2021跨年文案唯美句子 第1篇
1、去年陪着你跨年的人，现在又在谁身旁信誓旦旦。
2、喝着孤独的酒，吹着自由的风，等一个没有归期的人，在余生里做着只有自己的梦。
3、新年愿望：雪花变成爆米花，有人赚钱给我花。
4、你害怕发生的事情，其实根本不用担心，因为它一定会如期而至，也一定会如期离去。
5、希望2021年可以幸运一点！
6、对自己狠一点，逼自己努力，再过几年你将会感谢今天发狠的自己。努力过后，才知道许多事情，坚持坚持，就过来了，再见2020，你好2021。
7、我以为我真心去喜欢一个人，他就会被我的真心打动，但我却不知道，真心被打动的只有自己罢了。
8、跟我一起跨年吧，最好跨过以后的每一年。
9、腿长的是跨年，腿短的叫蹦年；有对象的是跨年，没对象的叫熬夜。我就不一样了，我是蹦着熬夜。
10、时间会慢慢沉淀，有些人会在你心底慢慢模糊。学会放手，你的幸福需要自己的成全。
11、去年陪你跨年的人现在还在吗？
12、新年快乐，感谢有你，未来我与你同在。
13、去过的地方越多，越知道自己想回什么地方去。见过的人越多，越知道自己真正想待在什么人身边。
14、跨年，有对象的才叫跨年，没对象的叫熬夜。
15、世界太大*好范文网 *还是遇见了你，世界太小还是弄丢了你。
16、你是否有一个十分想念却不敢联系的人，放不下又不能打扰，深爱着却不再纠缠。
17、希望高三的你们，一路惊喜，马声蹄蹄。
18、别和往事过不去，因为它已经过去；别和现实过不去，因为你还要过下去。
19、我在纠结是睡到明年，还是等到明年再睡。
20、往后余生，都有你这个可爱的小朋友。
21、辞旧迎新，爱之所爱。
22、我以为你很爱我，我以为你不会离开我，我以为你会带我回家，我没败给你，只是败给了我以为。
23、祝过年不给我发红包的人今年都横着长。
24、我喜欢你，未经允许擅自特别喜欢你。
25、我送你一支口红吧，然后你每天还我点，这样就两不相欠啦。
26、还有364天就要跨年了，回想起上一次跨年，仿佛就在昨天一样在这里，我提前祝大家新年快乐。
27、从此只有微笑，不会有心痛的存在。我会努力让自己一生快乐，辜负所有让我痛的人。
28、别让爱你的人伤了心，东西坏了可以修，衣服破了可以补，人心一旦凉了，就捂不热了。
29、今年布置的作业估计要做到明年了！
30、和同学们约好了，三十晚上，一边看春晚，一边烧寒假作业取暖。
31、一个人的夜，一个人的生活，一个人在亵渎寂寞，一个人在独自悲伤。我的世界只有我一个，主角是我，配角依然。
32、努力努力再努力，希望明年五月份实现！期待2021年的到来。
33、眼看就要2021了，可是我还有好多话来不及跟你说呢。
34、累的时候抱抱自己，哭的时候哄哄自己，身边不可能无时无刻有一个人陪着你宠着你，要学会自己心疼自己。
35、我喜欢你就像是烟火升空，会在心里每一个小地方，都绽放小小的烟花，在心里噼里啪啦的炸开。
36、你们一起跨年吧！我就不跨了。我怕我一跨就跨到2037年。
37、您好，您的霉运已清理完成，请点赞确认。
38、不畏将来，不念过往，人间一趟，看见太阳。
39、过年我最害怕，我客气推掉你的红包，你却信以为真。
40、你们都把手里的活放一下，准备准备一下我的跨年礼物。
2021跨年文案唯美句子 第2篇
