Thats right, man, now youre talking. And a kind of
Holy lightning I saw flashing from his excitement and his visions, which he described so torrentially that people in buses looked around to see the overexcited nut. In the West he had spent a third of his time in the poolhall, a third of his time in jail, and a third of his time in the public library. Theyd seen him, rushing eagerly down the winter streets, bareheaded, carrying books to the poolhall, or climbing trees to get into the attics of buddies where he spent days reading or hiding from the law. 1955 J ack Kerouac
from On the Road
"Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life."
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars..." -- "On The Road
We turned off the Avenue up the Rue des Pyramides, through the traffic of the Rue de Rivoli, and through a dark gate in to the Tuileries. She cuddled against me and I put my arm around her. She looked up to be kissed. She touched me with one hand and I put her hand away. Never mind. Whats the matter? You sick? Yes. Everybodys sick. Im sick, too.
1926 Ernest Hemingway from The Sun Also Rises We kissed again on the stairs and as I called for the cordon the concierge muttered something behind her door. I went back upstairs and from the open window watched Brett walking up the street to the big limosine drawn up to the curb under the arclight. She got in and it started off. I turned around. On the table was an empty glass and a glass half-full of brandy and soda. I took them both out to the kitchen and poured the half-full glass down the sink. I turned off the gas in the dining room, kicked off my slippers sitting on the bed, and got into bed. This was Brett, that I had felt like crying about. Then I thought of her walking up the street and stepping into the car, as I had last seen her, and of course in a little while I felt like hell again. It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing. TSAR p. 34 Painting of Hemingway as Kid Balzac By artist pal Waldo Pierce Joey Perrone leaned back and turned her draped face toward the fading light. The sky out there, I bet its all pink and gold. God, I must look like a horror with this blindfold. Is Chaz your first husband? Second. The first one died. She added quickly: In an accident. That sucks. He was a stockbroker. Chaz is a biologist. Stranahan said, The no-see-ums are chewing you up. Lets go back inside. Funny, the only time my eyes really hurt is when I cry, she said. If only I could stop. Come on, take my hand. No, I like it out here. The bugs dont bother me. Joey gave a defiant sniffle. And, listen, its not that s.o.b. Chaz Perrone that Im bawling about. Im ninety- nine percent sure I didnt even love him anymore. 2004 Carl Hiassen from Skinny Dip
Though perhaps not an artist of literary merit Carl Hiaasen did actually win the Newberry Honor Award for his childrens book Hoot. He could see the street down which he had come, and the other street, the one which had almost betrayed him; and further away and at right angles, the far bright rampart of the town itself, and in the angle between the black pit from which he had fled with drumming heart and glaring lips. No light came from it, from here no breath, no odor. It just lay there, black, impenetrable, in its garland of Augusttremulous lights. It may have been the original quarry, abyss itself. 1932 William Faulkner from Light in August
Good morning, old sport. Youre having lunch with me today and I thought wed ride up together. He was balancing himself on the dashboard of his car with that resourcefulness of movement that is so peculiarly American that comes, I suppose, with the absence of lifting work or rigid sitting in youth and, even more with the formless grace of our nervous, sporadic games. This quality was constantly breaking through his punctilious manner in the shape of restlessness. He was never quite still; there was always a tapping foot somewhere or the impatient opening and closing of a hand. He saw me looking with admiration at his car. Its pretty isnt it, old sport? He jumped off to give me a better view. 1925 F. Scott Fitzgerald from The Great Gatsby Henry came banging out of the door, shoving his tie inside his vest as he came. Elisa stiffended and her face grew tight. Henry stopped short and looked at her, Whywhy, Elisa. You look so nice! Nice? You think I look nice? What do you mean by nice? Henry blundered on, I dont know. I mean you look different, strong and happy. I am strong? Yes, strong. What do you mean strong? He looked bewildered. Youre playing some kind of game, he said helplessly. Its a kind of a play. You look strong enough to break a calf over your knee, happy enough to eat it like a watermelon. For a second she lost her rigidity. Henry! Dont talk like that. You didnt know what you said. She grew complete again. Im strong, she boasted, I never knew before how strong. 1937 John Steinbeck from The Chrysanthemums