you – I am at a loss!

Pourquoi? Pourquoi?

Sebastian

Prince of Crete

Recent pictures I have seen

In Which We Serve

Chetniks

Hitler’s Children

The Immortal Sergeant

Keeper of the Flame

Star-Spangled Rhythm

Eight Southerners were trying to prove to me that the colored race was an inferior race which had been scientifically proven. To quote them – “Their skulls are all thick.” I told them all where the hell to get off in my very polite manner. They still regard me as a “great” kid but surely they have discovered that I will give no quarters to bigotry and narrow-mindedness. After all Zagg, I am not interested in being a “nice” fellow. I am only interested in justice and truth – tolerant, yes, but not to the extent that I shall agree with them in their profound discoveries that the next war is going to be between the Jews, the colored race and the white race.

This fellow who I was just speaking of – God, I was taken off my feet. He told me that he heard me speak the other day and he thought I was a party member. He even asked me my district and insisted that I belonged to the party.

I needn’t tell you his ideals – the only word he spoke was comradeship and that was enough for me. So you see my friend – we are not alone.

He comes from New York City, is married, with children, young, and that countenance of brotherhood, which by now had assumed an angelic benevolence in my eyes. (It’s in the eyes!)

He is being shipped out Tuesday, too bad we never got together sooner.

I now have five more weeks here at Lee and then I shall be shipped out – destination unknown. I certainly would like to see you – can you arrange it? Richmond would be the ideal place and as I cannot obtain a three day pass until I have finished my technical –but I could arrange a weekend in Richmond.

If I should never come back from the war (Quartermaster casualties 67% of total thus far killed) my only regret would not be in dying but in not having the time for even partial fulfillment.

I am glad that relationships between Cornelius and you have not been either strained or severed. As regards your summing up of Ian, well I am equally as enthusiastic about him as you are.

I got an excellent letter from George Constantinides and he is understanding the issues very well.

I’m to send him your address as he wishes to write to you. Dr. Wiley has left Emerson and is taking an engineering course at Oregon University. She felt rather impotent in regard to the war effort and decided to accept a Civil Service job after her ten weeks of training.

Doris Miller is still at Emerson. Why not drop down on the old girl one of these days?

Regards to your mother, dad and to Caroline.[19]

Sincerely,

Sebastian

P.S. I’ll write again in the middle of the week. Drop me a line, first chance you get.

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

January 21, 1943

Dear Jack,

I am in Petersburg with Philip, the guy, the mad, the bitter, the impossible Frenchman – he really is a grand fellow and he certainly is helping me improve on my French!

We just finished a gorgeous meal replete with coffee and burgundy wine. We chatted about Boston, reminiscing with tears in our eyes – Both of Charles River, Paris and all the heart-breaking moments which youth is heir to.

We are here at the U.S.O. Club, Philip insisting that without hearing Beethoven the evening would be empty.

He told me that music meant as much to his tortured soul as poetry meant to me, Philip and Sebastian, the two saddest soldiers in the Armed Forces. I’ll tell you Jack, of course, I intend to be an officer and have already made my application for O.C.S.[20] But this regimentation tends to or hopes to destroy completely the individuality of the artist.

It is purposely blind to whatever sensitivities one may have –therefore you realize, that it is only my idealism and enthusiasm which has carried me through these final bitter days of Army life –My belief in Prometheanism and the eventual acceptance of mankind to the theories of the brotherhood. Philip in spite of my severe criticisms has been almost like a brother. Why last night he “tucked” me into bed – and yet pauvre Philip, even he has to be selfish. You’ve got to look out for yourself, otherwise you will be lost as a speck of dust and sink into the ocean.

They cheated me! They cheated me!

My experiences here have been amazing and I am compiling notes to write a book après la guerre. But now oh! You never write – Oh!

You never write.

Sebastian

Prince of Crete

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

January 28, 1943

(From a hospital bed in Camp Lee, Virginia)

Jack,

I’ve come down with a pretty bad cold, my throat burns and my head is reeling. My entire body is one huge mass of agonizing pain.

Philip is also in the hospital but he has been assigned to another ward in the hospital. Five out of the six fellows in the tent had colds. Twenty-four out of fifty fellows in my platoon are in the hospital.

I was due to fire 200 rounds of ammunition Sunday but I’m afraid it will be postponed until later on. This is the first mild day we’ve had for some time. The sun sparkles on the old blue sky of Virginia.

Courage, Sebastian,

Courage

Farewell! Oh!

Artimedorus

Au ’Voir

Sebastian

The Crown of Crete

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

Sunday – [January 31, 1943]

Jack,

My health has definitely improved and from a temperature of 102 I’ve come down to normal. I’ve been in the hospital for the last three days and it has been the first respite from work I have had.

Sunday in Virginia –

I sit within a screened porch, the sun pressing its warm, life-restoring against my body. I talk with my colored comrade. I joke, talk and partake of their good wishes – I dare to talk with them –

My old friend – how blue the sky of Virginia – like Vermont in midsummer. Outside the sad birds sing, crouched amid the blue-green pines. The clouds move slowly silver-grey against the sun.

How good the hospital is. Here all is pain and understanding and soft-hushed words of consolation. How unlike the brutal Army routine. Here, there are youths from practically all the States of the Union: Ohio, Pennsylvania, California, Maine, Massachusetts, New Jersey, Indiana, Texas, Mississippi, Maryland, Oregon and all of them fine youths. Somehow all this restores one’s faith in America and humanity.

The U.S.A. is finally awakening to the glories of international freedom and the necessities of security and liberty for every member of mankind. These are the important things – Jack, I see a new world arising a new a glorious world and somehow it makes me feel that all this fight is not in vain. Yes, a new world – where man at last is free, free from blind and biting poverty, despair, disillusionment – no longer will youths make useless sacrifices leading only to deeper tragedies.

Of regimentation – yes, there is much of it in the army but unfortunately it is the only salient manner in which a fight can be conducted. True, to a sensitive artist, all these at first overwhelms and tends to make him bitter.

But where is the poet who has not borne it all, when he has realized the greater and finer implications which will strengthen mankind?

Old friend, the sun shines in Virginia, the negro-gazes at his bluer sky, the nurse whispers her honeyed Southern words and Sebastian watches the breeze shuffling through the tall pines, as he dreams of his beloved and strange winter crying [sic] Pine Brook.

I hear you’re working for a garage.

You never write! You never write – and now you never write – old friend – old friend. Pourquoi? Pourquoi?

Sebastian

Prince of Crete

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

[February 2, 1943]

Saturday night

Jack,

The days are all the same, each contributing splendidly to the horrible, to this unending ennui of army life – regimentation, and fear instilled into the enlisted man that even tears (that great consoler) would not be sufficient to heal those broken lives.

First the corporal –

The corporal, working in the kitchen, slaving his poor battered balls off to cope with the mess situation – A colonel enters. The corporal is unaware of this and fails to call “attention,” to the soldiers in the kitchen – 16 turns, the colonel, fuming, wild, mad-eyed and turns uncontrollably to the corporal –

“Didn’t you see me? – You’ll be out of this kitchen in 24 hours.” The corporal flees later to the latrine where I found him. He sobs, Jack, sobs and I’ve never seen a man sob so piteously, sickeningly in all my black and saddened days.

The colonel “broke” him and tomorrow he is to be shipped to another camp as the colonel, old and guilty, ordered.

Do you see Jack why I refuse to attend O.C.S. I’ve been asked to attend three times but I would rather be dead than agree to their nefarious and ghastly behaviors. If the average fellow never understands me well that is scarcely his fault, a product of environment and heredity that he is from. I know that he is the hope of the new brave world, and that he mustn’t be seduced by the grasping motives which the capitalistic society is attempting to instill into his already cheated life.

I’ve written several poems which have several good lines, outside of that, I haven’t improved my literary output one iota.

In three more weeks I shall be shipped to some other camp, in all probability a port of embarkation, but I don’t care. I only wait until the day Fascism had been destroyed and I shall walk the wine-perfumed streets of Paris.

What of your writings? Have you been doing much? Are you loving your blessed and gifted enthusiasm?

Sincerely,

Sebastian

Ècrivez, sèl [sic] vous plait

Prince of Crete

To John Kerouac

125 Crawford St.

Lowell, Mass

From Pvt. S.G. Sampatacus[21]

Co. G. 8th Q BKT. 760

Platoon, Camp Lee, VA

Postcard: Postmarked Feb. 3rd 1943

O! God you must believe me

when I tell you this.

A soldier must know at

least a moment’s bliss

Must bear his bleeding sorrow

better than the saddened fool

But please, the glory

of a love-swept kiss

Sam

There are references in the next letter that indicate that Jack had written but unfortunately his letter does not survive. However, some of Sebastian’s letter appears in The Town and the City. Here Peter (Jack) mingles with the fictitious older brother Francis who is trying to find some way out of the Navy. Francis says of this letter: “it was one of the most impressive documents he had ever read . . . He’s been cheated . . ., but I’m not going to give them a chance to cheat me” (part III, section 10).

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

[Early February, 1943]

Hope you get that job – Write & tell

Friday

me all – Have Murray write to me

Jack –

Golden the words you speak! They leaped with the clarity of an arrow as off-shoot of the bow & meets [sic] the flesh, the vicious and loathsome of the selfish –

O! friend, friend, you must believe me when I say I would have poured my spirit without stint –

My letter cold? Sebastian’s letter’s cold? Sebastian who ran naked through N. England mists & vapors of the golden-orange dawn –Sebastian, who has wept secretly in the night – O! friend, friend! You must believe me when I say you & Ian & Connie & Michael & George & I are the greatest men on earth – Great, for we uncovering the fallen leaf!

Old friend, stay away from the Armed Services, join the Merchant Marine – Dine & Wine, drink up the red sweet blood of youth –

Discipline, regimentation, abject, violent, swearing is necessary for an efficient War-machine – What of the poet; the poet!

They cheated me, they cheated me

But you know Sebastian –

I have the strength to face all adverse conditions – the strength of a million bulls –

Be gay, Jean, be gay! (Remembering an intellectual lot is the greatest enjoyment possible) Or a highly spiritual sexual intercourse[.] Oh! excuse me – Don’t misunderstand.

Jack, I am more than amazed that you are showing such remarkable vision in seeing the nature of the enemy –

You must believe me when I say, my sergeant is not a man – his sensitivities are nil –

I remember having a dream once, when I lived on Market Street of a man lashing me – a man with a red face – that man is my sergeant –

I haven’t had any trouble yet & I don’t expect to have any – only Jack – This time our peace will be certain, and I swear by Crete, by Wolfe, by that gilded morning of New England mists that no man will ever again have to go through what I am going –

Jack, they don’t even know a man has a soul, a spirit –

The Chaplain is a bitch, who swears away, & tells you –

“Believe in God! You must believe in God – He is on our side. Obey your sergeants & lieutenants. Remember you’re an American –and remember just because you’re away from home it doesn’t mean you don’t go to Church Sundays.” –

He’s a Catholic of course, the bastard –

Our doctor, A [sic] Jewish prick from Brooklyn, who specializes in bringing out all the secret bestialities of his nature, for he had to be “good” in civilian life to have a good clientele –

My only decent officer is my first Lieutenant who knew Thomas Wolfe – He’s a grand fellow but of limited & “American” scope –

Philip just left for Richmond & before he left he looked at the fellow in the tent & said, “I keep thinking I have forgotten my wallet or something important” he looked sadly at me & left –

You see Jack, I have to do K.P. (we all do K.P. when our turn comes) tomorrow & I couldn’t go with Philip – Oh! What a guy, Jack – He wants to meet you – He is a mixture of you, Lucien, Ian & Connie. I can’t tell you how much I miss you & all my friends –

[written in right margin:] Ring out the old, Ring in the new, Ring happy bells, across the snow.

I was so glad – so glad to hear that you are all getting together –Nothing pleases me more – for believe me it is so very important in sticking together when the rest of the world has lost control of itself –Your letters superb – Mine chaotic but I work against Time – Time –

After the War! When it is Peace – Oh! My friend! My long lost friend, we shall walk the streets of dawn tears of joy streaking down our cheeks! Surging with the brotherhood of man –

You & I & Ian, & Connie & Eddie & Michael & Steve & George & Billy Chandler & Philip & Howie – Yes –

The poem was superb! I forget who wrote it – Write to me, my old friend, for loneliness assails my wounded soul –

Give my regards to G.J. & Scotty. I’ll write them first chance I get – I’m going to reply to Howie’s letter – What is his address – I’ll make him feel as low as the worms that infest a garbage can – There is so much to write to you about but I haven’t the time – Please, Jack, if my letters sound cold it is only the rude “awakening?”

My sergeant says

“God damn-it [”]

Ten thousand times

a day

I hope the bitchy

crabs

With his prick nightly

play!

P.S. Pardonez –moi for my crudeness –

Write! Write!                                                                             Fervently

Write                                                                                    Sebastian

Sebastian begins to see that his idealisms have allowed him to be swayed by the fervor of war and that the reality of his situation is not only dire but does not agree with his poetic and gentle nature. His soul begins to wilt under the grueling day-to-day routine of Army life, which cares very little for his intellectual interest. This insight that he has been “cheated” is clearly expressed in the following poem from his personal papers, written on USO stationery, and becomes his mantra of disenchantment.

DEAR JACK –

I

Can I now count up the silver

When I think of the pain

And as some desolate river

Shall I go on in vain?

II

Can I forget the fallen tears

The sweat of summer’s joy

Ah! me for just a year

God! let me be that boy

III

I have known pain

I have known disaster

And always I caught onto –

The moment after –

IV

And I, Sebastian, shall always sing –

I shall sing

Always

Tendrils of a forgotten spring

Oh! roots of hungry earth!

And at night

With blacken sky

And stars, bright yellow-gold,

Flickering – Flickering!

You are my brain,

When beauty pours deep into

Each hungry healthy blood-cell!

V

God! It’s tough to be alone

And live this ugly life

Oh! Would I were a large – large stone

To kill you with my might –

VI

They cheated me

They cheated me

And I fell for it

In pseudo-patriotic

Ecstasy!

VII

Philip hears the music

Sebastian weeps his words

But some-one, some-one

Listens to the red-red birds

VIII

And I, Sebastian,

Tenderer in feeling than sentimental

Woman –

I Sebastian,

Lonely, lost

Within the heart of the

Cruel-black smugugly South –

Oh! Sebastian –

Soul! of my souls

Hunger shall always be

Your heart-breaking destiny

IX

They shall never know

I know the secret of New England snow

I shall never tell –

Till they burn my heart in hell!

X

Black is the night

Morbid my thoughts

Lonely I sit

Thinking of tent-cots –

XI

I dream of Gershwin and of Gacho [sic]! –

XII

Heart of my blacken hearts

Dreams of my saddened hours

Though I gaze upon the broken parts

I wait for Spring & Showers –

Write, my old friend, write!

Write my old friend, write!

Prince of Crete

Sincerely,

Sebastian

Still referring to the brotherhood and their mission, Jack writes a passionate letter on the subject only to reverse his thinking in a few short weeks.

To Sebastian Sampas

From Jack Kerouac

[Lowell, MA

February, 1943]

Monday Morning

2 A.M.

Dear Sebastian,

I have just returned from work and this is the first time I’ve used my typewriter in more than a week – an ecstatic moment! (It seems to me now that my life is writing, be it only words without meaning: in the beginning, Logos.)

My job is at the Hotel Garage on Middlesex Street; it affords me plenty of time to read, despite the fact that I am at the beck and call of every customer that comes in, in the middle of an intricate theory to have me park his car. But parking cars sustains a certain aesthetic satisfaction, the subtlety of giving an inch’s grace to a sleek fender, and the exhilaration of jamming on the foot brake within certain disaster. (Today, G.J. the Drunken Sailor was with me, and, as usual, I tried to outdo him in virility – I only succeeded in smashing a fender against a garage post while backing up at 30 miles per in the small space that I had to operate in; however, he enjoyed the madness immensely, and we must admit that there is a certain element of virility in ruining cars.) I must confess now that I have had little time to write you a letter from home, if none at all, but plenty of time to write to you from the garage office. The trouble is I want to write you good letters, neatly typed out and long, and I waited till I could find leisure time at home to undertake a “document.” Yes, I shall outline our experience and our stage of development, but first I must chat about other things; however, I firmly believe we have found ourselves more successfully than any of the Prometheans, which includes Yann [Ian], Connie, Eddie, and the whole shooting much [sic]: Mais c’est seulement mon opinion. (But my opinion is mine, and it is yours to reflect upon.)