垮掉的一代是第二次世界大战后风行于美国的文学流派，被视为后现代主义文学的一个重要分支，也是美国文学历史上的重要流派之一。该流派的作家都是性格粗犷豪放、落拓不羁的男女青年，他们生活简单、不修边幅，喜穿奇装异服，厌弃工作和学业，对社会的一切都抱有背道而驰的态度，他们以浪迹天涯为乐，蔑视社会的法纪秩序。“垮掉的一代”实际上是“迷惘的一代”的对照。海明威在小说《太阳依旧升起》中塑造了“迷惘的一代”（Lost Generation），这个称谓来自美国著名作家斯泰因为《太阳依旧升起》题的一句词——“你们是迷惘的一代”。“迷惘的一代”指的是第一次世界大战后成长起来的年轻人（包括海明威在内），他们之所以对生活失去信念是由于战争的创伤，但他们并未因此而失去对人性的渴望。
“Beat Generation”——“垮掉的一代”又称为“疲惫的一代”。最早是由作家杰克·凯鲁亚克于1948年前后提出，“beat”一词有“疲惫”或“潦倒”之意，而凯鲁亚克赋予其新的含义“欢腾”或“幸福”，和音乐中“节拍”的概念联结在一起。
“垮掉的一代”对后世的西方文化产生了深远的影响，被文化研究学者们看作是第一支真正意义上的后现代“亚文化”。“垮掉派”作家并不是战后实验性文学创作的唯一实践者。许多其他小流派也参与了这一活动，包括：“愤怒的青年”（战后出现在英国的一个流派，人们经常将其和“垮掉的一派”互相比较）；“黑山诗人”；“旧金山文艺复兴派”（从“垮掉的一代”中衍生出来的一个独立的流派）。
主要代表作品包括杰克·凯鲁亚克的《在路上》、艾伦·金斯堡的《嚎叫》和威廉·博罗斯的《裸体午餐》等。后两部作品由于内容“_”而引起法庭的注意，但也为此类文学作品在美国出版的合法化进程做出了贡献。
【背景】二战结束，美国经济逐渐繁荣，中产阶级成为这个社会的中流砥柱，各个人家安分守己，遵循传统的伦理道德观念。但时刻面临的美苏冷战和核战争的威胁，使在这种表面顺从的局面下存在着涌动的暗流。压抑的气氛和无可预知的未来让青年人对这个世界失去了信心，他们需要的是充满激情，井喷式的爆发——他们吸毒，男女杂居，偷窃，流浪，种种让人无法接受的事他们都干。这种情感更富有冲击力，让很多人无法接受，这也是为什么垮掉一代毁誉参半。
【文学创作】“垮掉的一代”是一种赤裸裸的嚎叫，例如艾伦金斯堡和凯鲁亚克“直泻式”的写法，用一种最直接的方式把思想情感直接宣泄出来。
《在路上》是美国“垮掉的一代”作家杰克·凯鲁亚克创作的长篇小说，首次出版于1957年。这部小说绝大部分是自传性的，结构松散，断断续续，描写一群年轻人荒诞不经的生活经历，反映了战后美国青年的精神空虚和浑浑噩噩的状态，被公认为60年代嬉皮士运动和垮掉的一代的经典之作。杰克·凯鲁亚克说他消磨《在路上》的时间有7年，但用于写小说的时间只有3个星期。小说主要讲述主人公萨尔为了追求个性，与迪安、玛丽卢等几个年轻男女沿途搭车或开车，几次横越美国大陆，最终到了墨西哥，一路上他们狂喝滥饮，高谈东方禅宗，走累了就挡道拦车，夜宿村落，从纽约游荡到旧金山，最后作鸟兽散。
这部作品对美国文学影响巨大，1957年《在路上》出版后，凯鲁亚克一夜成名。美国售出了亿万条牛仔裤和百万台煮咖啡机，并且促使无数青年人踏上了漫游之路。据2007年新闻显示，该书仍以10万册的销量在美国风行。
美国学者马库斯·坎利夫评：“他只是陈述，而不是传达，是闲谈而非写作。一如过去像他们那样过流浪生活的人，他们在创作上的努力都消耗在努力冒充创作上。这就像烹调术一样，做出来的东西当天就吃掉了，剩下来的只是一股淡淡的香味。而且他们重视自然，流露出这种差不多毁掉惠特曼大部分诗作的风气，使严肃的创作难于有成。他们的文体可能有助于美国日常语言的发展，却不能对美国文学有所贡献。它既艰涩又不清楚——是一种个人的、散漫的、愤世嫉俗而感伤的文体。”
2021跨年文案唯美句子 第3篇
