|—||Charles Bukowski, The Continual Condition|
I hit the road with only my thumb and a beat-up Olivetti typewriter. I didn’t know what I was looking for- God, love, death, kicks. I knew I needed to go and never stop going. My head bent to the railroad earth. I wandered forth into the electric negro dawn. Cold water flats and boxcars booming through cities. Cleveland, Davenport, Denver, and the sound of mad jazz piercing through back alleys and flophouses. New adventures and miles between desire and hope- desire and hope spread out like one long ribbon across the land, engines into the madness. Charlie Parker with his “doo doo tu roo”. Miles and Dizz. Old Al Bevins cracked his skull on the Wabash El in cold downtown Chicago quivering like a madman, laughing under the noise and the clang of all that American music. Fixing and shooting in gloom shadows, like innocent angels in supplication. Wither and hither I went, like a nomad lost on the desert of no self. A moving dynamo slipping through the fog. Always, “Hey, man, go!” and “Where’s it at?” And too often, the search for love in loveless love dens where loveless girls not even acquainted with love or Buddha or Karl Marx or Hume leave love behind for kicks and commerce.
One night the sad old moon hung over the Golden Gate Bridge like Dick Powell in some Hollywood musical. I was out in the dark bay mist, down in Sausalito on Big Jim Lardner’s boat, Dexter Gordon wailing on the radio, when moon-faced Dick Powell opened up to me and asked me if I knew who I was, really knew the essential soul within. Dick Powell, I’ll always see your pictures for that.
|—||Devon Morehouse (Tobey Maguire), The Spoils of Babylon (Kicking the Habit)|
A look in my dream house.
Looking back, one of the best novels I reread last year was The Plague by Albert Camus