Chat: – (Stream of Consciousness for the Sake of Informality): –As to GJ, I think he is the smuggest sonofabitch that ever lived, but I am humble and tolerant like you and let him rave on . . . . but he is not my friend, only a “pal.” . . . Been reading your letter over and over: hemophilia was it? Blood all over the bed streaming from your jaw? What the hell is it? Serious? Honestly, Sam, you scare me with your stories about the hospital: I’m not afraid of physical pain (not yet), but I don’t want you to die because if you die how shall I do it alone? . . . Take care of yourself, and remember this one thing: You are big and strong and husky and a tough Greek and a Cretan warrior and a tawny lusty youth and nothing can kill you. (That’s how I think you are and myself too . . . I think we’re both rugged enough to withstand anything . . . clench your fist at the heavens like Beethoven.) (Because there is a hell of a lot to do, and not much time to do it, time flows by like a river and a wind is rising.) . . . Am reading “Theory of the Leisure Class” by Thorstein Veblen,[22] the greatest Liberal of his time (died 1929); here’s how Dos Passos tells about him in the U.S.A. the book: “Veblen, a greyfaced shambling man looking resentful at his desk with his cheek on his hand, in a low sarcastic mumble of intricate phrases subtly paying out the logical inescapable robe of matteroffact for a society to hang itself by, dissecting out the century with a scalpel so keen, so comical, so exact . . .” Veblen writes of the leisure class as the shrewd, exploiting group in society that holds the strings and glares to be called superior, that takes no part in production, only in the role of entrepreneur smoking cigars and being superior and smug and forgetful, in short, the enemy. But his scalpel, how can I possibly tell you about his lode-stone mind without quoting him? But I shan’t. You must try to read him if you feel the need to understand the sociological implications of the collective movement – the weary unstopping march of the common man, a world for brothers. You know the spiritual, Veblen will give you sociological and psychological. . . . Jim O’Dea was home for two weeks, and I hung around with him and Billy Ryan,[23] a B.C. engineering student who has dropped the course to take up writing (he happened on Tom Wolfe, and bingo! presto! a new writer – he’s good too, but a little too unimpassioned and so far uninitiated in the hard ways of the writer’s world.) I see a lot of Yann and Connie. . . . Yann, lost when he steps out of a barroom at Midnight for there is no more to drink, lost when he turns off a record of Beethoven’s slow quarters, lost when he is unable to write, lost in a maze of house-keeping and boiler-tending and dish-washing, pauvre, pauvre Ian. . . . By virtue of my youth and enthusiasm and fire, Yann tells me at night, blondly brooding, sad like Byron, he has been reborn: perhaps! But by virtue of his weary knowledge, his calm wisdom and pent, passive strength, I too have been reborn: I see within the realms of his truly great mind the wry diamond of Shakespeare’s visage, the bejowled heaviness of Beethoven’s face, the pale purple vistas of long-ago poetry, long-ago love, trees against the horizon, all the classic meaning of life, pent up in his pale brow like a submissive nightingale: Brahms, Schubert, Milton, the Bard, Donne, Beethoven (the heavy frown, the sneering sag of jowls, the eyes of thunder), Housman, Dante, Wagner, Wolfe, Elgar, Debussy. . . . I see them all, the High Priests of Beauty; and Ian, full of Beauty, drunk and weary with it, weighted with it, broods anciently in his Chamber of Beauty (the books, the music, the feasts, the discussions) and is lost. Is lost! Why? It is because he lives in an Industrial Age, an Age verging on Collectivism, on Use-Value and Proletariat and other Marxian terms, on the quiet dissection of Veblen, the fury of Wolfe, the deadly organization of Dos Passos, the wrath of six million Russians in the snow, the iconoclastic laugh of a Pat Reel – in short, Sebastian, I have learned from Ian, unconsciously, that my mission is to present Beauty to the Collectivists, and in turn, introduce the men of Beauty to Collectivism. . . . I am ambassador, mediator, soother, host.

And Ian is lost and does not believe that I can accomplish this, but you know I can . . . . shall I save Yann? Shall we save Yann? I think we shall. . . . Billy Ryan is a good kid and would like to meet you now that he has learned about you from me. He is mad about Wolfe, absolutely stunned him out of engineering. Speaking of that, I know of another kid at Columbia who has decided to become a writer from reading Wolfe! What more proof of his greatness? He is starting another Renaissance. . . . I am corresponding with Norma,[24] and one morning I got a letter from her that almost made me rush to the window, open it, and shout out to the world: “I love Norma!” . . . for she is Helen; I shall enclose her next letter in one of the future letters I write to you; I have already sent her the leaf and the note you sent me (“the leaf unturned”) in my last letter. (It was beautiful of you to do that . . . a leaf from Virginia of the old earth.) Yes, Norma is fair and some day I shall marry her and breed a brood of brats, all of whom shall be distinguished writers, humanists, humorists, satirists, essayists, critics, playwrights, poets, and all communists. (I shall marry Norma when I am 35, perhaps 40, perhaps 45, who knows? If she agrees to marry a wandering revolutionist, then perhaps I’ll marry her sooner; but certainly not before 32 at least; there is a limit to the demands of society’s laws.)

When I am thirty-three I shall put a bullet, straight through me.

I wrote a letter to George Dastous tonight. . . . I am memorizing P.M.,[25] day by day. . . . I haven’t heard from the Navy, and if I don’t in another month, I shall go to see you in Virginia before I ship out to sea again. . . . the other night I saw little trees on Princeton Boulevard ’mid the tall, hardy, just pines: the little trees were leaning in the winter wasteland; they were wintering in bent and bitter misery. . . . I wrote a poem: “Tall pines standing like justice, the cold stare of stars between; I walk down the road, holding my ears, shelters from dry sweeps of brittle cold. ‘Who has known Fury?’ Wolfe had shouted, and the critic’s winter eye (like these stars between the pines) had stared, amusedly. Come, it is warm in my house; we shall go there; soon the flashing sun will rise to overwhelm the petulant stars.” (The critic in question: Alfred Kazin,[26] “On Native Grounds,” insulter of Wolfe – “naïve, a grown-up boy looking at the world through his own eye.” Kazin doesn’t look at the world thru his own eye apparently because there was mud thrown there at a time when he possibly attempted creative writing and failed miserably.) I loathe critics. I saw Michael Largay the other night, we drank beer with Ian, talked, and made an appointment to go see him at his Boston apartment this Thursday with Billy Ryan – we shall feast in a good restaurant, take in a concert, get drunk and discuss all night . . . it should be a memorable evening. You see, they haven’t cheated me just quite yet, and I am holding out as long as I can!

Sam! I have run out of cigarettes, you bastard! How can I continue?

Now I must end the letter in answer to your request which I now graciously fulfill. Our experience? It’s been wonderful . . . you saw a lot of things that I didn’t see and vice versa. But, in the end, like two normal youths, we saw the wrong, the root of the ill, and the cure. We cannot live in a world of vested wealth, property, privilege and selfish greed . . . in answer to the stale, flat reply of Catholicism, I say, like Shaw, you can’t save an empty stomach. You can find your soul in solitude, but why starve when the world is groaning at the bins? There are many brothers about us. Remember the NMU speech at Manhattan Center by Joe Curran?[27] Henri [Cru] was with us, and we watched the colored girl with the two Jewesses, we clapped with the seamen, we saw the Union secretary in his leather jacket. We know too the art-killers among them, like Louise Levitas[28] of P.M. who makes jokes about Orson Welles because she is envious of his genius, a repressed, lascivious Bitch. I remember Reel calling Wolfe a careerist because he wanted fame. I look all about my brothers and reflect what shall be done. And so do you. Our experience has been that we have discovered the Joy of Life, like Beethoven, who winds us his Ninth Symphony with a 200-person chorus singing together the words of Schiller’s “Ode to Man” . . . a mighty oath in song of communal brotherhood and immortal joy. Wolfe never knew this, he was a lonely man, he did not know that man was made to know man and to love him as his brother. It is the final thing, and we may not see it achieved, but we shall bring it about . . . ignorance, stupidity, bigotry, brutality: all must be tolerated, treated as therapy, borne in quiet, repressed with slow, sullen, invincible truth! Your comrade Jean

Write! Write! Write!

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

[February, 1943]

Thursday night

Comrade,

I have just returned from the Rifle Range after spending five days out there amidst the mud, the rain, the sleet and the snow.

I slept in a cot, under which two small streams kept pouring all night long. I ate outside in a mess kit, the food flooded with water. Old friend, I have fired 80 shots from a Remington Rifle. The bullet can enter through the bodies of 32 men and will settle on the 33rd man.

I am due to go out to the Rifle Range again tomorrow to fire my qualification shots (40 more.) I hope I do better than I did in practice, although I did fairly well even there.

The trees are all encrusted with silver-snow gems; the pines weighed down with beauty, forming a semi-circle (as in N.E.)

My basic training period should be over by this Saturday and I may be shipped to another camp. Old friend, I received you[r] exquisite letter, it was magnificent, and I cannot help but feel hopelessly weak answering in this horrible and semi-articulate fashion. Yes you are correct Cornelius and Ian are lost – hopelessly so –

For Ian there is hope. He hasn’t lost out in his deal with youth – Even with the “battle of Dolores” he has remained noble, noble – idealistic and indeed even unafraid. Jack, it is up to us to save Ian and Cornelius –Ian can be saved via Prometheanism. True, he tries to find escape with “madder” music and with sweet wine but innately he will always be as truthful as beauty.

I have never found a major flaw in Ian. His qualities – kindness without being solicitous – gentle without being overbearing – sensitive without being demonstrative, naïve without being foolish and sophisticated without a pore of superiority.

Jack, would that you were here beside me, I am bursting with words of understanding and moods of tolerance and belief.

Cornelius, pauvre, pauvre, Cornelius, too can be saved only this will be done gradually, and with gentle procession from Ian, Eddie, myself, you and his sister Katrinka. Cornelius is forever the little boy who won’t let you play with him unless you make him chief. Still I admire him in many ways.

As for Philip, the French fool, well, Jack I don’t know – he is continually contradicting himself. He is bitter against capitalism because he does not loll in wealth, and all the silly idiosyncrasies allowed the “privileged” few. He is continually crying “comrade” and yet he cares only for himself. There isn’t a single ideal in his entire soul – I’m awfully disappointed in him and it has taken me almost five weeks to discover all his pseudo-qualities. He cries collectivism and he is constantly the irritating individualist berating the rest of my soldier comrades.

And too, he hates the poets because they seek beauty – He is an intellectual, using all his intellectual powers to improve himself –He is too much the “nouveau riche” and has given a bad impression to everyone out here. I’m afraid I shan’t miss him when we part –Saturday at Dinner-time, he “hogs” all the food, yells at everyone and plays the role of the perpetual and eternal martyr. He has an interesting personality, but one for which I have little if any respect.

Jack, old friend, I haven’t quite “settled” myself with army routine to realize all the tangents connected with my ideals. I was just reading the section in your letter concerning our trip to N.Y.C. with Henri Cru and in a flash I thought of our great movement and how N.Y.C. is slowly but surely becoming communistic. I’ve got to stop and “find” myself. I’ve got to tie everything up. I mustn’t let the army routine change me. I mustn’t, I mustn’t and it shan’t. If only you knew and realized how complete regimentation is here. We haven’t time to think of justice and truth and belief.

After my basic, I’ve got to read and read and read, I’ve got to find myself. My kid brother Jim sent me down my book Patterns for Living[29] and that is a great boon to me – I only hope they give me time to read it.

You are correct in your statement in re: to Louise Levitas and all these other stale, befooled and bigoted bastards who are concerned not with building but with destroying.

I am glad to hear that you are corresponding with Norma. Someday you must send her violets, for the name Norma has had a purple and delicate connotation for me.

Jack, your letters are all important for me. I read the particular passage you referred to in regard to Veblen in Dos Passos’ Book. It, of course, was great reading. Dos Passos has a beautiful timing on objective justice but he is just a little bit apt to be swayed by materialistic factors. We must keep our well-meaning friends imbued with poetry, beauty and truth. (as you said)

One thing, Jack, I admit now! I yell now! I still have my sapphire, all of it, every tiny shining gleam! I swear by Apollo and all my comrades I shall always keep it, here inside.

You also got Jimmy O’Dea down pat, although I rather feared he had certain un-idealistic qualities I had hoped for the better. What’s the matter Jack, can’t these people see that their glory and salvation lie in Prometheanism?

Jack, old friend, you must never, never lose the truths which we have uncovered. Look at Philip; the French fool, selling out his philosophies and ideals! And all for what? To quench his selfish soul. But I must be tolerant!

Ah yes, then they gave me a gun. After the war we’ve got to make certain that La Legion Americans, Hearts and all the reactionaries do not get control. This is our time! We know the enemy!

Jack, my health has improved! And I’ve got to live for the next 10 years. That isn’t asking too much of life. My bodily and metal reactions are learning to become more perfectly coordinated, although I’ve got to receive all my “shots” over again. (7) due to the stupid inefficiency of some members of the army who lost my record. (That is for Tetanus, Typhoid etc.)

I’ve also got two more molars which must be removed and you know Army dentists; they are more concerned with how many teeth they pull than with how they pull them!

I’ve got to keep my health. Now, I have never felt more keenly whatever virility I possess; my muscles are all hard, and every limb more agile – a perfectly symmetrical body moving about a turbulent soul!

Excuse me for referring so much to myself but I am the egoist – (Never the egotist!)

In the cot, lying there, listening to the wailing cry of the train and dreaming of all his lost comrades, tears filled Sebastian’s eye, and in a silver second’s sorrow, he knew the glory and the stunning truth, and every [ ] rose in a moment of anguishing pain and heartbreaking belief in his fellow man.

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

[Late February, 1943]

Dear Jack,

I’ve been in the Army for two months now and I have consistently maintained my ideals and beliefs.

If anything the Army has strengthened me as a man and a poet, and I have no regrets.

I sit here in my bunk trying to adjust and re-adjust all the various experiences which I have had – I think of my civilian days with the re-current theme. “So much was silver which might have been gold” – (original)

In my barracks there are mostly Air-Corps men from Texas. They yell, they laugh, they are sad and all, all have the look of Death in their eyes.

During mail call, they become tense, listening to hear their names, and when their names are not called they drop crest-fallen to their bunks, smoke their cigarettes, with withheld tears. A North Carolinian sleeps in the bunk next to mine and between reciprocal exchanges of “damn Yankee” and “Rebel” we talk of our lives, and all our unrealized hopes.

The wind blows, the air is damp, the sun sinks on the old red earth of Virginia.

The young Italian from Brooklyn boasts of the sophistication and gangsterism of his hometown and sobs Il Pagliacci. (look up, might be interesting)

Osborne, a wild Texan, walks in huge strides across the room –The walls wail as the cockroaches with brown backs walk down the walls. Burks, another Texan, blonde and sad, smokes his cigarette and tells us of huge sex feats in Amarillo, Brownsville and Houston.

A poker game rages at the other end and the dying sun, seeped with purple, throws its last light on the pines. “Sam, when will the war end?” The Carolinian, Bevin asks me. “Two more years – it will take Germany at least 9 months to collapse and Japan 10 more. The cleaning-up will take about five months.[”]

I won a marksmanship medal with high-powered 30-30 rifle with tears in my eyes. The basic training crowd is all gone.

Jack, you see so many faces, you meet so many people, you live intimately for a while and then the winds blow.

Do I enjoy Army life? I don’t know, I don’t know. As I am now in the technical training and severity is not as dominant as it was in the basic training, I find myself bored.