1. 我要别有用心的告诉你，我又陪了你一年哦。
2. 纵使城市里五彩缤纷绽放的过新年的礼花，也引诱不了我们目光坚定的回家步伐。
3. 今年依然是作业陪我跨年，它追了我好多年我也不想和它在一起。
4. 对于一个吃货来说，过年体重没增加就已经是在减肥了。
5. 过年秀红包，年后秀脂肪。
6. 如果你不喜欢我，请在过年的时候，用红包砸我的脸。
7. 过年那天要是我喝醉了，跟你说了什么，你别惊慌。因为那都是我的真心话，藏在心里那么久，终于可以说出来了。
8. 愿命途风霜尽，乾坤气象和，历添新岁月，福满旧山河。
9. 马上就跨年了，一起都四年了，你怎么舍得离开呢。
10. 新年愿望：雪花变成爆米花，有人赚钱给我花，新年快乐，招财进你。
11. 唯愿你，常开心，常欣喜，有趣有盼，无灾无难。
12. 做玫瑰，要做你心上野草，一点点湿意便肆意疯长，烧不尽吹又生。
13. 新年和往常一样，愿望也不一定非要在过年期盼。唯有一些特别的人，他们用心告诉你，我又陪了你一年。
14. 我倔强的不愿屈服，换来的却也只是伤痕累累。从此我的世界不再有你。心碎了无痕，我感动天感动地，就是感动不了你。
15. 可爱的自己，年，你要快乐!
16. 这是个告别的季节，的烦恼全部抛光;这是个蜕变的时刻，的辛劳不会白忙!值此年来临之际，特预祝您万事顺意，新年大吉大利!
17. 去年陪你跨年的人现在还在吗?
18. 一年将毕，回头看看，年纪长了，经验增了，信心足了，能力强了;新年将至，翘首望望，打足底气，面对现实，积极努力，再创佳绩!
19. 跨年是我在你身上跨，还是你跨我。
20. 今年布置的作业，估计要留到明年了。
21. 腿长的叫跨年，腿短的叫蹦年。有对象的叫跨年，没对象的叫熬夜。我，蹦着熬夜。
22. 每当过年亲戚们看见我的时候，都会说，好乖呀，好斯文呀，我心里暗想，这群无知的人类。
23. 为了防止我过年乱花钱，我已经提前把钱花完了，这就是我，意想不到的我。我就是不一样的烟火，我看到自己都上火。
24. 跨年再也找不到当初的感觉，毕竟物是人非了。
25. 想扔的东西扔了，想断的关系断了，新的一年，别再犹豫。
26. 最难过的不是不曾遇见，而是遇见了，也得到了，又匆忙的失去，然后在心底留了一道疤，它让你什么时候疼，就什么时候疼，你连反抗的权力都没有。
27. 趁年轻，没理由不去闯，哪怕败，我也要败的漂亮!致我的。
28. 现在的眼光，未来的理想，它们总能在生命的一个拐角相遇。
29. 我是真的想给你打电话，问你在哪里，在干什么，可是我害怕你身边有其他人在，所以我忍住了，因为我们现在一点关系都没有。
30. 亲爱的，公司过去的一年，是艰苦的一年，是开创的一年，更是丰收的一年，因为有了您的不懈努力，我们才会把公司做的如此顺利。
31. 跨年的话，你们自己跨吧，我腿太短了跨不过去，就不和你们一起凑热闹了。
32. 不知不觉又迎来了新的一年，与去年一样还是那么的美，只是耳边少了你的耳语，身边少了你的身影。
33. 告别过去，迎接未来。勇敢改变，勇敢接受，新人新物新景象!
34. 新的一年，你做我的男孩，我做你的宇宙。
35. 过年想去你家拜年，然后领你爸妈的压岁钱。
36. 有一种爱情，叫白头偕老，有一种幸福，叫有你相伴。
37. 快点过年吧，屋里呆不住了，年一过完我就要走啊。
38. 愿今年所有的遗憾，是为了来年更好的准备。
39. 所有女生准备好了吗?来咯!过它!
40. 劳累一年，辛苦了，忙碌了一年，歇会吧，奋斗了一年，休息会，一天又一天，走过一程又一程，新的一年又开始了，愿你在新的一年幸福平安!
