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Week of 7 December 2001 · Vol. V, No. 16
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How Special Collections archival holdings tell the story of our time

Journal of beat poet Holmes recalls friendship, death of Jack Kerouac

Beat. The word was once used by African-Americans to mean exhausted and broke, and by jazz musicians and hustlers to describe being down and out. Being beat, the poet Allen Ginsberg once said, meant being "exhausted, at the bottom of the world, looking up or out, sleepless, wide-eyed, perceptive, rejected by society, on your own, streetwise."

 
  Jack Kerouac. Photo from the John Clellon Holmes Collection
 

In 1949, novelist Jack Kerouac coined the term beat generation; the phrase became freighted with meaning for American culture. And it acquired glamour. The black jazzman's word for the broken and defeated was appropriated by young white boys with an attitude -- a close circle of writing friends that included Kerouac, poet Allen Ginsberg, author William S. Burroughs II, and poet-novelist John Clellon Holmes. It was in a conversation with Holmes, whose journal is in Special Collections, that Kerouac came up with the phrase beat generation; it is because of Holmes that Americans learned what the beat generation was all about, even though beat writer Holmes never achieved the popularity enjoyed by the others.

Holmes felt that Kerouac's stories "seemed to be describing a new sort of stance toward reality, behind which a new sort of consciousness lay," and he urged Kerouac to try to define it in a phrase or two.

"Holmes and I were sitting around trying to think up the meaning of the Lost Generation's subsequent existentialism," Kerouac said in an interview with Playboy in June 1959. "And I said, 'You know, this is really a beat generation,' and he [Holmes] leapt up and said, 'That's it, that's right!'"
Holmes took notes during that conversation with Kerouac and published the conversation 18 years later in his book Nothing More to Declare (1967):

Kerouac spoke of 'all the junkies, musicians, collegians, sailors, con men, teenage Raskolnikovs, parking lot hipsters and their rootless willing girls,' and of 'stories rich and chaotic with life's improvisations; stories that seemed to be describing a new sort of stance towards reality, a sort of furtiveness, a kind of beatness.' He went on to say, 'We all really know who we are, we feel a weariness with all the forms, all the conversations of the world, so I guess you might say we're a beat generation.'

 

 




Holmes (1926-1988) met Kerouac in 1948 while both were attending Columbia University. He had begun publishing his poetry and had written The Daybreak Boys, which was later retitled Go (1952). Unlike some of the other literary beat figures, Holmes was not into drugs or drinking. But he was interested in the literary movement he and his fellow writers were generating and became well-known for his article "This Is the Beat Generation," published in the New York Times Magazine on November 16, 1952:

The wild boys of today are not lost. Their flushed, often scoffing, always intent faces elude the word, and it would sound phony to them. For this generation conspicuously lacks that eloquent air of bereavement which made so many of the exploits of the Lost Generation symbolic actions. Furthermore, the repeated inventory of shattered ideals, and the laments about the mud in moral currents, which so obsessed the Lost Generation, does not concern young people today. They take it frighteningly for granted. They were brought up in these ruins and no longer notice them. They drink to 'come down' or 'get high,' not to illustrate anything. Their excursions into drugs or promiscuity come out of curiosity, not disillusionment.

 

 




 


By 1952, thanks to Holmes, the term beat began to appear in the mainstream, and San Francisco became the hub of the movement. In 1957, Kerouac's On the Road, which had existed in manuscript form for a decade, finally hit the streets. A subset of beat included the hobo, the traveling man, and the train jumper. One thing all the beats were addicted to was motion -- motion anywhere: Route 66, Mexico, Tangiers. On the Road was Kerouac's cataloguing of America as it appeared to him from aboard a Greyhound bus or in the passenger seat of a stolen or borrowed car (an earlier car accident had permanently deterred him from ever driving).

The book, which became a testament for the beat generation, brought Kerouac -- now known as the king of the beats -- a fame he could not handle. Playboy, Esquire, Time, Life, and television, as well as hordes of male and female groupies, all wanted a piece of him; he retreated into the blur of alcohol.