I want to be in the thick of it. In the mud and filth and hell! I hate to contemplate that I shall be behind the front lines. I have discovered that the more difficult life is, the more you gain.

I turned down O.C.S. because I want to be with the “small people,” for the meek shall inherit the earth.

If I do well in my eight weeks of training I shall get a sergeant’s rating. The work is very scientific and mechanical – all the more reason why I am resolved to master it.

Philip is gone, the Spaniard Francesco is gone, one by one we meet, we drink, we toast to tomorrow and the doomed days.

Jack, I have a suspicion that I shall be going to N. Africa just as soon as I finish my work here as they need sterilization men badly.

Don’t mention this to anyone as it may go back to my mother and it would cause her unnecessary worrying.

Jack, God. I don’t like to complain but I am busy from 6 to 6 and sometimes until 10 and still I have written to you consistently. What’s happened Jack. I know that you are not happy in Lowell but surely you can remember Sebastian.

I read this letter over and I realize how inarticulate I have been and yet I cannot focus my brain to all the salient discoveries I have made.

This I do know. I feel stronger and more full of sapphire than I have ever felt in my existence.

Please write, Jack!

Sincerely,

Sebastian

Prince of Crete

Jack it hurts me you never write

Sebastian wrote his sister Stella while at Camp Lee: “Stella Darling, Here is a poem I wrote the other day – I hope that you enjoy it.”

BARRACK!

They are sleeping

Only now and then

There is a sudden groan

As fierce dreams block up their minds

With blackened cadence

All night – all night

(The winds they blow north south and west

They burn the past and all that’s best)

2.

Two soldiers whispering

Enter now the warm latrine

Half shot, they mimic on the mirrors

Of the wall

They lounge about

Smoke a cigarette or two

And soon they fall

Under the great weight

of brown blankets

– The trains are blowing pounds of steam

One soldier hasn’t any dream

To Sebastian Sampas

From Jack Kerouac

[Lowell, MA

Early March, 1943]

Drunken Letter

Sebastian!

You magnificent bastard! I was just thinking about you, and all of a sudden, I feel very Sebastianish,

very Bohemian!

very Baroque!

very GAY!

I was thinking, in a flash of glory, about all the things we’ve done!!! – and all the others we’re going to do!

AFTER THE WAR, WE MUST GO TO FRANCE AND SEE THAT THE REVOLUTION GOES WELL! AND GERMANY TOO! AND ITALY TOO! AND RUSSIA!

For    1. Vodka

2. Love

3. Glory.

We must find Pat Reel and get drunk with him; we must get tanked up with Phillipe: like Paxton Hibben, we must lay a wreath on Jack Reed’s[30] grave in Moscow –

Harvard boy – died in MOSCOW!

Sebastian you son of a beetch!

HOW ARE YOU?

I AM DRUNK!

Do you hear me? Do not die, live! We must go to Paris and see that the revolution goes well! And the counter-revolution in GERMANY, SPAIN, ITALY, YUGOSLAVIA, POLAND, ETC. ETC. ETC.

We must go to Bataan and pick a flower. . . .

SEBASTIAN!

SYMPATHY!

To hell with

La Bourgeoisie!

No, La Bourgueosie! [sic]

To hell with

Hearst

To hell with

Everything

That does not add up

TO

Brothers living together and laughing their labours to fruition!

DECK THYSELF NOW WITH MAJESTY AND EXCEL-

LENCY: CAST DOWN THE WICKED IN THEIR PLACE. . . .

Au diable

AVEC

les cochons capitalistes,

y los cabrones

cientificos!

STRUMBOUTSOMOUGAVALA

with the Salops Riches! [sic]

SYMPATHIE!

C’est le bon mot . . .

C’est le bon mot . . .

La Sympathie et l’humeur –

J’AIME MES FRÉRES:

ILS SONT TRAGIQUES,

BEAUX, BONS, Beaucoup de noblesse –

A l’avant!

Sebastian: –

Red Wine, I have just written to Norma, my Gretchen, my Humanist – Socialist – Psychologist – Amorous love!

This isn’t folly, this is me! I am mad with ardor for all things AND Sebastian!

THE LEAF UNTURNED

In a month or so, if I don’t hear from the Navy, I shall ship out, I shall go to Camp Lee, and see you, I shall infuse you with new hope. You’re not cheated! You’re magnificent!

JEAN Louis le Brise de Kerouac, Baron de Bretagne, retired. AU

REVOIR

Sebastian was also dealing with a dose of hard reality as being shipped overseas loomed closer. In his personal military journal under “THINGS I’D LIKE TO LEARN,” he lists as number 9: “Not to fear death or tragedy,” and 11: “To constantly remember Thomas Wolfe’s immortal lines on death ‘To leave the earth you know, for greater knowing, to leave the friends you love for greater love, to find a land more rich than earth, more kind than home, on which the pillars of the earth are founded, toward which the conscience of the world is tending, a wind is rising and the rivers flow’.”

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

[March, 1943]

Saturday night

Old friend,

I received you[r] letter just ten minutes before I left Camp Lee for Hopewell. To put it mildly the letter was terrific and the analysis of G.J. presentable material for further research.

Jack, do you realize in G.J. you have one of the significant characters for your future work – the only thing that surprises me is that with your understanding of human behavior, it has taken you a very long time to understand the malignant potentialities of his inferior mentality and complete disrespect for anything noble (which he mistakes for weakness and purposely.)

Sebastian’s military journal, given to him by his mother Maria and his older brother Charles before he left for basic training. He uses it for some notes, addresses, and pictures, but his correspondence is more candid and introspective, except for some items on the pages titled “THINGS I’D LIKE TO LEARN”

However enough of that. It has been a thoroughly disgusting and none too satisfying discovery.

God knows we’ve had our discussions and arguments without ever losing respect for each other’s intelligence – Except for once when you followed Connie’s routine and gave me an inner satisfaction in realizing how all is never harmonious and life is a series of events, patterned along evolutionary lines and the evolutionary process, although bitter, makes us greater thinkers and deeper characters are en-molded to our souls.

I’m sorry to hear that you are down with a case of measles. You should be thankful you haven’t my hypochondriac tendencies. You manage to keep an objective viewpoint on life and a splendid equilibrium. I was more than interested in your discussion of my weakness for sad things. I am afraid you have never fully understood it, Jack and frankly I don’t know if ever you will.

The other day, during class I thought of my last few days in Lowell and my attitude at the time. I tried to attach as much significance (which it had) but which nevertheless wasn’t appreciated to its fullest – “Parting is such sweet sorrow” – hell – Parting (as Rossetti said) is hell and a bit of death (Not quoted exactly.) You know (far better than I) that the greatest theme of life is Death – Nothing is as certain as Death. So far my position has been “weak” for many reasons – My own conscience for not wishing to hurt anyone (for the meek shall inherit the earth.)

Have you ever read Morely Calligan? “It is that feeling of melancholy and truth dying in the night and knowing it’s got to die, recognizing that it is just and noble, but twisted and knifed by the chain of inexorable events.” (original)

(Written in a Southern dive a few hours later)

Khaki, adorned by human beings spills against the floor, caught in whirlpool of nostalgia and drowned with wine and beer.

Shall I look about me Zagg? To see these reeling figures, the drunken whores, the twisted mouths, the weary souls, the empty gray lives? The whores, drunk and young, lift their cigarettes as soldiers pass their hands along their bodies. The “white trash” of the South is here in full and ugly array. Here, Jack, there is just the primitive instinct – voices, accents of a million assorted breeds, the rasping nickelodeon, eating of food in pre-civilization manner, the rattle of dishes – the sad tired voices of the onyx waitress.

The hot dogs and ham sandwiches, mustard smeared against the steel-rimmed plates.

(Late that night in the latrine)

Jack, I have just finished an excellent discussion with a Communist Party member. The other day in the barracks hell broke loose –

[letter ends]

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

Shenango Replacement Depot

Greenville, Pennsylvania

[March, 1943]

Jack,

A brief note from the Replacement Center, where I am stationed for the next two weeks – Here I am having all my records straightened out, previous to my departure for a Port of Embarkation.

It really is a hell-hole here, with about one third of the soldiers in the guardhouse including twenty-two lieutenants, two chaplains and one major – Practically one third of the soldiers have gone AWOL and one can hardly blame them.

There has been an average of two suicides every three days and yesterday morning another body was found swinging in the latrine, a nineteen year old kid.

The soldiers have already gone on two strikes because of the horrible food and treatment. My barrack is an Infantry Group, made up of Anti-Tank Gunners and “Wash-outs from the Paratroops.”

They have all shaven their hair and they have a gorgeous coiffure alike Geronimo, the fierce Indians.

Write as soon as you can,

Sorely disgusted,

Sebastian

Jack is finishing The Sea is My Brother, and by the end of the novel his philosophy has made the shift to his new form of writing. At the end of Jack’s journal “Voyage to Greenland,” he notes the basic idea for a novel that is a foundation for On the Road:

August 18-19

SEA BONUS

“I have something in mind, a novel for my foc’sle mates . . .” [“] Johnny Dreamer,” a saga of an irresponsible, casual, unconscious poet who roams America, doing crazy things and looking for good people. Anything – for instance. “Tell you how I met Jan[e] Blatt . . . was in a lunchcart one Spring night in Maryland, eating six hamburgers. Jane walked in and paid no attention to me, so I took out my Jew’s harp and began to serenade her with sad eyes. She laughed. From then on, I was in . . .” etc. Vagabonding across the 48 states. Could develop that into something some day.

Evidence of Jack’s philosophical shift can be found in notes from an alternative ending of The Sea is My Brother, where he begins Chapter Eight but digresses into his new doctrine of “Supreme Reality”:

Here we go

Here we go

Supreme Reality

Artistic Philosophy

This Philosophy of Supreme Realism

By John Kerouac

CHAPTER ONE

The Fundamental Structure and Movement of the Cosmos

The Shakespearean Notion of Free Will: Ironism

The Wolfean Concept of Time and Fate

The Growing Subtlety: Spencerian

The Pragmatic Reform: Science

The Realism of James Joyce

Supreme Realism, the Doctrine of Faith in Reality

While Sebastian is waiting to ship out, he mails a phonograph record that he made as a living letter to Jack. Unfortunately the record is in very bad shape and there is no transcript of it, but in the following letter Jack describes his and his mother’s reactions to the sound of Sebastian’s voice.

This marks the beginning of Jack’s acknowledgment of the breakdown in understanding between himself and Sebastian. Jack is starting to question whether brotherhood can exist in the world they live in, and although he is still a devoted friend to Sebastian and appreciates their intellectual banter, he also values the other members of the group whose existence does not revolve around intellectual pursuits. This conflict is confessed to G.J. in a letter of April 7, 1943, where Jack, using the analogy of a rope, suggests that G.J. is on one end and Sebastian on the other, and that “beyond both of you lay the divergent worlds of my dual mind, and both of you the clearest symbols I could see.” He tells G.J. that the only way he ever succeeded in pulling his two friends together was in The Sea is My Brother, “where I created two symbols of these worlds, and welded them irrevocably together.”

Record made by Sebastian and sent to Jack, recorded at the USO Club. The inscription is “The Voice of Sebastian Sampas (Alexander Panos’)”

The following letter emphasizes the changes taking place in Jack’s philosophy.

To Sebastian Sampas

From Jack Kerouac

[Mid-March, 1943]

Dear Sam,

Just a short note to acknowledge receipt of your stirring recording. My mother played it when I was still in bed sleeping, and I woke up hearing your voice. My mother was weeping, Sam. When you quoted Wolfe, she thought you were sounding your own death-knell; she said “The poor little kid. Oh! this is an awful war.” And she wept for you. I hope this will convince you that my mother is essentially a great woman, and that whatever rancor she may have held against you was not rancor, but something reflected from my father’s profound theories on Sebastian Sampas.

Your performance was superb. One thing, though, you misunderstand what I said about Ed Tully. I told you I didn’t consider it “important” I see him all the time. By that I meant I didn’t have to depend on anyone, including Eddy, for my own spiritual survival; I can manage by myself, as I’m sure Ed can manage by himself. You thought I had rejected Eddy; all I did was delineate his weaknesses –we all have them – and as such point out why one must not depend on others, but should attempt to work out his own weaknesses. You see, Sam, you have too strong a dependence on the group – yes, we must stick together; but no, we mustn’t depend on one another! When you say in the recording that perhaps “we were too immature to realize the importance of our discoveries” you are not saying anything; our “discoveries” were no more that the awakening of the social conscience; youths are going through the same process everywhere, and have been doing so since Homer’s time. There have been “youth movements” by the millions, and none were “important” or “great discoveries” essentially because they were all alike – the awakening in the minds of sincere and intelligent young men of a social conscience, as I have said, and the need for purpose in a society ostensibly without. Ours was the Promethean Society, based on the Brotherhood of Man, and on the mass energies of several participants . . . as Connie once said, or Eddy, five twenty-year olds massed together equal a one-hundred-year-old sage. True. But it doesn’t amount to a one-hundred-year-old artist, or a one-hundred-year-old scientist; the arts and sciences require labor, individual integrity, and as in the case of art, a singular love and understanding of mankind and the forces of society. Your understanding and mine of society differ; bring us together, and instead of two original artists, you have one vague jumble of an artist. This, I believe, is as silly as the whole thing was. I still can’t understand what we thought we were doing; I do understand the fact that we were uniting in a Progressive movement of our own, and as to that, I’m not adverse to such a an idea. That’s allright; it’s been done before and wrought good results. But not this immutable fusion of many into a One.

As to Connie, once more I was delineating his weaknesses and not rejecting him in the least. I saw him just last night. When I say he is a hopeless tyrant, I meant it; but I don’t reject him; I learn his weaknesses; and I tolerate them. Please don’t weep over the pseudo-tragic delusion you are developing about myself and the others [ ]

Oh, yes, you also bewail the fact I’m not writing anymore. Well, that is not quite true; I am writing 14 hours a day, 7 days a week, before I go into the Navy. You may well read my book next summer, if you’re in America, in published form . . . “The Sea is My Brother,”[31] about the Merchant Marine. Connie and Ian are enthusiastic about it: Connie: “Superb,” Ian: “Rare work for your age; powerful, vigorous, with vivid portraits of American life; Wesley Martin is a lonely and tragic figure.” They are my only critics so far. I know you’ll like it Sam; it has compassion, it has a certain something that will appeal to you (brotherhood, perhaps). At any rate, I’ve written 35,000 words of it, working night and day and ruining my health, but I must finish it before the Navy gets me.

I failed to pass the Air Corps test, as you know. I’m glad now I’m going to be a gob after reading about the officers in your camp. All-right, said Dos Passos in U.S.A., we are two nations.

Jack

Sebastian is deeply confused and offended by Jack’s letter.

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

[Mid-March, 1943]

Jack,

You may or may not pardon this letter as I am writing it in the black heat of exasperation you may evaluate it as such. Your letter has caused me no end of annoyance, either to the defense of your ego or mine. I have asked you to look at things logically and instead you have done just the reverse.

Of course, Prometheanism hasn’t arrived, but at least by working toward the right direction no harm can come of it. You claim that individuals such as our-selves have forged groups such as ours and have helped mankind and you dismiss the whole issue. The great John Kerouac dissents and the whole issue is forgotten.

If you were dissatisfied with the procedure of Prometheanism why didn’t you cry out before – why wait until now, when all of us will be broken up before long?

If our viewpoints on society do not correlate, God, man, you know how hard I have tried by weighing everything carefully to make them coincide.

I am sore, Jack, good and sore – you imagine me a comic-wallowing in a pseudo-tragic drama of seeing the disintegration of my friendships. I know not whether it is done through your purposely misunderstanding me or whether some more evil purpose is motivating your actions.

No one has tried to fuse many into one – we stressed time and again our own individualities, but simply that we would have greater strength in evaluating issues.

You know and have known from the beginning – if you wish to withdraw that in [sic] your privilege. I will always value your friendship but I will not lead a blind life – I want mine to have a purpose in uplifting mankind and you know as well as I that five heads are better than one. In doing so, I do not relinquish my prerogative for great artistry.