关于跨年的文案唯美
1. 请相信，只要用力活着，未来就怀抱希望。
2. 虽然没有会飞的房子，穿越时空的机器，但如果你愿意，我来陪你。
3. 希望年，三餐四季，温暖有趣。
4. 新的一年，坚持去做一件自己喜欢的事情。
5. 希望今年你的勇气多一些，有人珍惜你心里的柔软，希望你相信，远方的灯光总会照亮世界的。
6. 这是我第一次和你说新年快乐，我不说恭喜发财，也不说前程似锦。我只希望你在新的一年里平平安安，快快乐乐。
7. 我与你跨过分秒，愿也可以跨过余生岁月。
8. 过去所有的遗憾都是惊喜的铺垫，愿你所拼命争取的最后都能如你所愿。
9. 你或许经历了很多没有人知道的黯淡日子，一定很累吧，但是在你也要继续加油哦，你依旧是自己的头号粉丝，所有的美好和幸运也会降落到你头上。
10. 知否知否，应是，一家几口，鸿运当头。
11. 好像依旧没能圆满的完成上一年的目标，还是没有成为很厉害的人，但也在一点一点的对抗着那些挫折，在慢慢的发现生活的美好，那些琐碎和难熬也都有坚强撑过去了。你已经做的很好了，继续成长，只会越来越好呀。
12. 回想这一年，我们似乎一直过着猪一样的生活，却不能像猪一样无忧无虑!
13. 快到年辣，有期盼的事情好像没有很多呢。
14. 生如蝼蚁，当立鸿鹄之志，一起加油。
15. 美丽要美丽，我要变成万人迷。
16. 秋风止于夜，我止于你，你再不来我就要下雪了。
17. 敬新年一杯酒，愿岁月无波澜，愿余生不遗憾。
18. ，愿有岁月可回首，且以深情共白头。
19. 今晚最后一轮夕阳，记录着曾经美好的过往;明早第一缕曙光，寄托着重新开启的希望;朋友第一个愿望，承载着幸福安康的吉祥;跨年祝福提前送上!
20. 岁岁常欢愉，万事皆胜意。
21. 给年的自己说一句：要努力向前乐观勇敢，无限接近自己想要的生活。
22. 跨年?不就是过了一天么。
23. 跨年一个人熬夜的祝你们新年快乐。
24. 诚意找炮友，长期短期都可以，只限同城，过年一起放鞭炮，一个人有点害怕。
25. 不要被任何人打乱自的脚步，因为没有谁会像你一样清楚和在乎自己梦想，再见，你好。
26. 我以为我真心去喜欢一个人，他就会被我的真心打动，但我却不知道，真心被打动的只有自己罢了。
27. 最难过的不是不曾遇见，而是遇见了，也得到了，又匆忙的失去，然后在心底留了一道疤，它让你什么时候疼，就什么时候疼，你连反抗的权力都没有。
28. 你现在收到的压岁钱，都是你以后要还清的债。
29. 有人问我跨年怎么过，在值班中度过
30. 我们说好一起老去看细水长流，却将成为别人的某某，在分岔的路口，你在左，我在右，我们都倔强的不曾回头。
31. 我爱的人爱我的人新年快乐。
32. 希望我的：没有痘痘没有失眠没有脱发没有抑郁没有焦虑没有水逆;别为爱情心碎，别被朋友伤害;家人健康，多挣点钱。
33. 跨年没有收到我红包的，请不要怀疑我们的关系，我只是穷，我们的关系是没有问题的。
34. 不论好坏，我们没有选择的只能向前走，不告别过去，只是迎接更好的未来。，愿离梦想更进一步，愿家人身体健康。
35. 这个年腿长的人先跨为敬了。
36. 又是一年一月一，我来祝你乐又乐。烦恼忧愁九霄外，幸福美满在心底!人好运好精神好，心旺财旺身体棒!家庭和睦又团圆，开开心心又一年!
37. 过年了给自己画个句点，有些人，再见或再也不见。
38. 回想这一年，我们似乎一直过着猪一样的生活，却不能像猪一样无忧无虑!
39. 新年快乐，招财进你。
40. 期待年的到来，因为有好事要发生。
2021跨年文案唯美句子 第4篇
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P43.)
I said to Remi, «I’d love to sleep in this old ship some night when the fog comes in and the thing creaks and you hear the big B-O of the buoys.»
