The Classic Collection of Jack Kerouac. Illustrated : On the Road, The Dharma Bums, Doctor Sax, Maggie Cassidy, Book of Dreams and others , livre ebook

Andrii Ponomarenko - Kerouac Jack

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1866 pages

English

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Jean-Louis Lebris de Kérouac, known as Jack Kerouac, was an American novelist and poet who, alongside William S. Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg, was a pioneer of the Beat Generation.
Of French-Canadian ancestry, Kerouac was raised in a French-speaking home in Lowell, Massachusetts. He "learned English at age six and spoke with a marked accent into his late teens." During World War II, he served in the United States Merchant Marine; he completed his first novel at the time, which was published more than 40 years after his death. His first published book was The Town and the City (1950), and he achieved widespread fame and notoriety with his second, On the Road, in 1957. It made him a beat icon, and he went on to publish 12 more novels and numerous poetry volumes.
CONTENTS:
The Novels
The Town and the City (1950)
On the Road (1957)
The Dharma Bums (1958)
Doctor Sax (1959)
Maggie Cassidy (1959)
Book of Dreams (1960)
Big Sur (1962)
Visions of Gerard (1963)
Desolation Angels (1965)
Vanity of Duluoz (1968)
Visions of Cody (1972)
The Novellas
The Subterraneans (1958)
Tristessa (1960)
Satori in Paris (1966)
Pic (1971)
The Poetry
Mexico City Blues (1959)
The Scripture of the Golden Eternity (1960)
Old Angel Midnight (1973)
The Non-Fiction
Lonesome Traveler (1960)

Sujets

Classics

Fiction

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Publié par	Andrii Ponomarenko
Date de parution	21 avril 2023
Nombre de lectures	7
EAN13	9786178289461
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0050€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Classic Collection of Jack Kerouac
On the Road, The Dharma Bums, Doctor Sax, Maggie Cassidy, Book of Dreams and others
Illustrated
Jean-Louis Lebris de Kérouac, known as Jack Kerouac, was an American novelist and poet who, alongside William S. Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg, was a pioneer of the Beat Generation.
Of French-Canadian ancestry, Kerouac was raised in a French-speaking home in Lowell, Massachusetts. He "learned English at age six and spoke with a marked accent into his late teens." During World War II, he served in the United States Merchant Marine; he completed his first novel at the time, which was published more than 40 years after his death. His first published book was The Town and the City (1950), and he achieved widespread fame and notoriety with his second, On the Road, in 1957. It made him a beat icon, and he went on to publish 12 more novels and numerous poetry volumes.

CONTENTS:

The Novels
The Town and the City (1950)
On the Road (1957)
The Dharma Bums (1958)
Doctor Sax (1959)
Maggie Cassidy (1959)
Book of Dreams (1960)
Big Sur (1962)
Visions of Gerard (1963)
Desolation Angels (1965)
Vanity of Duluoz (1968)
Visions of Cody (1972)

The Novellas
The Subterraneans (1958)
Tristessa (1960)
Satori in Paris (1966)
Pic (1971)

The Poetry
Mexico City Blues (1959)
The Scripture of the Golden Eternity (1960)
Old Angel Midnight (1973)