I have tried to help you and you turn against me, fearing that my helping you, automatically places me in a superior position.

For Christ’s sake, Jack, just when we are all arriving at some cohesion, you write a letter showing that you have misunderstood the thing entirely.

I, myself, do not know whether I shall be active in the Promethean Home, for all I know after the war I may be a seaman on some world-cruising ship. I may be in Hollywood or the Village. You haven’t seen men who live their lives in vain.

Maybe the picture of being misunderstood and lonely, defying all mankind, appeals to you – it doesn’t to me.

Wolfe was at odds with the world – so John Kerouac will be at odds with the world. Do not choose, whatever way is easier. Your letters have been unusually good – but I don’t see any more poetry!

You have delineated Ed’s weaknesses to prove your own superiorities. No one said or even implied in the least that any one of us is not self-sufficient – if you want to think that way blame no one but yourself. I never said Eddie was a superman, but at the same time let us give credit where it is due.

If you wish to find nothing but the weaker side of everything and then write Hymns of Hate a la Westbrook Pegler[32] – go ahead – me, I am sick of it – sick of all of it.

You are completely misunderstanding me and everyone about you. I never claim that I have found a positive method – I never have been positive – but you discount everyone about you, creep back into yourself and continue this process till complete calm has been achieved.

You hurt me! You hurt me! In all of my letters to you I have been humble and tried to achieve harmony – but you mistake my humbleness for weakness – I shall not deal on that basis.

I would rather be alone & strong, than submit acceptance to malice in order to please anyone. This letter is chaotic but I am too stupefied by your letter to write as I would wish.

If you wish to make your way through life by temporarily grasping an ideal and letting go of it as it suits you that is your business.

This letter I know will hurt you and you [will] respond with a huge document of defense of either yourself or an offense against me.

The way it was, when I first talked of the liberal movement. The way it was, when I first talked of Eddie. The way it was when I told you of G.J. The way it was when I first told you of Mansfield. The way it was when I first told you of the importance of the spiritual over the material.

I have not been just in this letter, Jack, I have only attempted toward certain tendencies you have – I had to speak candidly and it has hurt you but not as much as it hurt me.

Sincerely,

Sebastian

P.S. Johnnie K. and D.B. were engaged today (Sunday.)

P.P.S. Write immediately and let’s solve this thing.

COMRADE

Curst be the wind-swept stars

And the night be one as thunder

You’ve had your share of scars

Comrade! We shan’t go under

Sebastian

[written on the back of the poem:] a long letter later –

P.S. Charlie is reading your novel – I will send it to you soon (insured) –

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

[Mid-March, 1943]

Jack,

I am sorry for my hymn of hate but I have to get issues straightened out for once and for all.

Sincerely,

Sebastian

P.S.

That letter of mine was written in a spirit of anger but it is a necessary letter – and a reply is equally necessary – either further study and fair analysis is needed on your part or you are much more egotistical than I thought. Make it plainly known either you are in the Promethean fold or you are not.

Your thoughts trouble me deeply and there is no end to my torment – I feel very much the same way I felt when G.J. won a tremendous victory that night. It was so God-damn disgusting to see his malignant mind win over all issues with the aid of yourself.

I’m not interested and I don’t give a good God-damn whether I am right or wrong. I am interested only in knowing where you truly stand.

To Sebastian Sampas

From Jack Kerouac

March 21st, 1943

[written at the top:] I contradict myself often, as you do, Sam.

It is our searching, searching!

Dear Friend Sebastian –

March 21, 1943

I am drunk –

thus, truthful

I am all alone in this, my house . . . my family is gone, my sister in the WAACs [sic][33] father in Conn., and mother off to New York to see about my grandma’s offer to give over her Brooklyn rooming house.

It is 4 A.M. as I write – Sunday morning. I shall go to church at 8 A.M. and kneel with the faithful, not for the church’s sake, but for the sake of humanity. I am all alone in this silent house, tonight. The ghosts of those I love haunt me in the sorrowful stillness, not leering, capricious ghosts, but loving ghosts who touch my lonely brow with tender care. . . .

Ah Sam, what a lonely place [is] my home tonight! I remember its teeming pageant of gayety, Xmas time, summertime, all the time that came, lingered, and flowed on with the Merrimack down in the Valley.

(I open the door, I listen to the river in the thawing March night . . . it whispers! it whispers!) Where [is] all the life this house knew . . . tonight?

Sam, I shall confess something to you – for the first time since my childhood, tonight I wept. Who’d have believed such a thing? But it is true. Margaret was here – she had to leave. When she left, I closed the door. It was Saturday night. I lit up a cigarette and walked around the house. Empty! I lay on the bed. I suddenly thought of my mother, and of all other mothers and suddenly I understood humanity I saw it in clear light, HUMANITY! . . . The whole poignant legend of young lovers who marry, their families, all the sorrow and joy, etc. I saw Humanity as that which nothing can destroy, a family of lovers.

(I think now of searching parties for lost fliers)

(I think now of families broken up in Europe.)

(I see Capitalists as members of Humanity who cheat for their families.)

(I think of the whole human race, suffering and extending loving arms in the midst of suffering.)

It is so simple. It is so heart-breaking, immortal. . . . I was alone. I don’t know why, Sam, but tell me: Why did I begin to weep? I tell you I wept . . . my throat constricted, I sobbed, and tears went down my cheeks.

I think it was the loneliness and the thought of humanity. I tell you, I had such a vision of humanity tonight, such a clear, powerful vision (tied up with me, my loved ones, and the human race,) such a vision, I tell you, as I’d never expected to see, that it broke my heart and I cried.

Isn’t it strange? I thought Sebastian did all the weeping on this team! Yes, my heart is broken now.

[written in left margin:] Sam, believe me, my heart is broken tonight . . . will it stay that way? Must it?

Your dear friend,

Your faithful comrade

Jack

P.S. Write to Seymour . . . Sam, Seymour is one of the finest youths you’ll ever meet. I think so much of him, I want you and he to become great and everlasting friends. Will you try to effect such a relationship with him, Sam? Please do that for me. Seymour is the sweetest youth, the disposition of a lamb, the loyalty of a saint, intelligence, and the idealism of all we stand for.

[written in right margin:] I think you and Seymour can accomplish more than the Prometheans. That is why I dislike Prometheanism.

[written in left margin:] Seymour thinks a lot of you . . . he read your letters. He’s going to France with us.

Au Revoir

The following letter refers to a letter from Jack that is missing, and sparked this response from Sebastian.

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

[After March 21, 1943]

Jack,

I am in the best of health and wish you likewise. I have just finished reading your last letter and it is helping in clarifying our respective roles in the great coming upheaval. Before I continue discussing your letter may I say that the next few paragraphs are to be written by a calm Sebastian.

In the closing you wrote – “So long, important.” Am I to understand by that, that our friendship is terminated? You also wrote on the first page “I want you to read this in the light of friendly argument, if you don’t, we will split up.” By that do you infer that we will split up because I shall get angry or are you using that as a threat? If you wish to end our friendship, why that is out of my hands, and you know there is no hate in me against you – only the greatest of pity that we could not have solved our problems amicably, and without losing respect for each other’s integrity and dignity.

By my definition in my last letter of the “poet” as being the “artist,” the “lover,” the “fool” I meant merely that he was misunderstood by all about him, but still continued in his beliefs on beauty, love, nobleness, etc. That the poet always found his greatest courage in overcoming the most difficult of adversities and still could cry “freedom, comrade, love.” By a pure poet is implied anyone who has helped directly in “uplifting” (O! I love that word!) mankind.

Certainly, these are people who are “great” poets but who are miserable bastards. To quote a few – Ezra Pound, Machiavelli, why even W.B. Yeats in his later days began to take an interest in Fascism. My belief is not dogmatic nor is it instilled with any piteous superstitions and beliefs of right and wrong. I have always attempted first to study the circumstances and judge accordingly. (If a 20-year old is capable of any great judgments.) You know that I have never enjoyed the blissful belief that I was infallible but on the contrary one of the phrases constantly on my lips has been “I am sorry.”

You ask me – “What were you doing before you joined the Army, outside of presiding at discussions and moralizing?”

I did all I possibly could do. I was morally obliged to help my family financially and I did this by working at the Charleston Navy Yard.

I wanted to extend my education – I did this by reading as much as I could. I also wrote as much as I could. I am sorry that you feel I presided at Promethean discussions but that was never my intention; I was, and still am, willing to “help” ourselves in expanding our knowledge and strike a happy medium, whereby we can realize a few of our “ideals.” I would have been more than content in accepting a back-seat as long as progress was taking place.

That I received pleasure from our discussions can never be denied – maybe it is a “martyr” complex but I really don’t think –Hell man, don’t you think it would have been easy for any one of us to accept the “status quo” and live on the “fat of the land” by projecting our talents and our “conservative” ideas in the correct places?

If I say “They cheated me,” by that I mean that war is far from being glorious and there are as many officers in the Army who have Hitler’s ideas and could very easily be Hitlers themselves.

(Did you read P.M.’s expose on General Somervell,[34] who is head man of the Quartermaster’s Corps?)

I felt that here I would find comradeship, but it is the old story of each one looking out only for himself. I have wavered not an inch in courage to face battle-fire and the enemy as long as their destruction was certain. I always try to use my words most carefully but that again depends on circumstances. As far as I know Prometheanism has never had any authoritarian ideas. I have never attempted to watch over my nervous system nor have I ever attempted to build or develop my physique.

I do suffer from queer psychological quirks much as Raskalnikov did in Crime and Punishment but that is not my fault.

I am eager to know your reactions to my letter – I have written four poems “Barrack!” “Refugee,” “Latrine Detail” and “Body Alone –”

I am almost finished with a short story “Black Song” which will lend itself to treatment for a play –

Sincerely,

your friend

Sebastian

P.S. A friend of mine has promised me the tunic of a Russian Marine which he obtained in Murmansk.

P.P.S. The great photographer De Merjuan, a very good friend of Saroyan’s and Van Heflin is in my class and we went on a drinking spree Wed. night. He showed me some letters from Saroyan, Gable, Heflen, Mamonlian[35] and Robert Cummings.

O! I just realized what you meant by So Long, Important –

Votre ami

In proving my infallibility

Two of Sebastian’s poems mentioned in the preceding letter survive: “Barrack!” (see p. 354) and this version of “Body Alone!” in his personal papers.

BODY ALONE!

Brute strength has seized me half a thousand times

And burnt with passion, when I saw hate triumph and

Re-triumph and good men went down with

No defiant words –

Body alone, how many nervous nights, how many

times have you not kneeled upon the

altar of the brotherhood and love –

Body alone, hopeless, half-starved of love,

in this heart-breaking world –

Jack arrived in Newport, Rhode Island for boot camp in late March 1943, age twenty-one.

To Sebastian Sampas

From Jack Kerouac

[Newport, RI]

March 25, 1943

Dear Sebastian –

I see now by your letter (which I have just received) that an argument of delightfully large proportions is on the fire. Very well, then, I am going to give you the works for a change; I shall moralize also.

(Morally, of course, we are of the same mind . . . we hate cruelty, ugliness, bigotry . . .) There isn’t anything left for me to moralize upon. There is, however, much to chastise you for. I too want to correct my comrade.

You still haven’t defined the poet as an artist, but we’ll forget that for now – enough to mention that the poet is not a fool, unless it be in the minds of unresponsive “Philistines” . . . who misunderstand him, as you say. he [sic] is a lover . . . he loves beauty, and for this reason, his ideals point to beauty as he sees it . . . and any artist entertains a notion of beauty that you and I would both accept fervidly. And so, Sebastian, I want you to get more serious about your poet’s station, more diligent, searching, and scholarly – forget the romantic “outcast” notions and continue observing the phenomena of living, with the patience and scrutiny of a scientist in his laboratory and not with a jumble of introverted, subjective half-perceptions. (I am not going “objective” on you – I am not a prim W. Somerset Maugham devotee.) But if I retain vision in myself by removing my own single identity in experience – that is to say, distil myself off until only the artist stands – and observe everything with an unbiased, studious, and discriminate eye, I do more good, as far as creation goes, than the Byronic youth, like Joseph Kusaila, who identifies himself with the meaning of the world or if not that places himself in the center of its orbit and professes to know all about humanity when he has only taken pains to study himself. That’s sheer adolescence! “War and Peace” was great because Tolstoi looked around instead of sitting there picking his nose in a garret. Dostoevsky understood humanity because it was more interesting and “poetic” to him than his own fucking “soul.” And so forth. Who, then, is the fool? Kusaila or Tolstoi? Kusaila is not an artist, that’s all. (Kusaila is a Soph at Columbia who announced in the Spec that he was the “spokesman of mankind” – and two blocks away is a Harlem of 2 million Negroes he never will know about, let alone see.)

So much for our lives as artists. As men, you and I have been generous enough spiritually to embrace Socialism or Progress. I am as rabid about it all as you are, don’t kid yourself . . . and Seymour is quite the boy, too. But I’m looking at the workingclass [sic] movement askance, not because it’s just that, but because it may not be in good hands. Pat Reel proved to be a very intolerant person. The American Communists, moreover, don’t seem to rely so much upon their own initiative and native ideas than on simple Muscovite policy. Dos Passos has outlined the arid life of Party members, people who are inconoclasts [sic] from way down deep, who judge most literature as “Bourgeois inanity,” and who have little if no belief in the essential “dignity and integrity” (your words) of men – only a mad desire to improve the material side of life, and perhaps, as Eugene Lyons once put it, “with nostrils sniffing for power.” (Even yours have sniffed, Sam, when you refer to your position at the Promethean table – you said “you’d just as soon take a back seat,” which indicates you had already conceived the element of “leadership” in our group.)

No! . . . that is not for me. If it meant the complete fruition of my present fears, I would prefer branching out as a one-man Commie party, or as a solitary radical working on no platform but the simple one . . . cessation of exploitation! (Even in the Army & Navy, Sam, they exploit the masses . . . don’t you see that all those K.P. details are nothing but free labor? Prisoners of war don’t go through as much crap and slave labor as do the poor kids training to die an orderly and disciplined death. Why don’t the services hire their own labor instead of disguising their fairly Nazi labor policies under a heading of military discipline?) (P.S. – It’s O.K. in wartime, labor is scarce; but not in peace time. However, I am no judge of militarism – I hate it too much to see it whole so far.)

To get back to my thread of thought (interruptions in the barracks), though I am skeptical about the administration of the Progressive movement, I shall withhold all judgments until I come in direct contact with these people – other Communists, Russians, politicians, etc., leftist artists, leaders, workers, and so forth.

At this point, I must bring your statement to bear . . . it was: “Your letter is helping in clarifying our respective roles in the great coming upheaval.” Does this mean you suspect I’m going reactionary? If you were to say that after having read this letter, it would mean you were destined to become another blind American Communist, instead of a discriminating one, in the vein of the great Liberal, Debs. Commies like to use that term “Great Liberal” to refer to labor-fakers and that sort, or a Woodrow Wilson with briefcase and no organization, or a false liberal like Max Hirsch in “You Can’t Go Home Again.” Your role I [sic] the future depends as much upon your zeal as upon your understanding and vision. You have already hinted at my possible turnover . . . this is as typical of Muscophiles as anything. I am a Leftist . . . I couldn’t be otherwise, I may not be a Party-liner. . . . they haven’t done any good and most of them are a trifle too intolerant . . . and unless the Party improves here, I’ll never join it. It too must suffer “change.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

When I said – “read in the light of friendly argument” – I wasn’t threatening, I was only expressing the wish you would not be angry with me. I hate friction; I do love heated, sincere controversy. You & your conclusions. . .