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P45.)
«It’s all right,» Remi just said quietly. «It’s perfectly all right. When I took up with you I didn’t expect roses and moonshine and I’m not surprised this day. I tried to do a few things for you - I tried my best for both of you; you’ve both let me down. I’m terribly, terribly disappointed in both of you,» e continued in absolute sincerity. «I thought something would come of us together, something fine and lasting, I tried, I flew to Hollywood, I got Sal a job, I bought you beautiful dresses, I tried to introduce you to the finest people in San Francisco. You refused, you both refused to follow the slightest wish I had. I asked for nothing in return. Now I ask for one last favor and then I’ll never ask a favor again. My stepfather is coming to San Francisco next Saturday night. All I ask is that you come with me and try to look as though everything is the way I’ve written him. In other words, you, Lee Ann, you are my girl, and you, Sal, you are my friend. I’ve arranged to borrow a hundred dollars for Saturday night. I’m going to see that my father has a good time and can go away without any reason in the world to worry about me.»
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P47.)
So I stayed another day. It was Sunday. A great heat wave descended; it was a beautiful day, the sun turned red at three. I started up the mountain and got to the top at four. All those lovely California cottonwoods and eucalypti brooded on all sides. Near the peak there were no more trees, just rocks and grass. Cattle were grazing on the top of the coast. There was the Pacific, a few more foothills away, blue and vast and with a great wall of white advancing from the legendary potato patch where Frisco fogs are born. Another hour and it would come streaming through the Golden Gate to shroud the romantic city in white, and a young man would hold his girl by the hand and climb slowly up a long white sidewalk with a bottle of Tokay in his pocket. That was Frisco; and beautiful women standing in white doorways, waiting for their men; and Coit Tower, and the Embarcadero, and Market Street, and the eleven teeming hills.
I spun around till I was dizzy; I thought I’d fall down as in a dream, clear off the precipice. Oh where is the girl I love? I thought, and looked everywhere, as I had looked everywhere in the little world below. And before me was the great raw bulge and bulk of my American continent; somewhere far across, gloomy, crazy New York was throwing up its cloud of dust and brown steam. There is something brown and holy about the East; and California is white like washlines and emptyheaded - at least that’s what I thought then.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P48.)
【景】Trains howl away across the valley. The sun goes down long and red. All the magic names of the valley unrolled - Manteca, Madera, all the rest. Soon it got dusk, a grapy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon fields; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgundy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries. I stuck my head out the window and took deep breaths of the fragrant air. It was the most beautiful of all moments.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P49.)
«LA.» I loved the way she said «LA»; I love the way everybody says «LA» on the Coast; it’s their one and only golden town when all is said and done, «That’s where I’m going too!» I cried.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P50.)
The bus groaned up Grapevine Pass and then we were coming down into the great sprawls of light. Without coming to any particular agreement we began holding hands, and in the same way it was mutely and beautifully and purely decided that when I got my hotel room in LA she would be beside me.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P50.)
I looked greedily out tine window: stucco houses and palms and drive-ins, the whole mad thing, the ragged promised land, the fantastic end of America. We got off the bus at Main Street, which was no different from where you get off a bus in Kansas City or Chicago or Boston - red brick, dirty, characters drifting by, trolleys grating in the hopeless dawn, the whorey smell of a big city.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P50.)
I was tired and felt strange and lost in a faraway, disgusting place. The goof of terror took over my thoughts and made me act petty and cheap.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P50.)
Our minds, with their store of madness, had diverged.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P51.)
I made love to her in the sweetness of the weary morning. Then, two tired angels of some kind, hung-up forlornly in an LA shelf, having found the closest and most delicious thing in life together, we fell asleep and slept till late afternoon.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P51.)
⭐I never felt sadder in my life. LA is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities; New York gets god-awful cold in the winter but there’s a feeling of wacky comradeship somewhere in some streets. LA is a jungle.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P52.)
⭐The beatest characters in the country swarmed on the sidewalks - all of it under those soft Southern California stars that are lost in the brown halo of the huge desert encampment LA really is.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P52.)
Hollywood Boulevard was a great, screaming frenzy of cars; there were minor accidents at least once a minute; everybody was rushing off toward the farthest palm - and beyond that was the desert and nothingness.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P52.)