Holmes and Kerouac remained close friends until Kerouac's death from alcoholism in 1969, and Holmes' journal entries reveal how devastated he was by the loss of his friend. On October 25, 1969, having returned only a day or so before from Kerouac's funeral, he writes,

Having had, finally, a private little weep & toot last night, during which he started to die for me, I'll put down some account of it all.

Down to New Haven on Wednesday for [Allen] Ginsberg's reading there: clear high skies of blue, the trees turned just in the last days to full autumn, and the afternoon before (walking the news into me) I'd thought it was some poetic consolation that Jack had gone away in October, his favorite month, and so I looked at everything closely -- it was a yellow & gold & red New England day, with a snap in the air. . . .

He tried to find his fame, himself, in corner saloons in towns most writers never go to. It hurts this head to even imagine the waste to him of those nights, the only fun he had -- shit! something did go wrong -- not only with him, not only with us. Something went wrong that a man should be keened in a hundred barrooms because he felt he had no other place to go. . . .

I didn't want to look at him, at whatever some mortician had thought to fashion of what was left of him, but knew I would. . . Anyway, up I went, not wanting too [sic], scared I'd be revolted, scared it would all crash in on me if I had to see that face, and through the dark, moving shoulders, I saw him. Laid out in the flowers, in the proscribed attitude of peaceful sleep, hands folded with rosary entwined, in a yellow shirt, a natty bow-tie, and a sport-jacket! (No need to say no one ever saw him that way since he was Harcourt-Brace's soulful young Thomas Wolfe damn near twenty-years ago.) And the face? Made to look as peaceful as a babe, the brows slightly knotted but with perplex rather than pain, the mouth not his mouth at all, the color pale pink (Jack's sweaty, creased, florid, fleshy face), thin and boyish, choir-boyish (and Jack was once choir-boyish allright [sic], but this was a prissy, I'm-allright [sic]-Jack Jack, no Jack I ever knew, waxen, calm, manniken-like [sic] . . . . still holding myself together (whereas what's to be lost by admitting loss?), all this brought the beginnings of tears up into my eyes, tears for his flesh, can you believe, just that. For his flesh; he wouldn't walk, he wouldn't come into my house again yelling like a banshee and grinning. Just that. The body dies and, despite heaven or grace or existentialism, we do go through a moment when, this side of the void, we mourn the flesh itself, the inexplicable absence in the flesh that renders it nothing. . . .

[October 27]. Then there was a rush to grab flowers and put them on the casket . . . I went up and took a white rose that lay about, and put it over the part where perhaps his head was, I didn't know, I wanted white rather than red (he'd become pure at last, after all; that is, all the compassionate dense involvement was over for him, the knotted forehead of meanings no longer necessary, the strange odyssey of conscious life had found its end, he was purely himself now, he was gone, all the contention & sorrow & questions remained with us), and I wanted a white flower to rest on his head. . . .

We drove home without a break through a sweet, gathering dusk of reds & golds, the sinking sun drawing the sap up into the last of the day, that apple-tang of late autumn elusive as distant leaf-smoke in the air. . . .

Jack knew that writing was a vow, and he knew to what it testified. And now he's gone in October, but it's no less true.


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 


The Department of Special Collections at Boston University, located in the Mugar Memorial Library, is one of the largest repositories of documents, memorabilia, and books chronicling the lives and careers of important writers, artists, performers, and public figures of the past century. The collection, which was started in 1963, includes archival material and rare books dating back to the 16th century. Contemporary archives now contain private papers and artifacts of 1,700 notable 20th-century figures.

These vast holdings offer a rich portrait of our time -- a living history as revealed through the accomplishments and passions of the century's great thinkers, politicians, and personalities -- as well as provide a rich source of research material for future articles, dissertations, and books of history and scholarship. Individual collections include manuscripts and typescripts in all states and drafts, galleys, notes, notebooks, journals, diaries, scrapbooks, reviews, photographs, and personal and professional correspondence, as well as various editions of published works.

       

7 December 2001
Boston University
Office of University Relations