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

When I asked you about your pre-Army activities, I was asking you what you’d been doing as a Promethean, which should represent achievement of a sort in your field. (Your work at the Navy Yard has nothing to do with it, although it’s more than I would have done.) All you did achieve was very little poetry . . . and all that time, Eddy, Con, Ian, George C. were all toiling at their fields. I wasn’t . . . I was whoring around N.Y. . . . but I don’t say, as well, that I’m a Promethean. At any rate, don’t take me too seriously; I’m picking holes in you quite cheerfully, but at the same time it may help you to see. You would embrace a strict Promethean program, farm and all – with Murphy discharging the duties – and with regulations providing for orderly maintenance, upkeep, etc. etc. while way down deep the only way you want to write is to go prowling about Brooklyn’s waterfront with me and write about it at five A.M. (as we did.)

However, a Promethean Farm would be good for vacations . . . but one can’t really work there, live there, study there. If we had money, it might work, but even then, the ennui would be awful – an artist needs life. More on that later.

Sam, [could I] read your poems? If you want to read the unfinished “Sea is My Brother,” I’ll mail it to you.

Well, I’ll go to my watch now. I saunter through the barracks wearing blue peacoat, trousers, leggings, and bowcap, carrying a club and wearing a white belt, etc. I have to see that everyone is buttoned up, etc. Do you know what I actually do, Sam? I mind my own fucking business – they can have their peckers hanging out for all I care.

Au Revoir –

Buddie Jack

After a few days, Jack was already unhappy with the regiment and discipline: “Well, I didn’t mind the eighteen-year-old kids too much but I did mind the idea that I should be disciplined to death, not to smoke before breakfast, not to do this, that, or thatta” (Vanity of Duluoz, Book 9, part I, p. 153). Ultimately this would lead to his laying his gun down in the dust, and refusing to participate any further, so he is sent for psychiatric evaluation. Looking at his handwritten novel and his IQ test, the authorities begin to question Jack about his lack of military discipline among other things. He writes to his mother on March 30, 1943, that he is in sick bay due to his headaches.

There isn’t any other mention of Jack mailing the working version of The Sea is My Brother or even a part of it to Sebastian, but he must have for in the following letter Sebastian refers to it as quite an accomplishment for the age of twenty-one.

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

[April, 1943]

Saturday

Jack my boy,

At long last I think that I have found my medium, with which to project my ideas. As I don’t know whether the incoming mail is censored I must inform the censor that “eager loving” as used in my enclosed poetry refers to love purely and only in its universal application. Jack, I want your frank criticism; if you still feel that my poetry is still weak and ineffectual do not hesitate to say so.

It is one of many passages which will embrace my novel In the Morning Brother, Sympathy.[36] In this novel will be the sincere sentiments of a young man involved in the search for beauty, truth, justice, and the “brotherhood of mankind.”

My reactions on Spain, the U.S.S.R., and all contemporary human issues will be included.

I am glad to see you putting more embellishments in your novel –I thought it was damn good stuff and I speak sincerely when I say it surpassed my best expectations. I did feel that the transition of Ever-hart[37] was a little too abrupt. However that is only a minor and very superficial weakness. The important thing is that the story is there and at twenty-one, that achievement in itself is extraordinary. I’ll send more comments later – as well as my Army poetry –

“eventide . . . remember . . . comrade

comrade . . . those tragic sunsets . . .

that sweeter melancholia [”]

and the stark locale, starker than the crimson-red of sumachs in the fall

I shall remember

comrade, not for the mere sake of remembrance,

but of our eager loving that remains

integrated with eternity and impatient struggle

for the heart . . .

Sunset in New England!

splashes of silver, spun of gold, locked and interlocked

in twilight’s lonely grasp – and green bills fixed on the

horizon . . . cries, lost now and neither would find refuge

even in the catastrophe of tears.”

Write soon, won’t you –

Sincerely,

Sebastian

I am reading Spengler’s

Decline of the West

Terrific!

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

[April, 1943]

Monday

Jack,

Have you read Pierre Van Pearson’s That Day Alone?

“In the terrific tension and upheaval of our time, every man should stay with his own task. For whoever performs well the daily work, as the sculptor Rodin once said, may expect to see the mold break to pieces one day and the statue appear. No energy is lost in the universe; the tears of a child in China may light the flame in the heart of America, the prayer of a Hindu saint may bless the prisoners of Europe. Tears will become rocks and prayers will be turned into weapons of war.

Slowly the hopes and aspirations of mankind turn into concrete achievements. There is something utterly pathetic in all of man’s individual endeavor. But not in the collective march of humanity to its ideal.

A day will surely come when man having grown tired of walking alone, will turn to his brother. On the day when we shall have learned to feel the sorrows and the hope of others, as our very own, that would [sic] order of love and justice for which the universe yearns and of which the planets in the stillest night are the splendid but imperfect symbol, shall have come nearer.

On that day alone the brotherhood of man will have become a reality.”

Pierre Van Pearson, with the possible exception of Vincent Sheean,[38] has seen and understood the world situation as well as anyone. A conscientious objector in the last war, the patriotic hysteria forced him into the trenches of France, from which he emerged more embittered than ever.

There is doubt in me – much doubt. I wonder if Spengler was right. I wonder if this is but a series of succeeding wars leading to a chaotic world.

Eddie and Ian both seemed highly dispirited. Eddie felt that this was the greatest thing that happened to mankind, and although he felt that all would not be well after the war, he still wanted to get into it.

Lights are out – I’ll write later – Why haven’t you written to me of late

Sincerely

Votre Comrade

Sebastian

There apparently was a reply from Jack in between these letters discussing Van Pearson.

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

[April, 1943]

Tuesday

Dear Jack

Once again we are at variance. In your last letter you imply that Van Pearson is wrong when he claims; “There is something pathetic in all-of-man’s individual endeavor.”

To disprove this you mention Goethe, and Goethe would be the first to agree with Van Pearson, were he alive today. For Goethe saw the futility of the “individual” and introduced the philosophy of “dying young and beautiful,” as re: The Sorrow of Werther.

You then mention Dostoevsky – Can you call Dostoevsky an individualist? And in the long run how did Dostoevsky influence mankind? Not at all. I may admire D. as an artist, as a great compassionate writer and I may agree with him that the individual suffers enough for his crime without the due process of law.

Tell me who cares today who wrote The Iliad? We don’t know for certain who wrote Shakespeare’s plays but what does that matter?

We find that at the height of Greek culture, the artist worked for the “soul-joy” of working and art – it was a spontaneous culture, born of an enthusiasm as a result of a “communal” feeling.

Believe me when I tell you that we have yet to reach the civilization of the Greeks – I am not speaking from a nationalistic viewpoint but it was the Athenian democracy which bestowed upon the world something entirely new – a profound faith in the dignity of man. That dignity for man can only come through collectivism as in the case of the Ancient Greeks and the Modern Russians.

True, you may point out the part that the Greeks held slaves: that was unfortunate, but many of their intellectuals spoke out against it.

If this holds true, what of the dangerous and uncomfortable position of the factory hands, of the mill workers, of the shipyard workers, of the deep sea fishermen? We do need homes, hats, coal, don’t we? We must have food. We try to satisfy our consciences by a clever bit of rationalizing about how these people really love their jobs and how they are really happier in a farm, in a factory or in a fishing shack off Newfoundland in the Grand Banks than they would ever be in an office or a recreation hall.

Today we no doubt are in a changing period – the factory without factory hands is fast becoming a reality and it no longer is a Utopian dream. Mankind is getting more and more leisure right along the line.

The day of the individualist, thank God, is over – but the individualist, I refer only to that “rugged individualism,” which has made the American nation so hated throughout the world.

Even the “intellectuals” sold out the “masses” in their later days: Bertrand Russell, Durant and Wells have become apologists for the capitalists. They weary of the struggle of life and now they want to rejoice in the benefits of capitalism. Why we even find Wells dining with the Cliveden Set on one hand and praising the New Deal on the other –

It has only been the journalists, the ministers, the poets – and only they with a high religious and understandingly compassionate belief in the masses who have not betrayed Truth – Vincent Sheean, Dusantz, Shaw, Reed, Strong, Laski, The Webbs, Miller, Hemingway, Caldwell, Steinbeck, Saroyan and Wolfe.

Again you may question me; was not Wolfe an individualist? And to that I must retaliate with a thundering “NO –” As a matter of fact Wolfe has succeeded more than any other writer in making youth aware of man’s inhumanity to man and gave youth a new set of principles – I don’t believe that Wolfe himself was aware of this –

I don’t think he was aware of the fact that he began a New American civilization akin to an Athenian democracy.

We have two new civilizations towering in the world today. That of the U.S.S.R. and the New American Civilization, which seems to have taken its roots somewhere in West Virginia as Wolfe predicted.

Jack, I know you and I know this “ideals must be implemented with action” – Even if it has to be action under regimentation. Remember what happened in Spain when you had the great believers in democracy unwilling to give up a temporary freedom and unite in leadership to fight France and Fascism?

I know this letter is extremely chaotic but maybe I have been able to project a few of my arguments.

You are extremely fortunate in being able to obtain a few books. There are no books at all here but I have been doing more writing and have completed another act in my rank [sic] play.

Please don’t misunderstand me – I am not attempting to project these ideas to satisfy my ego – there is nothing I detest as much as that. And I assure you I am not suffering from a Messianic complex but as I am young and love truth, I must write about things as I see them.

Answer soon –

Sebastian

I have been writing three letters to your one – I don’t see why the censorship should effect what you have to say. There is freedom of speech in America.

Write Soon!

“The ‘brute’ is not the only Lucifer in our midst.” Elucidate this?

The brute is representative to me of prejudice, intolerance, single-selfishness, nationalism, caesarian ambitions, etc., etc. It is Plato as opposed to Machiavelli.

This last year of Sebastian’s life begins with a short leave from the army in April 1943. He returns home for Easter and visits his beloved Pine Brook, his “chambers of beauty,” and relishes the memories of his lost youth. (He is now assigned to the medical evacuations section of the Quartermaster Corps.)

Sebastian writes this letter to Jack in the Rhode Island Naval Hospital, letting him know that he had tried to visit him but was refused admittance. Jack, however, fictionalizes this visit in Vanity of Duluoz:

Charles, Stella, and Sebastian Sampas, in front of the family home in Lowell, 1943

Then in comes Sabby in a US Army Uniform, sad idealistic, crewcutted now, but dream-minded, trying to talk to me, “I have remembered, Jack, I have kept faith,” but the nutty manic depressive from West Virginny shoves him in a corner and grabs him by the private’s sleeves and yells “Wabash Cannonball” and poor Sabby’s eyes are misting and looking at me saying, “I came here to talk to you, I only have twenty minutes, what a house of suffering, what now?”

(Book 9, part V, p. 159)

To Jack Kerouac,

From Sebastian Sampas

[April 25–May 5, 1943]

Comrade,

I have returned to this forsaken Valley of the Shenagngo after eight days of sweet civilian life.

Although I have managed to adjust myself temporarily to the army routine, I find myself affirming and re-affirming our convictions and personal philosophies. There is much richness to glean from even our present situations.

Anyhow in continuing with my trip – God! It was wonderful. New England budding tenderly with Spring and the mad riotous green earth of rocky hills and sudden interjecting brooks flooding sweet waters!

Easter Sunday morning I went to Pine Brook, sacred memory of beauty! Moment of moments to be wrapped in the arms of Truth, Beauty and of Love! Break! Break! O: [sic] Sun Break! Purple and Pink! Chambers of Beauty! The North-Wind [sic] blows sweeping the wild Atlantic into a frenzy, down along the coastline of Maine.

Lost! Lost! Where now the great, the wondrous love of eighteen? Where the three youths, who went wild with the great promise? What was this then? Just a fragment, cut off from all dimensions, to be lived a hundred times only in memory. They are gone! Gone! Condemned to sorrows and to Wars! Church bells now breaking bong! Bong! From the Greek Orthodox Church and the peasant’s home alight at dawn.

Easter Sunday!

Resurrection!

“I am the glory and the light. He that believeth in me, yet shall he live”

Jack,

My chaplain, a Methodist, has proven to be a most interesting personality, replete with all liberal vices, intimate friend of Gandhi-Nehru.[39] He made the headlines of Hearst’s Boston Daily Record. They accused him of fostering Communism – Is a fellow traveler, knows Richard Wright, Langston Hughes, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [,] Dana (homo!) of Cambridge and Harvard, resigned later from Columbia and went to Russia, where he was not too pleasantly received.

I came to see you Easter Sunday night but the guards there refused me admittance.

Write soon

Your buddy

Sebastian

To John Kerouac

P-13 U.S. Naval Hospital

Newport, R.I.

From Sebastian Sampatacus

Co. A. 8th Bat. T-1403

S.P.R.D. Greenville, Pennsylvania

Postcard: postmarked Wednesday, May 5, 1943 – Greenville, PA

Jack,

“You came to us with music, poetry, and wild joy when we were twenty, when we reeled home at night through the old moon-whitened streets of Boston and heard our friend, our comrade and our dead companion, shout through the silence of the moon-white square:

“You are a poet and the world is yours.” And victory, joy, wild hope, and swelling certitude and tenderness surged thru the conduits of our blood as we heard that drunken cry and triumph, glory, proud belief was resting like a chrism around us. As we heard that cry, and turned our eyes then to the moon-drunk skies of Boston, knowing only that we were young, and drunk, and twenty, and that the power of mighty poetry was within us, and the glory of the great earth lay before us – because we were young and drunk and twenty and could never die –

Sebastian

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

Tuesday [May 11, 1943]

Jack,

Do you know how I feel? Like that pathetic Jew in Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises – do you remember him? – Or my reference to him?

He had been thoroughly reprimanded and insulted by that “lost clique” and he went to his room and wept hot tears on his pillow –for in my eagerness to please you by writing to your friend, I’ve been made a perfect fool – and I must summon all my strength and even that [I] cannot do.

“Tisn’t life that matters, but the courage you bring to it” –Walpole[40]

“In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not cried or wept aloud

Under the bludgeoning of chance, my head is bloody but unbowed[41]

When in disgrace with fortune, in men’s eyes, I alone beweep my

outcast state

And cry deaf heaven with my bootless cries.” Shakespeare[42]

“O world, thou choosest not the better part”[43]

“Be still, my heart, be still.”[44] –

Is there no trust in this world? Is everything as pathetic as it seems to me now?

My only justification for ever living seems to be that I can actively partake of my ideals – by that I mean I’m only too glad to be in the Army.

“Nothing . . . Nothing Remains”

I want to go back – but I can’t, I can’t –

Write to me soon, Jack – and tell me there is hope.

Sebastian

This poem is reflective and brooding and was written in several drafts as the “Black Rose,” but eventually a finished version which Sebastian titled “Rhapsody in Red” was completed in 1943.

A POEM FROM THE WAR FRONT . . .

RHAPSODY IN RED

Last night was hell

Pack’t [sic] upon hell

And buddies blasted in the black.

As Stukas[45] strafed our posts again

Oh! Mars was in a vaunted glory

Extolling us.

Extolling them

Gaily he dashed around and around

Last night he wore a carmine crown!

Last night he blazed with scarlet glory.

You know that kind of red

Like when you cut your hand in winter

And you watch the valentine-shaped drops

of warm blood

Falling slowly on the satin-softened snow

Oh! There were all shades of red

Why just before the fight began

The sun was dripping orange-red

Like women wear on fingernails

In smart cafes.

My brain twirled back to the Isle of

Manhattan

To the Café Rouge – Rouge Bouquet

Vin rouge. . . . . . . .

“Rouge Bouquet”. . .

“In Flanders Field . . . . . . poppies”

“I would have poured my spirit without stint”

“If ye break faith”

. . . “at midnight in some flaming town.”

. . . “water from sweet wells”

We groped in mud

And rain like torrents fell:

Some oozed of red –

Red, Tyrian red

I saw, I saw: with my own eyes I saw

Oh! such a violent riotous red

The human heart is of the richest red

I remember the first cardinal I ever saw

It fluttered toward me and veered toward the right,

But it was beautiful.

I remember a bush Mother treasured.

It attracted all kinds of butterflies.

There was one there

That had three colors.

The whitest white I ever saw,

The bluest blue I ever saw,

The reddest I ever saw,

I never caught these butterflies

I was just a child flapping my hands

As all children do in glee!

Last night Mars was in a vaunted glory,

Extolling us, extolling them . . .

