Once, a book by Jack Kerouac he wrote in 1958 about love and how he, Leo Percepied, was young and drunk in love back then with a young black woman named Mardou Fox, bohemian goddess, poet, in love with poets, who tore him apart, left him for a poet; it's New York, Greenwich Village, or at least it's supposed to be, though he calls it San Francisco, back in the day, in the 50's, of the beat generation - he stole the name from Allen Ginsberg, who was a poet and a friend of his who named those living in the village the Subterraneans, who said "They are hip without being slick, they are intelligent without being corny, they are intellectual as hell and know all about Pound without being pretentious or talking too much about it, they are very quiet, they are very Christlike - gave him the recipe for the book, part Dostoevsky and part Joyce, a good part Benzedrine spilled on a roll of teletype over the course of three days, three nights; he finished it when he came down.

Stream of Consciousness, dig it?

Log in or registerto write something here or to contact authors.