⭐⭐But there were no jobs to be had, and much confusion, with everybody giving us innumerable tips, and no job materialized. Nevertheless we ate a Chinese dinner and set out with reinforced bodies.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P54.)
The beautiful green countryside of October in California reeled by madly. I was guts and juice again and ready to go.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P55.)
Everywhere in America I’ve been in crossroads saloons drinking with dull; whole families. The kids eat popcorn and chips and play in back. This we did. Rickey and I and Ponzo and Terry sat drinking and shouting with the music; little baby Johnny goofed with other children around the jukebox. The sun began to get red. Nothing had been accomplished. What was there to accomplish?
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P55.)
Guitars tinkled. Terry and I gazed at the stars together and kissed. «Manana» she said. «Everything’ll be all right tomorrow, don’t you think, Sal-honey, man?»
«Sure, baby, manana.» It was always manana. For the next week that was all I heard - manana, a lovely word and one that probably means heaven.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P56.)
We bent down and began picking cotton. It was beautiful. Across the field were the tents, and beyond them the brown cottonfields that stretched out of sight to the brown arroyo foothills and then the snow-capped Sierras in the morning air. This was so much better than washing dishes South Main Street.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P57.)
There was an old Negro couple in the field with They picked cotton with the same God-blessed patience the grandfathers had practiced in ante-bellum Alabama; the moved right along their rows, bent and blue, and their bag increased. My back began to ache. But it was beautiful kneeling and hiding in that earth. If I felt like resting I did, my face on the pillow of brown moist earth. Birds an accompaniment. I thought I had found my life’s work.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P57.)
Her five brothers were singing melodious songs in Spanish. The stars bent over the little roof; smoke poked from the stovepipe chimney. I smelled mashed beans and chili. The old man growled. The brothers kept right on yodeling. The mother was silent. Johnny and the kids were giggling in the bedroom. A California home; I hid in the grapevines, digging it all. I felt like a million dollars; I was adventuring in the crazy American night.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P59.)
The stars folded over the sleeping countryside.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P60.)
We turned at a dozen paces, for love is a duel, and looked at each other for the last time.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P60.)
As I labored at this absurd task, great Kleig lights of a Hollywood premiere stabbed in the sky, that humming West Coast sky. All around me were the noises of the crazy gold-coast city. And this was my Hollywood career - this was my last night in Hollywood, and I was spreading mustard on my lap in back of a parking-lot John.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P60.)
I had a book with me I stole from a Hollywood stall, «Le Grand Meaulnes» by Alain-Fournier, but I preferred reading the American landscape as we went along. Every bump, rise, and stretch in it mystified my longing. In inky night we crossed New Mexico; at gray dawn it was Dalhart, Texas; in the bleak Sunday afternoon we rode through one Oklahoma flat-town after another; at nightfall it was Kansas. The bus roared on. I was going home in October. Everybody goes home in October.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P61.)
We arrived in St. Louis at noon. I took a walk down by the Mississippi River and watched the logs that came floating from Montana in the north - grand Odyssean logs of our continental dream. Old steamboats with their scrollwork more scrolled and withered by weathers sat in the mud inhabited by rats. Great clouds of afternoon overtopped the Mississippi Valley. The bus roared through Indiana cornfields that night; the moon illuminated the ghostly gathered husks; it was almost Halloween.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P61.)
It is a terrifying river. It has bushy cliffs on both sides that lean like hairy ghosts over the unknown waters. Inky night covers all. Sometimes from the railyards across the river rises a great red locomotive flare that illuminates the horrid cliffs.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P61.)
I suddenly saw the little hobo standing under a sad streetlamp with his thumb stuck out - poor forlorn man, poor lost sometime boy, now broken ghost of the penniless wilds.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P62.)
The last I saw of him was his bobbing little white bag dissolving in the darkness of the mournful Alleghenies.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P62.)
I thought all the wilderness of America was in the West till the Ghost of the Susquehanna showed me different. No, there is a wilderness in the East; it’s the same wilderness Ben Franklin plodded in the oxcart days when he was postmaster, the same as it was when George Washington was a wildbuck Indian-fighter, when Daniel Boone told stories by Pennsylvania lamps and promised to find the Gap, when Bradford built his road and men whooped her up in log cabins. There were not great Arizona spaces for the little man, just the bushy wilderness of eastern Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia, the backroads, the black-tar roads that curve among the mournful rivers like Susquehanna, Monongahela, old Potomac and Monocacy.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P62.)