Gaily he flashed around and around

Last night he wore a carmine crown.

Today I thought of flowers Mother planted

In other lands now gold-enchanted

Forgive me Mother if one rose grew black

I wanted so much to come back, a red, red rose.

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

Wednesday [May 19, 1943]

Jack,

Some of your criticism of my letter was sound, but I must take issue on the majority of my points. Perhaps, writing hurriedly in the few minutes I could spare, I did not express myself very clearly. You quote a Russian.

“Dostoevsky was one of ourselves.”

That is why you completely misjudged the man and his goal. You are not a Slav. It is beyond the capacity of your Briton soul to understand him. I have known for a long time that the Russians are children of another earth, not of this old earth, but seeds in a new soil, earth-children of an unborn culture, great young souls – unfound and formless – their music, their literature, the profound melancholia of an unfulfilled destiny and not Western man’s infinite longing through individual endeavor for fame, intellect and riches for a soul that has already died, their unbelievable dynamism, the birth-pangs of a whole new world, not the death-throes of your over-lived meaning.

Spengler had an inkling of this. He recognized the Russian prime-symbol as the “plane without limit.” I expressed the same idea in the paragraph above which I call “The Directive Determinant of Potential Actualization” which I fully understand but since I am writing in an alien (English) language I cannot make it more clear.

Your prime symbol, of course as well as all of Western mankind is infinite space. You have had dreams of space as all Western mankind has had. Whether it be in great Gothic Cathedrals, railroad station tunnels, the dome of heaven – whether it be received from a mountaintop or abyss, or whether it be pure infinite space. By this all else is conditioned. All individuality, difference, originality is really very much alike. And between the Western World and the Russian soul there is an unabridgable chasm.

You have misunderstood completely “Crime and Punishment.” It is not of the suffering of mankind, not merely an investigation of the sources of mankind’s misery. Read the last few pages. At the beginning of the book Raskolnikov is the over-refined, polished, finished product of our Western World. It is only through great suffering that he forgets himself – his own, Ruzumakin’s (who was a product of the Russian earth, a friend, a brother, and who never knew the Western World) and Sonya’s. In this great suffering he forgets himself. The “I” is young again and has lost itself in the “we” the [sic] “all” and he is one with all his brothers in the prime symbol on Russian [sic] plane. That is the epic. To quote Dostoevsky:

“The story of the gradual renewal of a man, the story of his gradual regeneration, of his passing from one world to another, of his initiation into an unknown life . . .” That is not a Western Man –for him there are only the futureless days. Tomorrow is stone and steel and bright lights. The Western Man appreciates Dostoevsky but he cannot see, he cannot livingly experience his world. All the depth of feeling which he arouses in the Western Man is within the Western man – a part of him. Suffering and compassion he (the Western man) can project, but it is not D’s, it is the Western man’s. The Western man understands Tolstoy, Levin – but not D. He is an alien soul.

That is why I minimize D. To the Western Man he can convey nothing that is not already within him. The Russians he has not influenced; all true Russians are Dostoevsky. In him speaks their soul. Spengler[46] To call the Faustian Culture a Will-Culture is only another way of expressing the eminently historical disposition of its soul. Our first person idiom, our “Ego habeo factum”, our dynamic syntax, that is – finally renders the “way of doing things” that results from this disposition and, with its positive directional energy, dominates not only our picture of the World-as-History but our own history to boot. This first person towers up in the Gothic architecture: the spire is an “I” ethical work upon an “I” justification of an “I” by faith and works: respect of the neighbor “Thou” for the sake one’s [sic] “I” and its happiness: and lastly and supremely, immortality of the “I.”

Now this, precisely this, the genuine Russian regards as contemptible vain-glory. The Russian soul, will-less, having the limitless plane as its prime symbol, seeks to grow up – serving, anonymous, self-oblivious in the brother-world of the plane. To take “I” as the starting point of relations with the neighbor, to elevate “I’s” love of near and dear, to repent for “I’s” sake, are to him traits of Western vanity as presumptuous as is the upthrusting challenge to heaven of our cathedrals that he compares with his plane church-roof and its sprinkling of cupolas. Tolstoi’s hero Nechludov looks after his moral “I” as he does after his finger-nails; this is just what betrays Tolstoi as belonging to the pseudomorphosis of Petrinism.[47]

Why is it that individual endeavor is pathetic to me? It is because I recognize no such thing as “individual endeavor.” The ego, the “I” not only exists, it dominates. We justify, express the “I” – it is the point of reference of the Western Man as exemplified in this dream of space. When comes this “I”? it comes from the all.

Children and primitive people are part of the landscape. They are one with wind and weather, sun and stars, soil, seed and reason. But to them comes an experience of cosmic birth and dying and passing away.”

The Western senses an “other.” The other he conceives symbolically in his dream of space. The strivings of our cultures resolve themselves into an attempt to express the foreign “other” in terms of an “I.”

In all of us Jack, there is a great spirituality; that it flowers in our youth and should bear fruit in our maturity. That it does not is that there is a dissonance between ideals and life, between civilization and the “landscape” whence it was rooted. Take out beauty in any form if it is only a medium. The Western Man seeks only completion is art. The “I” facing the “other” feels itself partial, incomplete. It seeks to include the “other,” to conquer it, failing that to lose itself.

All Western Man seeks: if they are not concerned in the same meaning it is not because they do not feel as you feel, but that the form could not reach them.

Individual endeavor exists only as a cross-section of all the restless strivings of whole peoples. It is supreme only when it can express the soul-current common to all mankind (Western.) That the All-Soul is manifested through this or that individual is a matter of chance, not intellect. In fact it would have been better had all our great marks of our culture remained anonymous. We could have understood them better and more justly credited them. I am afraid there would be less “appreciation.” Some of the people (and I certainly do not mean you) cultivate a taste for Beethoven, Bach, Wagner, Goethe, Shakespeare, Dostoevsky, Tolstoi, Steinbeck, Dos Passos, Wolfe, etc. would not care for them anonymously.

There are no more worlds to conquer in the Western Civilization. It remains for the intellectuals of the Western World to rearrange, to comment, to imitate but not to create, to actualize the fullest possibilities of the All-Soul. The form is set to thickly – its earth roots are withered, the soul is dead. Its lifeless expression to one a “craft” to another a “taste.” Prometheanism should help along this goal. (Do not misunderstand, I do not say that you are not a great creative artist, but more about that in just a moment.)

Art is no longer livingly created or experienced. People cease to be concerned with its great symbolism. They are out of harmony with the pulse-beat of our becoming. To them it “is the hard reality of life, of living that is essential, not the concept of life, that the ostrich – philosophy of idealism propounds.” (Spengler) Soon the Western Civilization shall be as the Egyptian and Chinese have been for millenniums. In Eastern Europe there is little hope but in America “a wind is rising.” Wolfe felt it. In the “hills beyond,” the great open spaces, (remember his North-West Pacific trip, the uncrowded places, a new soul is in conception. The land is pregnant. A primitive man, curd raw[,] unfinished – superb – is shaping in the heart of our land. He does not seek for “other.” The meaning he knows is life. He and all his fellow mankind are brothers in spirit. In him coarse, rough-hewn, lie all our hopes – his will be the civilization greater than all – all art will be an integral part of him.

If you choose the Western World, it is well to remember that individual endeavor can achieve distinction only in harmony with its people – and its people have no soul, that they have a truth of their own which is not yours, but nevertheless true to them and unchangeable.

“The world’s a stage and all men players.”[48] Choose the last act of one play, or the first of another. It remains for you to act your part, for the show will go on, with you or against you.

Remember this final quotation – “The fates lead him who goes willingly and drag him who goes unwillingly.”

I have finished re-reading this letter and realize its inarticulate spots but my time Jack, is so god-damn limited. I was a perfect fool to let Joe May’s misunderstanding of my letter effect me.

Am sincerely sorry if we disagree – am to be shipped to a P.O.E.[49] in a very brief time. I have to abandon all intellectual pursuits for the present. Write soon. I hope that this argument is not settling to a clash of “egos” so let’s abandon it until we know our fate within the next month.

Goodnite

Fraternally,

Sebastian

Spengler influenced me somewhat but the majority of the ideas are my own. Not that it matters a god-damn. Probably I belong where you do and vice versa.

To John Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

Friday May 21, 1943

Jack,

Marcus’ letter to Ulysses[50]

“I do not feel like a hero. I do not recognize any enemy which is human, for no human being can be my enemy. Whoever he is, whatever color he is, however mistaken he may be in what he believes, he is my friend, not my enemy, for he is no different from myself. My quarrel is not with him, but with that in him which I seek to destroy in myself first.”

“I do not feel like a hero. I have no talent for such feelings. I hate no one. I do not feel patriotic either, for I have always loved my country, its people, its towns, my home and my family. I would rather there were no war. I would rather I were not in the army, but as there is a war and as I am in the army, I have long since made up my mind to be the best soldier it is possible for me to be. I have no idea what is ahead, but whatever it is I am humbly ready for it – I am terribly afraid – I must tell you this – but I know that when the time comes I shall do what is expected of me and maybe even more than what is expected of me, but I want you to know I shall be obeying no command other than the command of my own heart. With me will be boys from all over America, from thousands of towns like Ithaca. I may be killed in this war. I must come right out and tell you this. I don’t like the idea at all. More than anything else in the world I want to come back to Ithaca, and spend many long years with you and with my mother and sister and brother. I want to come back for Mary and a home and a family of my own. It is very likely that we shall be leaving soon – for action. Nobody knows where the action will be but it is understood that we shall soon be leaving. Therefore, this may be my last letter to you for some time.”

Jack,

You should not misunderstand my last letter and the multitude of contingent issues involved, seemingly unrelated and inharmonious, but projecting a number of my (as well as Spengler’s) ideas, nevertheless. The English language, a life-less instrument of expression, cannot but remain an alien tongue for my psychological and socialistic endeavors. The facts as stated in my last letter may appear inchoate on the surface but they are the embodiment of something “which I feel yet cannot express, nor all reveal.”

Remember, by maintaining an individualistic position, you do not challenge me nor my knowledge, but prove only that you have not studied carefully the zeitgeist – the spirit of our time. Remember, he worships gods, who intends to be one – the intellectuals, poets, artists, etc. (except for a minor few) are so involved in proving their own integrity, that they have forgotten the integrity due all mankind.

Your criticism of my poetic efforts was a masterpiece and for one who has not drenched himself merely with poetry, it reveals rare and unsurpassed perception.

Since the poetry was a spontaneous outburst of the integrated artistic nature of my sloven soul, it was amiable to more than enough corrections (my god-damn ego rears its ugly head – I intend to keep remitting poetry to you until my novel is complete.)

It is with the “form” of the poetry that my struggle involves itself. How did you find that?

My cries are lost in “ether” world space – in the vast limitless voids of this universe, that is why they do not find refuge in the catastrophe of tears. The poem has no climax – it is a series after series culminating to a better understanding. Is my mail being opened? Until I hear from you.

Sincerely, Fraternally,

Sebastian

Don’t give Spengler all the credit – I mean although my last letter was influenced somewhat by Spengler, he would disagree with me in total for Spengler is a Fascist.

Write to me! I wrote to Ian; he has not answered for I took “issue” with him when I was home, so I am a hopeless pathetic case.

To Jack Kerouac

P-13 U.S. Naval Hospital

Bethesda, Maryland

From Pvt. S. G. Sampatacacus #31256892

A.P.O. 8961, Care of Postmaster, N.Y., N.Y.

Censor: A. Sullivan, Bethesda

Postcard: Postmarked Newport, RI, Saturday, June 12, 1943

Jack,

I miss my old heated discussions with you and Eddy & Connie.

Here under the old earth again, the stars are brilliant in their luster and I remember – I remember.

I am reading An Outline of the Principles of Sociology, a book in Mathematics, and I’ve just finished reading a book on Russia by Bernard Parras.

Best regards and sincere wishes for a speedy recovery.

Sincerely,

S.

The letter from Jack that Sebastian refers to below is not in the archives.

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

July 7, 1943

[written top right:] Somewhere in N. Africa

Jack,

Your propitious letter as of May 27 reached me only the day before yesterday, so that if this reply seems unusually late, you will understand that it is not due to my laxity. This cisatlantic[51] land has already yielded a rich harvest of ideas which will eventually, I hope, aid our Promethean aspect on human endeavor and behavior.

I would rather consider the Joe May fiasco a closed incident. My hours are of such an overwhelmingly limited nature that I have no time to satisfy the whims of an immature personality, who has gone to such a preposterous vantage point in order to satisfy his insatiate ego. The first time I wrote to him in complete sincerity, out of respect for your high opinion of him. I’ve gone through too much already to allow ridiculous strangers to play mad scherzos on my sensitive character. I underwent all that my second year in college and I assure you I have positively no desire for a continuation of arguments and subtleties. If Joe has not seen fit to respect sincerity and proof of this was his answer to my first letter, why then I had no choice and he has already suffered the sting of my venom and I can be d [ ] venomous when the occasion demands it. His answer to my second letter was on a plane as his first. I feel no need to answer it. Thus far I am the victor, which even he will admit if you press him.

I’m glad to hear that the naval doctors are treating you with more civility, and that they are beginning to uncover the split personality, the repressed schizophrenic, the genius which is Zagguth.

That you were absorbed by what I said of the Slavic soul pleases me, for I labored, sweated and poured even my soul into that piece of research. I’m grateful to see that you sympathize with my inability to satisfactorily express all that which I perceive but cannot all reveal.

The Eastern world grips me in un-abiding fascination and I would find the very root of it, if only time and atmosphere were conducive to such a delicate task. I hope that you will not consider the aforesaid statements the conceited mutterings of a fatuous ass. There is some hope for my artistic endeavors (and they are artistic foremost and last!) You will recall in my last document the scientist’s viewpoint suffered at the mercy of an artist who was bent not merely with an aesthetic study of the Eastern man as a means of expression but only as art is integrated with the sociological aspects of the east. (Much more about this in my next letter.)

If the nations of the world are to approach some kind of understanding after the war, it can be accomplished only through sincere efforts on the part of one to uncover the nuances and character of the other. All this does not dissuade me from my original belief as expressed in my last letter.

Of course, of course, you understood perfectly Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. Sonya, Razumahin, Raskalnikov – these three represent much that is vitally significant today.

Your words in regard to Ian show a more profound understanding than mine did, in an earlier letter to you. Incidentally, Ian and Cornelius “walked out” on Saroyan’s The Human Comedy! No doubt, Ian, that divine prophet and Cornelius, that outstanding critic, could never have the compassion to see Saroyan’s simple story – it was too humane, and surely there is no greater crime than that. They both scorn the mediocrity of John Doe, as they bask unperturbed in the luxuries which are America. Don’t misunderstand me Jack, I do not speak from any bitterness in my heart but if you had had occasion to observe their different attitudes, as I did last Easter, you would be moved ad nauseum.

Outwardly they express and write of extreme hardships fostered by a war-conscious community. They resent the term “slacker” as I do, but at the same time they are fulfilling that role perfectly. But you will see, you will see, how well they sip up their beer and wine, how eager they are to heave their overfed loins in a liaison with some buxom wench.

Don’t misunderstand their attitude or mine, I like them both, but once I respected them and their sincerities. Now I find that they are what I always suspected – continual compromisers.

Conrad is still in civilian attire and I won’t begrudge him that a bit, but Conrad is well aware of his responsibilities and has in no way attempted to shirk off the draft board. That he has been allowed to continue his medical endeavors at a time when the strength of every man is needed, is not altogether too comfortable a position for him. As a matter of fact, I found him writhing in agony in my last visit home. These were his words. “Here it is, the greatest struggle that civilized humanity has ever fared and I must bow to the whims and fancies of my aunts.” I imagine he has already enlisted for in his last letter to me, he has already made plans for the army.

Jack, if you could only see the tremendous sacrifices that our youth is making, you would realize the personal heroism of each and every soldier. I know this may sound like flag-waving but you know I have never been moved by pseudo-patriotism.