The Non-Fiction
Lonesome Traveler (1960)
Table of Contents
The Novels
The Town and the City (1950)
On the Road (1957)
The Dharma Bums (1958)
Doctor Sax (1959)
Maggie Cassidy (1959)
Book of Dreams (1960)
Big Sur (1962)
Visions of Gerard (1963)
Desolation Angels (1965)
Vanity of Duluoz (1968)
Visions of Cody (1972)
The Novellas
The Subterraneans (1958)
Tristessa (1960)
Satori in Paris (1966)
Pic (1971)
The Poetry
Mexico City Blues (1959)
The Scripture of the Golden Eternity (1960)
Old Angel Midnight (1973)
The Non-Fiction
Lonesome Traveler (1960)
Publisher: Andrii Ponomarenko © Ukraine - Kyiv 2023
ISBN: 978-617-8289-46-1
The Novels
The Town and the City (1950)
TO R. G.
FRIEND AND EDITOR
CHAPTER 1
1
THE TOWN IS Galloway. The Merrimac River, broad and placid, flows down to it from the New Hampshire hills, broken at the falls to make frothy havoc on the rocks, foaming on over ancient stone towards a place where the river suddenly swings about in a wide and peaceful basin, moving on now around the flank of the town, on to places known as Lawrence and Haverhill, through a wooded valley, and on to the sea at Plum Island, where the river enters an infinity of waters and is gone. Somewhere far north of Galloway, in headwaters close to Canada, the river is continually fed and made to brim out of endless sources and unfathomable springs.
The little children of Galloway sit on the banks of the Merrimac and consider these facts and mysteries. In the wild echoing misty March night, little Mickey Martin kneels at his bedroom window and listens to the river’s rush, the distant barking of dogs, the soughing thunder of the falls, and he ponders the wellsprings and sources of his own mysterious life.
The grownups of Galloway are less concerned with riverside broodings. They work — in factories, in shops and stores and offices, and on the farms all around. The textile factories built in brick, primly towered, solid, are ranged along the river and the canals, and all night the industries hum and shuttle. This is Galloway, milltown in the middle of fields and forests.
If at night a man goes out to the woods surrounding Galloway, and stands on a hill, he can see it all there before him in broad panorama: the river coursing slowly in an arc, the mills with their long rows of windows all a-glow, the factory stacks rising higher than the church steeples. But he knows that this is not the true Galloway. Something in the invisible brooding landscape surrounding the town, something in the bright stars nodding close to a hillside where the old cemetery sleeps, something in the soft swishing treeleaves over the fields and stone walls tells him a different story.
He looks at the names in the old cemetery: “Williams … Thompson … LaPlanche … Smith … McCarthy … Tsotakos.” He feels the slow deep pulsing of the river of life. A dog barks on the farm a mile away, the wind whispers over the old stones and in the trees. Here is the recorded inscription of long slow living and long-remembered death. John L. McCarthy, remembered as a man with white hair who walked down the road in meditation at dusk; old Tsotakos, who lived and worked and died, whose sons continue to work the land not far from the cemetery; Robert Thompson — bend near and read the dates, “Born 1901, died 1905” — the child who drowned three decades ago in the river; Harry W. Williams, the storekeeper’s son who died in the Great War in 1918 whose old sweetheart, now the mother of eight children, is still haunted by his long lost face; Tony LaPlanche, who molders by the old wall. There are old people, living and still remembering, who could tell you so much about the dead of Galloway.
As for the living, walk down the hillside towards the quiet streets and houses of Galloway’s suburbs — you will hear the river’s ever-soughing rush — and pass beneath the leafy trees, the streetlamps, along the grass yards and dark porches, the wooden fences. Somewhere at the end of the street there’s a light, and intersections leading to the three bridges of Galloway that bring you into the heart of the town itself and to the shadow of the mill walls. Follow along to the center of the town, the Square, where at noon everybody knows everybody else. Look around now and see the business of the town deserted in haunted midnight: the five-and-ten, the two or three department stores, the groceries and soda fountains and drugstores, the bars, the movie theaters, the auditorium, the dance hall, the poolrooms, the Chamber of Commerce building, the City Hall and the Public Library.
Wait around for the morning, for the time when the Real Estate offices come to life, when lawyers raise the windowshades and the sun floods into dusty offices. See these men standing at windows, on which their names are written in gold letters, nodding down at the street when other townsmen walk by. Wait for the busses to come around laden with working people who cough and scowl and hurry to the cafeteria for another cup of coffee. The traffic cop stations himself in the middle of the Square, nodding to a car which toots at him jovially; a wellknown politician crosses the street with the bright sun on his white hair; the local newspaper columnist comes sleepily to the cigar store and greets the clerk. Here are a few farmers in trucks buying up supplies and groceries and transacting a little business. At ten o’clock the women come in armies, with shopping bags, their children trailing alongside. The bars open, men gulp a morning beer, the bartender mops the mahogany, there’s a smell of clean soap, beer, old wood, and cigar smoke. At the railroad station the express going down to Boston puffs shooting clouds of steam around the old brown turrets of the depot building, the streetguards descend majestically to stop traffic as the bell rings and jangles, people rush for the Boston train. It’s morning and Galloway comes to life.
Out on the hillside, by the cemetery, the rosy sun slants in through the elm leaves, a fresh breeze blows through the soft grass, the stones gleam in the morning light, there’s the odor of loam and grass — and it’s a joy to know that life is life and death is death.
These are the things that closely surround the mills and the business of Galloway, that make it a town rooted in earth in the ancient pulse of life and work and death, that make its people townspeople and not city people.
Start from the center of town in the sunny afternoon, from Daley Square, and walk up River Street where all the traffic is converged, pass the bank, the Galloway High School and the Y.M.C.A., and move on up till private residences begin to appear. Leaving the business district behind, the great factory walls are barely within reach to the left and to the right of the business district. Along the river is a quiet street with a few sedate funeral homes, an orphanage, brick mansions of a sort, and the bridges that leap across to the suburbs, where most of the people of Galloway live. Cross the bridge known as the White Bridge, swooping right over the Merrimac Falls, and pause for a moment to view the prospect. Citywards there is one more bridge, the wide smooth basin where the river turns, and beyond that a faroff flank of land thickly populated. Look away from the city, over the frothing falls, and see into misty reaches that include New Hampshire, an expanse of green placid land and calm water. There are the railroad tracks running along the river, a few water tanks and sidings, but the rest is all wooded. The far side of the river presents a highway dotted with roadhouses and roadside stands, and a return gaze from upriver reveals the suburbs thick with rooftops and trees. Cross the bridge to these suburbs, and turn upriver, along the flank of populations, along the highway, and there is a narrow black tar road leading off inland.
This is old Galloway Road. Just where it rises, before dipping once more into pine forests and farmlands, lies a concentration of houses sedately spaced off from one another — a residence of ivied stone, the house of a judge; a whitewashed old house with round wooden pillars on the porch — this is a dairy farm, there are cows in the field beyond; and one rambling Victorian house with a battered gray look, a high hedgerow all around, trees huge and leafy that almost obscure the front of the house, a hammock on the old porch, and a disheveled backyard with a garage and a barn and an old wooden swing.
This last house is the home of the Martin family.
From the top of the highe