![]() ![]() His next book-working title: Gone on the Road-had been trapped in a state of unbecoming.įrom the November 1998 issue: In the Kerouac archive with Douglas Brinkleyīut now, suddenly, he was getting somewhere. Despite great efforts and grave auto-examinations, it wasn’t happening: false starts, loose ends, quarreling selves. From the very start we were brothers.” Cassady at the time was supporting a young family by working as a brakeman on the Southern Pacific Railroad Kerouac was in retreat, annoying his new wife, Joan brooding over the poor sales of his big, Thomas Wolfean debut novel, The Town and the City trying and failing to find a new voice/style/idiom/rhythm in which to project his own experience, and the flavor of his distinctly bruised consciousness, more immediately onto the page. “The time has come for me to write a full confession of my life to you,” Jack Kerouac typed thunderously to Neal Cassady in December 1950, in the first of a sequence of massive, rumbling-and-rolling autobiographical letters, steeped in memory and mystery, that he would mail from Queens, New York, to San Francisco. ![]() Check out more from this issue and find your next story to read. ![]()
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