Living on dehydrated foods, rationed water, the heat which is Africa in July, the never-ending annoyance of mosquitoes and flies and always the necessary pressure of warfare, you would see that your earlier words regarding the heroism of the American youth were true. And what is amazing about the whole thing is this: the morale is higher here than it was in the states.

I received a gorgeous photograph from Dvari, we had a wonderful time last Easter. I’ve got more to say but until my next letter, Dvari is taking an engineering course and she’s all hep about it.

Sincerely and fraternally,

Sebastian

Écrivez, mais, toute de suite!

This poem, written around the latter part of 1943, further expresses the disappointment in the Russian ideals that Sebastian had once embraced.

RUSSIA

Prelude

Betrayed by a man with a huge mustache

Betrayed by your own uncompromising actions

Betrayed by slogans whose falsehood you could not understand

Betrayed by time itself

I

Tis you I curse tonight, Russia

You were once man’s hope and salvation

I curse you Russia, for you could not see

And accepted security instead of liberty

II

I remember, Russia, I remember

How you were the liberalists’ only savior

I swear, Russia, I swear

At you and your betrayer.

III

Labor, bowed down by man’s rapacious greed,

Looked at you, Russia, and a glow of life

surged thru its rusty machinery.

But you failed, Russia, in that moment

when everything seemed won.

IV

Workers of the world, unite, you cried.

And we saw sincere men surge thru Suomi[52]

Down with capitalists, you yelped.

Meanwhile you had your militarists

living like kings, Russia.

V

You failed mankind – Russia

and the oceans welled with the tears of 10,000,000 slaves.

But the slaves can cry and forget, Russia

They can look ahead with bowed heads

but with the spirits surging

that refuse to retreat.

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

Sunday morn, August 29, 1943

[written top right:] Somewhere in No. Africa

Jack,

I have visited Algiers. . . . . and have seen the sun sinking west-ward across the Casbah and fade slowly into the Mediterranean.

I have had some of my poetry published in the Stars & Stripes in several of its editions including its Palermo, Oran, Alexandria, Algiers and Casablanca issues. It stinks.

I met an English poet, who has one volume of very poor poems to his credit. We had champagne and dinner together. He happens to have a peerage and is a Lord (Lord Langly), a fact which I did not know until after I broke an appointment with him.

He’s a dilettante & this fact is obvious when he calls Keats “the poet of the Grecian Seas.”

Two of the best chaps I have met are two British soldiers, near our camp.

Jack is a Scott, a graduate of the University of Glasgow, a very vivid and colorful personality, and speaks our language as does Fred Brazier.

We’ve spent many evenings together in discussions, wild, singing, and always wine, wine, wine.

We’ve roamed the streets of Algiers and for the first time in aeons I have felt a little of the idealism, and compassion for all mankind, and once again I’ve lifted my voice up in song.

I’ve had several letters from Cornelius. George C. is attending classes at Georgetown, under the sponsorship of the U. S. Army & Steve S. is an engineering cadet at Bloomington, Ind[iana]:

It would be folly for me to think too much of home & all the sad-happy days.

No need to apologize for this brief letter, for I know that you realize that a military atmosphere is hardly conducive for a decent letter.

I have not heard from Doris in ages. I wish you were with me.

Sincerely & fraternally

Sebastian

To Jack Kerouac

Crossbay Boulevard

Ozone Park, Long Island – New York

From Sebastian Sampas

Italy

November 8, 1943

Remember the discussions of Goethe’s Sorrows of Werther at the

Rialto?

Fraternally,

Sebastian

To Jack Kerouac

From Sebastian Sampas

Thursday, November 11, 1943

[written top right:] Somewhere in Italy

Jack my old friend,

I haven’t written to you for months and there is no excuse for it. I’ve written many letters but after scanning them for literary merit and finding none there, I destroyed them and even in this letter, the gradual mental stagnation which is a part of one, after he has been reduced to fundamental, [sic] shall be evident.

Anyhow, here follows a brief summons up dealing with last summer and early fall! When I landed in Casablanca, my first impression was of its natives, ragged and enthusiastic the little Arab kids racing to greet each approaching American soldier with words of “bonbon, chocolate, chewing gum, cigarette?”

Casablanca is a land of mystery and intrigue, still clinging to the Orient, pausing for only a split-second in the wondrous avalanche of time, to flood the refugees with gayer memories of Paris.

Casablanca is proud of its Moorish heritage, lapsing for a moment to give way to the West, but with a suspicious and all-knowing eye. The city is on the fringe of the desert, a raw peal with gleaming Arabic architecture, its buildings emblazoned with colorful tiles.

The city is on the fringe of the Atlantic too, proud and cruel as Chicago and where the native quarter of the Medina looks with a scorn of beguilement at the New European section.

At night there is a foreboding mute silence interrupted only by the braying of donkeys. The stars were immense, one could almost reach for one with his hands and his palm would overflow with stardust.

For now you are at sea again – home is the sailor – your ship ploughing the sapphire waters for the Atlantic once again and Ian is in his hermitage looking sadly at the desolate November skies.

Why is it that the only throbbing force, life, is such a tragic and bitter event? We come from the murky dankness of a womb to go to the dry arid land, from which there is no return. The only vital possession that remains eternal is love.

I am writing this letter at three o’clock in the morning as the burning lamp in my ward flickers its yellow light, glowing away the charred wick of time. I am trying to coordinate the past with the present and the future and in some way unfold the interrelations with a clear-cut objectivity but that’s impossible.

The last few months have been lonely ones, abjectly lonely, monotonously lonely, hellishly lonely. My very life seems to have been robbed of its beauty, every joyous moment comes slowly, every day is another study in stagnation and again a reduction to fundamentals with no hope of uplifting oneself and of maturing too fast, maybe?

Recently I was temporarily on detached service with another evacuation unit. I worked in a surgical shock ward. The patients admitted to this ward some directly from the front. I saw some unpleasant things but I also saw how bravely the American soldier reacts when he has been wounded. It’s a serene fortitude, a sad and quiet acceptance. It is a fortitude born of freedom, which is the nucleus of any civilization.

It’s a tragic note to see them come in from the front with en-shrapneled ligaments, brain injuries and internal injuries. There is the feeling of contentment and accomplishment after one sees them returning from the operating room, well on the road to recovery.

Too Jack, I’ve seen the fallen heroes breath their last. The doctors are doing a superb job, their excellent organizational self-sufficiency, their tireless efforts and continued enthusiasm are astounding. Doctors are supposedly cold and impersonal, devoid of feeling. If there is no display of feeling it is because their work demands an objectivity, but they are great scouts. I’ve seen a colonel with a patient until three o’clock in the morning and then I’ve seen the same colonel up at seven o’clock the following morning.

My last days in Africa were happy ones. Our rest period there, where we were encamped on the shores of the Mediterranean restored our energies and gave the hospital staff a well-needed rest. The sun bronzed our bodies and there I underwent my first airraid. My happiest day overseas was spent in the company of “Jock” Lawson (University of Glasgow graduate,) Fred Brazier (an advertising executive in London,) and Larry Chartiers from Mass and a member of our outfit. In one glorious Algerian afternoon we consumed twelve bottles of champagne and three meals. Jock had experienced the disaster of Dunkerque[53] as well as the entire African campaign. He’s kept his convictions and ideals through three of bitter retreat and tragedy and now one year of reaping the glory of shining victory.

Another afternoon Larry and myself accepted an invitation to tea, but as such matters occur, it wound up with wine and toasts to friendship, understanding and victory, followed by a post-war four-freedom world.

Jock stirred many memories when he sang some of those semi-classical numbers which we’ve enjoyed so much in the past. Songs like Begin the Beguine, Smoke Gets in Your Eyes, I’ve Got You Under My Skin, One Fine Day and I’ll See You Again. And the thought returns to me Jack is out at sea again, with memories of OKTOBER.

“Have you seen my burnished skies? Have you seen my copper-colored skies . . . I am May grown old.”

At sea again Jack? I suspect it’s a long voyage to “ring down the cobblestone alley and there will stand Sebastian, alone and lonely, palely loitering, leaning against a postern and smoking sadly.”

Yes, old friend, in November “the sedge has withered from the lake and no bird sings.” There is a dearth of reading material and I miss that, I think more than anything else.

And now, Farewell, Artimdorus Farewell!

Fraternally,

Sebastian

I have kept faith with you. I have remembered.

Sebastian was deeply affected by the constant stream of the wounded, and this poem captures the horrors and callousness of war. It also shows how quickly he was developing a style of his own.

Meditation . . .

By Sebastian Sampas

Broken Arms

Broken Legs

Broken Hearts

Arms blown off,

Blood!

Legs Blown off,

Sockets seared,

“My right arm!”

“God!”

“My left leg!”

“I can’t see!”

Always pain,

“Nurse!”

Blood and sob,

O! My God!

Shell-rocked earth,

“God!”

Artillery fire,

Booby traps,

Machine-gun blast

Life

“Oh! My guts![”]

“Stretcher bearers!”

Blood and pain,

Blood and night,

Blood and

grass. . . . . . . . . !

Broken Arms

Enough!

Broken legs,

Broken Hearts,

To John Kerouac

133-01 Cross Bay Blvd.

Ozone Park, Long Island, NY

From Sebastian Sampas

8th Evac Hospital

December 12, 1943

[written top right:] Italy

Jack,

I have been waiting to hear from you for a long time now. I haven’t heard from Eddie since I’ve been overseas – from Ian but once. I don’t like to complain old friend but surely – oh well I am in the best of health.

There is a dearth of literature here and I miss the writings of Thomas Wolfe – who so poignantly elicits the feelings of us all – of frustrations, of loneliness, of beauty, of Time passing –

Sometimes I wonder if my type of self-sufficiency was of a time which would endure but for a year and then leave me bitter with the feeling of betrayal – I am now a patient at another hospital. I have come down with a minor throat ailment and I should be re-joining my outfit within a week. I am sending another poem reeking with mediocrity.

I’ve heard from Doris pretty consistently. Has she joined the Marines as yet?

My regards to everyone at home – not to forget your mother.

I have kept faith. . . . I have remembered,

Sebastian

Jack and Sebastian exchanged no letters after December 1943 and in February 1944 Sebastian was fatally wounded in Anzio and died shortly afterwards. Jack wrote one last time expressing his sorrow at the loss of his friend.

To Sebastian Sampas

From Jack Kerouac

March 1944

Sebastian –

It’s raining – and the song has come – I’ll See You Again. Where? Where, Sammy?

Mon pauvre, pauvre ami – ayez des pensees de moi, hein? Tu m’as tant fait mal au coeur -

I’m writing about Michael and Jeanne, Sam . . . help me. . . . Oh, vain is my illusion of your presence, vain, vain, as when you sang the words at Lakeview . . .

Jadis! Jadis! Jadis, on etait ensemble, non? Ensemble! Ce grand mot d’amour. . .

C’est tout parti. I bequeath thee this wraith of unsprung tears.

Sebastian, really, your death has never ceased making of me a damned sentimentalist like yourself . . . You bastard, you, I shan’t ever forgive you!

Fraternally,

Jean

The following two poems by Sebastian were published in The Stars and Stripes and reprinted in Puptent Poets, an anthology of military poetry.

TASTE THE NIGHTBANE

In the tortured hours like these when all looms black,

(Unless it be the weird flame of our flak.)

I do not weave strange scenes I’ll never live to see;

For Madame Fate with white cross spun my destiny.

I do not dream the poet’s heartbreaking dream;

I have forgotten stardust and the sapphire gleam.

I have remembered but your wet-eyed face

When you did kiss me in our last embrace.

COTE D’OR

After the silent fears of our embattled century,

Another youth shall stroll this famed shore,

Another youth shall feel the wind’s spill from the sea,

And stand enchanted by its soft onrushing roar.

But he shall be a freeman’s son, intelligent and strong

Nurtured in faith, and worthy of heroic song.

Emerson College Yearbook for 1944, honoring Sebastian. The Yearbook should have had his graduation picture, but instead included his Army picture along with others from his class serving in the war. Sebastian’s picture is top right. Four of Sebastian’s poems were included in the Emerson 1944 Yearbook: “Taste the Nightbane,” “Young Poet Remembering Lowell,” “Guard Detail” (see pp. 410–11, 245, and 332), and the one below.

PATIENT NO. 12

He is sleeping. Only now and then

There is a fitful sob

As fierce dreams block his mind

With blackened cadence.

Sirocco blows north-east and west

It burns the past, all that is best.

The lamp burns certain through his broken night,

Tossing blue shadows about the whitened sheets,

Only the hands . . . fretfully casting off the blanketed weight

Condemned to sorrow as a soldier is,

Dear God! eleemosynary with Thy bliss.

Jack certainly immortalized Sebastian as Alexander Panos in The Town and the City, as well as the pontifications and memories of Sabby in Vanity of Duluoz. References to Sebastian show up in Jack’s journal notes and in unexpected places. In the 30th chorus of San Francisco Blues, written in 1954 and published in 1991, he writes:

I knew an angel

In Mexico City

Call’d La Negra

Who had the same eyes

Had as Sebastian

And was reincarnated

To suffer in the poker

House rain

Who had the same eyes

As Sebastian

When his Nirvana came

Sambati was his name

Must have had one leg once

And expensive armpit canes

And traveled in the rain

With youthful hidden pain

Jack replies to a letter from Sebastian’s sister Stella in early fall of 1955 and begins a regular correspondence with her. In his first letter he discusses moving to San Francisco and tries to answer her question: “Where are we going?” He tells Stella that her family: “You romantic Sampases . . . do something, write, write poems and novels, do anything. I think you are all wonderful and of the same noble cloth as your noble brother, my friend.” The next letter to Stella from Jack, while back in San Francisco, is dated October 12, 1955:

I went to the library to pick up books on Oriental Philosophy and came up, idly, with Asvhaghosha’s Career of Buddha, or Buddha-Charita, which I read with heavy heart getting lighter every hour, rushing back to the library for more Buddhism, ending with one night, complete enlightened realization that life is like a great strange dream taking place in something (that whole blue sky) as endless as endlessness and suddenly where I saw the words “If a disciple will simply practice kindness he will immediately attain Highest Perfect Wisdom” and I saw and realized and remembered and all in a flash the sad eyes of Sebastian and why he had been born in the world to weep and to know (instinctively, intuitively) all that the great sages of old have offered and maintained for the salvation of all living creatures.

He continues in the letter to let Stella know that he has kept Sebastian’s poems safe.

So in my desk at my sister’s house 3,000 miles from here are all of Sammy’s great compassionate poems (so much like Rupert Brooke, yet also like others more recent, the great romantic heart literary-wise but the eternal true-heart truth-wise) and I will type them all up, within a year (in my ragged travels on freight trains etc.) and send you a copy, nay bring you a copy, by hand, to sweet Lowell by the river, O dark Lowell, O My Lowell.

Jack’s desk at his home in St. Petersburg, Florida, as it was when he died in 1969

Jack writes to Stella again in November 1955 and comments on her letter: “Not in years have I seen an idealistic letter such as yours - - - Since Sammy’s letters - - - Sammy who is know surely reborn a young Buddhist Saint in the East - - - (I dreamed it in 1943).” Dr. Sax came out in 1959, and in May Jack writes asking what “Lowellians think of Sax” and again brings up Sebastian’s poems, saying that he is going to “publish them in an anthology and have the check made out to you. Just to resurrect a saint. Like Joyce Kilmer was resurrected. Unless you mind.” Stella apparently asked Jack not to publish them, for later that year he writes: “Okay, won’t print Sammy’s poems . . . Later.” Jack and Stella continue to correspond discussing their families, Jack’s work, and Sebastian. In a journal page from the winter of 1961, Jack writes: “Fernand Gravet was just like Sambati Sampatacacus, the greatest man I ever knew (in a way) (lotsa men around).” In the following letter from Stella she replies to his request for some background information on Sebastian’s name.

To Jack Kerouac

From Stella Sampas

[Lowell MA]

1962 – Tuesday

Dear Jack –

I hope that you enjoyed yourself in Lowell, the place will never be the same. In answering your question on the name Sebastian that my brother Sampatis used.

While Sam was still in high school we thought of Americanizing his name although he used Samuel there. I knew of an English actor in the movies by the name of Sebastian & suggested it to him. When in college he was always taken for Jewish (no reflection on the Jewish people) but he wanted to be known of Greek descent.

Hence the name Sebastian. Incidently, [sic] his Saint’s Feast Day is on the 5th of December, St. Savas – the patron saint of Serbia.

And as my mother recites (and she recites frequently, so did my late father) St. Barbara was in labor on the 4th, St. Savas was born of the 5th and St. Nicholas baptized St. Savas on the 6th (this information is on any religious Greek calendar.)

All these Saints Feasts Days are celebrated in that order – 4-5-6- of December –

Stella

Jack writes Stella in 1963 about his new book Visions of Gerard. “Notice Sammy’s new name on the bottom paragraph of page 13 (Savas Savakis, your suggestion.) In my next book which I’ll write this winter in Germany, I’m really going to go into Savas Savakis in detail, it will be the story of world war II, the merchant marine, college, football etc. and my father and your brother the main heroes.”[54]

Jack’s and Sebastian’s letters brought out the best in both men, sharing their fears, plans, experiences, and visions. This last undated work by Jack reflects on his youth, of a time past, an introduction of sorts to a book, perhaps the Duluoz Legend.

By Jack Kerouac

A dream already ended. All you see before your eyes will not be here in seven million, million aeons. Gone already therefore. How can you believe in all this? There were adventures I had when I was nineteen that I thought I would never forget; now I see them through the wet blur, the dismal prism of lost memory, deceived memory, dying, decaying, unimportant memory. Mornings when with Sebastian I rode to Boston in backs of trucks, legs crossed over the plaster bags, smoking Saroyanish cigarettes of our early idealistic belief together, watching the black tar roads of New England wind back away from us, and Sebastian still with sleep in his eyes saying solemnly in his big deep voice, “Zagg, life is awfully, real, awfully earnest, really,” and taking a big drag. The red sun of my boyhood in New England rising over the green landscape, the fluted tunes of birdies in the mist, the slashing of my shoes across the wet grass towards downtown [.] Moody in the dawn as the mill whistles blow across the river of my birth and destiny. For I have to say “I,” and I have to say “my,” throughout this book, for sake of identification, which, dear reader, is a discriminated, arbitrary idea, alright, arbitrary idea, that will find its end of course on the other side of this sideless, non-othersided, timeless, unchronological, un-logical, mad dreamlike eternity. O this fault-sour sea of mournful samsara[55] suffering; on this ball globe earth, our morbid selfbeliefs, wild eyes; I see lawyers haggling over nothings in their morning, their hair is combed, their briefcases neat, their eyes puffy with the midnight oils, their quiddities do hang heavy on them; their skins which once were shiny tidings out of window, now, like robbed taverns, defunct and void of sheen, pasty, the candles lit and met at both ends they ate; the bushels of grain emptied into the granary of their belief in this world; this gray, drizzling world. When I was nineteen, O God America, the belief I did bring to it! The black yesses I wrote on the page; the black eyes in bars I go; the mainstreets received the imprint sorrow of my believing feet.

From the center of my living death I bring you these messages of emancipation and awakening from the dream of living.

Hark.

Jack marries Stella Sampas in 1966 and settles down back in his old home town of Lowell. Between there and St. Petersburg, Florida, he writes Vanity of Duluoz and some poetry before his death in 1969. After a life on the road traveling the world, he finds himself back in Lowell. Maybe Thomas Wolfe was wrong and you can go home again.

Jack and Stella after they were married in 1966

1. Halper (1904–84); his first major work, Union Square (1933), was a Literary Guild Selection. Sebastian was passionate about Halper’s work and often quoted the locomotive sentence.

2. A short story, published in Atop an Underwood, ed. Paul Marion (1999).

3. “Background,” written as a short autobiography in 1943 for potential employers, published in Atop an Underwood, part I, p. 3.

4. Book of Dreams, p. 207, under the heading “OLD SHIFTS TO ENTERTAIN OURSELVES.”

1. This reference can be connected to a play Kerouac writes the following summer “I Resort to Another Barroom,” published in Part II.

2. H. G. Wells (1866–1946), English author whose most popular novels were science fiction fantasy, some of which featured utopian societies.

1. Dr. Margaret Wiley, English professor at Emerson College, gave Jack some positive feedback on his early writing via Sebastian.

2. Omar Khayyam (1048–1122), Persian mathematician, astronomer, and philosopher who was not known as a poet in his lifetime. These verses lay in obscurity until 1859 when Edward Fitzgerald published a free adaptation entitled The Rubaiyat.

3. See p. 213, note 1.

4. Shakespeare, from Hamlet, Act 3, scene 1, ll. 63–6: “To die, to sleep; To sleep? Perchance to dream! aye, there’s the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil . . .”

5. Merchant Marine.

6. Saroyan’s short-story collection My Name is Aram (1940), an international bestseller.

7. The novel (1931) by Bruce Marshall (1899–1987); the story of a Benedictine monk in Scotland was adapted for the stage by Brian Doherty in 1937.

8. Sebastian echoes “vultures” used in Jack’s “Journal of an Egotist,” p. 179.

9. Sebastian’s older sister Stella.

10. Mayerling (1936), French film, starring Charles Boyer, based on the novel Idol’s End by Claude Anet, from the real-life tragedy of Hapsburg Crown Prince Rudolph and his mistress, Baroness Marie Vetsera.

11. Jan Valtin (1905–51), alias for Richard Julius Hermann Krebs, German Communist and Soviet agent during the interwar period, who defected to the United States in 1938. His autobiography, Out of the Night (1941), describes his torture by the Gestapo.

12. A popular general store with a soda fountain in Pawtucketville.

13. An old school mate from Horace Mann.

14. Antonin Dvorak (1841–1904), Czechoslovakian composer who worked in the Romantic style. He was the director of the National Conservatory in New York (1892–5), during which time he wrote and produced the Ninth Symphony From the New World.

15. Beaver Brook in Pawtucketville.

16. (1893–1961), journalist and radio broadcaster.

17. Joseph Beaulieu and Roland Salvas from Lowell.

18. From “On this day I complete my thirty-sixth year” (1824).

19. Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself,” verse 25, in Leaves of Grass (1900).

20. Probably refers to “Conversation on a Street Corner” (see pp. 274–7).

21. Although this portion of the letter, written on the backs of eleven Wolff, Fording & Co. business cards, is archived with an envelope dated October 23, 1942, by Stella Sampas and Jack Kerouac, it was written in the fall of 1941 as referenced here and p. 284. See also p. 285, note 23.

22. Wolff, Fording & Co., a theatrical department store, 46 Stuart Street, Boston.

23. William James (1842–1910), philosopher and psychologist, whose works influenced pragmatism.

24. See p. 300, and note 27.

25. Erich von Stroheim (1885–1957), Austrian-American motion-picture director, actor, and screenwriter; Alan Dinehart (1889–1944), actor who appeared in many films, 1931–44.

26. Sebastian created this part of the poem using some of his autobiography.

27. Doris (Dvari) Miller, from Lowell, attended Emerson College at the same time as Sebastian. Both he and Jack had dated her at different times, and they corresponded with her occasionally. (Sebastian had a photo of Doris and a valentine from her in his personal papers.)

1. This character appears to be based on G.J.

2. An alternate spelling for Duluoz, used in the first drafts. For Barbellion, see p. 317 and note 14.

3. Jack’s father Leo Kerouac.

4. Billy Chandler died in the Battle of Bataan in the Philippines (late 1941–early 1942).

5. Johnnie Koumantzelis, a friend of Sebastian’s from Lowell, was killed in a plane crash in New Mexico in 1944.

6. A friend from Lowell.

7. A girl Jack dated from Lowell.

8. Studied at Emerson with Sebastian.

9. P.M. Daily, a New York City tabloid (1940–48), provided detailed coverage of the war, exposés on political figures, political cartoons, and editorials. It presented an unbiased viewpoint and did not support itself through advertising.

10. William Randolph Hearst (1863–1951), newspaper tycoon who controlled a chain seventeen newspapers that expressed his views.

11. All three were playwrights: Lillian Hellman (1905–84), Robert E. Sherwood (1896–1955), and Maxwell Anderson (1888–1959).

12. All four were playwrights: Sidney Kingsley (1906–95), Clifford Odets (1906–63), Edna Ferber (1887–1968), and George S. Kaufman (1889–1961).

13. Mark Van Doren (1894–1972), poet, critic, and editor, was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1940.

14. Wilhelm Nero Pilate Barbellion (1889–1919), pseudonym of Bruce Frederick Cummings, English diarist.

15. A fellow shipmate of Jack’s on the Dorchester.

16. Cf. John Keats (1795–1821), “Alone and palely loitering” in “La Belle Dame Sans Merci” (1819).

17. Fort Devens, U.S. Army base located near Ayer, MA.

18. John MacDonald.

19. Carolyn (Nin), Jack’s sister older by two years.

20. Officers Candidate School.

21. Family surname before it was shortened.

22. Thorstein Bunde Veblen (1857–1929), economist and social scientist, notable for his analysis of the American economic system and coined the phrase, in Theory of the Leisure Class (1899), “conspicuous consumption.”

23. A friend from Lowell who was attending Boston College.

24. Jack dated Norma Blickfelt in 1942 while he was living in New York City.

25. Some top stories in P.M. during February 1943 were: “Meat Rationing in 60 Days,” “Russians Chasing Nazis Far Beyond Kharkov,” “Blue Network Relaxes Winchell Gag,” “4th Term for FDR?,” and “Should Japan Be Destroyed?”

26. Alfred Kazin (1915–98), one of the many literary critics who had embraced the New Criticism movement.

27. Joseph Curran (1906–81) merchant seaman, labor union leader, and founding president of the National Maritime Union.

28. Louise Levitas-Henriksen (1912-97), freelance magazine and newspaper journalist; daughter of the novelist and early feminist Anzia Yezierska.

29. By Oscar James Campbell.

30. John Reed (1887–1920), journalist who became a hero to radical U.S. intellectuals. His best-known work, Ten Days That Shook the World (1919), is an eyewitness account of the Bolshevik Revolution. On his return to the U.S.A. he was to be indicted for sedition, but escaped to Russia where he died and was buried at the Kremlin.

31. Jack’s journal dated March 4, 1943, makes passionate comments on his hopes for the novel: “I shall finish this book, this work of art, despite all the odds that the world may pit me – I shall work! work!”

32. Francis James Westbrook Pegler (1894–1969), journalist, writer, and Pulitzer Prize recipient (1941), known for his hateful rhetoric.

33. Nin was in the WAC (Women’s Army Corps); over 150,000 women served during World War II.

34. Lieutenant General Brehon Burke Somervell had been put in charge of the Army’s new supply services in the summer of 1942. He appeared on the cover of Time on June 15, 1942, with the caption “Front No. 2 is his Problem No. 1.”

35. Rouben Mamoulian (1897–1987), film and theater director.

36. Jack refers to Sebastian’s working title for a novel, on July 31st, in his journal “Voyage to Greenland”: “Oh, where the Prince, and his familiar cry: ‘In the morning, brothers, sympathy!’ – about 1800 miles astern . . . . but only two feet asoul.”

37. Bill Everhart is a character from The Sea is My Brother.

38. Vincent Sheean (1899–1975), journalist and novelist, most famous for Personal History (1935).

39. Mohandas Karamchand (Mahatma) Gandhi and Jawaharlal Nehru, political leaders of India.

40. Sir Hugh Walpole (1884–41), first lines of “Fortitude.”

41. William Ernest Henley (1849–1903), “Invictus”: “. . . I have not winced nor cried aloud . . .”

42. Sonnet 29: “When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries . . .”

43. George Santayana (1863–1952), “O world, thou choosest not the better part!” (1894).

44. Alfred Edward Housman (1859–1936); quote is likely adapted from Shropshire Lad, XLVIII, which begins “Be still, my soul, be still.”

45. The two-seat World War II German ground-attack aircraft became a symbolic image in their military propaganda.

46. Oswald Spengler (1880–1936), Decline of the West, Volumes I and II (1918, 1920). Sebastian is paraphrasing from both volumes throughout this letter.

47. Theological concepts taught by or ascribed to St. Peter.

48. Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 7, ll. 139–40: “All the world’s a stage, / And all the men and women merely players . . .”

49. Point of Entry.

50. William Saroyan’s The Human Comedy (1943), quoted with some minor variations from Marcus’s letter in the book, from the frontlines of World War II.

51. On the speaker’s side of the Atlantic Ocean.

52. Refers to Finland, the Finnish language, or the Finnish machine gun (Suomi M-31 SMG).

53. The evacuation of British and Allied troops from Dunkerque, France, May 26 to June 4, 1940.

54. Most likely Vanity of Duluoz (1968), which contains the most personal stories about Jack’s father, Sebastian, and that period of his life.

55. In Hinduism and Buddhism, this is the eternal cycle of birth, suffering, death, and rebirth.

Acknowledgements

There are no words that can truly express my gratitude for the inspiration that Jack Kerouac has given me as a writer and an artist. His poetic-soul-searching genius has shown me that the creative process is the spirit of art.

My deepest thanks to John Sampas, Jack’s brother-in-law and Sebastian’s younger brother, who has honored Jack in his role as the Literary Executor of the Kerouac Estate for many years. When I first met John Sampas in 1994 while working on the Beat Generation conference at New York University, I was still a Ph.D. student. He impressed me as someone who was deeply committed to preserving the work of the Beat Generation and in particular Jack Kerouac. The following year NYU honored Jack with his own conference, “The Writings of Jack Kerouac,” and I was fortunate to have another opportunity to spend more time with John.

In the years following, as I finished my dissertation on the working methods of the Beat Generation writers and the Abstract Expressionist painters, I found John to be an avid supporter of young scholars like myself who made the pilgrimage to Lowell every October to celebrate Jack’s work. John welcomed us and shared so much of Jack’s hometown and his spirit with us as we visited the various homes that Jack lived in, the neighborhoods that inspired such works as Doctor Sax, the beautiful commemorative to Jack, the grotto, and his grave site. I want to express my deep appreciation for the opportunity to edit such an important seminal work, The Sea is My Brother. John’s diligent efforts in organizing Jack’s archive are one of the reason’s we are blessed with so much information about his life and literary works.

Many thanks to Dr. Ed Adler, whose class at NYU “Art and Ideas: The Fifties” introduced me to Beat Literature. Ed has been an inspiration for me with his vast array of talents as a painter, poet, writer, teacher and musician, but mostly in his true zest for life. I also want to extend my appreciation to David Amram, whose tireless efforts to inspire young people to read Jack’s work deserves recognition. His gift of musicianship and his love of Jack’s work have inspired so many.

I want to thank Sterling Lord for his help in making this book a reality, for he is and always has been Jack’s champion. His insights and experiences are invaluable to the process. Thanks to NYU, especially Helen Kelly and Ron Janoff, for supporting the conferences that became the center for an intellectual resurgence for Beat scholarship. To the writers and poets without whom there would be no discussion at all. William Saroyan, Albert Halper and Thomas Wolfe among so many others, who were the inspirational forces that brought out the best in Jack and Sebastian.

I want to thank my very supportive family, David and his children Cassandra and Jonathan. David Orr, a native of Lowell and a fan of Kerouac, has shared my literary and scholarly interests throughout the years. His insights were very helpful in compiling this collection. To my father, who gave me a great deal of strength and perseverance, and my mother, who shared with me her passion for the arts and her love of jazz; their unconditional support has been a tremendous gift of love. Lastly to the many friends that I have met along the way: you are the fuel that feeds the creative fire.

D. M. W.

DAWN WARD has a Ph.D. from New York University and was recently awarded a Seminar Fellowship in Art History at the High Museum in Atlanta, Georgia. She served on the organizational committees for the Beat Generation and Kerouac Conferences at NYU in 1994 and 1995 and has lectured and presented her research on the Beats at UMASS Lowell and the University of Louisiana. She is currently a Professor of Art History and Design at Becker College in Massachusetts.

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