⭐⭐Isn’t it true that you start your life a sweet child believing in everything under your father’s roof? Then comes the day of the Laodiceans, when you know you are wretched and miserable and poor and blind and naked, and with the visage of a gruesome grieving ghost you go shuddering through nightmare life.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P62.)
I was all alone in the car, waiting for him as he made business calls in Allentown, and I laughed and laughed. Gad, I was sick and tired of life. But the madman drove me home to New York.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P62.)
Suddenly I found myself on Times Square. I had traveled eight thousand miles around the American continent and I was back on Times Square; and right in the middle of a rush hour, too, seeing with my innocent road-eyes the absolute madness and fantastic hoorair of New York with its millions and millions hustling forever for a buck among themselves, the mad dream - grabbing, taking, giving, sighing, dying, just so they could be buried in those awful cemetery cities beyond Long Island City. The high towers of the land - the other end of the land, the place where Paper America is born.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P63.)
Dean had come to my house, slept several nights there, waiting for me; spent afternoons talking to my aunt as she worked on a great rag rug woven of all the clothes in my family for years, which was now finished and spread on my bedroom floor, as complex and as rich as the passage of time itself.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P63.)
Part Two
This was the new and complet Dean, grown to maturity. I said to myself, My God,, he’s changed. Fury spat out of his eyes when he told of things he hated; great glows of joy replaced this when he suddenly got happy; every muscle twitched to live and go.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P67.)
And then we’ll all go off to sweet life, ‘cause now is the time and we all know time!
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P67.)
His laugh was. maniacal; it started low and ended high, exactly like the laugh of a radio maniac, only faster and more like a titter. Then he kept reverting to businesslike tones.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P67.)
I had been spending a quiet Christmas in the country, as I realized when we got back into the house and I saw the Christmas tree, the presents, and smelled the roasting turkey and listened to the talk of the relatives, but now the bug was on me again, and the bug’s name was Dean Moriarty and 1 was off on another spurt around the road.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P68.)
It was a completely meaningless set of circumstances that made Dean come, and similarly I went off with him for no reason.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P69.)
«I want to marry a girl,» I told them, «so I can rest my soul with her till we both get old. This can’t go on all the time - all this franticness and jumping around. We’ve got to go someplace, find something.»
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P69.)
When daybreak came we were zooming through New Jersey with the great cloud of Metropolitan New York rising before us in the snowy distance.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P69.)
So now Dean had come about four thousand miles from Frisco, via Arizona and up to Denver, inside four days, with innumerable adventures sandwiched in, and it was only the beginning.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P69.)
⭐⭐«What is the meaning of this voyage to New York? What kind of sordid business are you on now? I mean, man, whither goest thou? Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?»
«Whither goest thou?» echoed Dean with his mouth open. We sat and didn’t know what to say; there was nothing to talk about any more. The only thing to do was go.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P70.)
Furthermore we know America, we’re at home; I can go anywhere in America and get what I want because it’s the same in every corner, I know the people, I know what they do. We give and take and go in the incredibly complicated sweetness zigzagging every side.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P71.)
«I don’t know,» he said. «I just go along. I dig life.» He repeated it, following Dean’s line. He had no direction. He sat reminiscing about that night in Chicago and the hot coffee cakes in the lonely room.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P73.)
⭐⭐The radio had been fixed and now he had wild bop to urge us along the night. I didn’t know where all this was leading; I didn’t care.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P73.)
Something, someone, some spirit was pursuing all of us across the desert of life and was bound to catch us before we reached heaven. Naturally, now that I look back on it, this is only death: death will overtake us before heaven. The one thing that we yearn for in our living days, that makes us sigh and groan and undergo sweet nauseas of all kinds, is the remembrance of some lost bliss that was probably experienced in the womb and can only be reproduced (though we hate to admit it) in death. But who wants to die?
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P73.)
⭐⭐Besides which Lucille would never understand me because I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P74.)
It made me think that everything was about to arrive - the moment when you know all and everything is decided forever.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P76.)
It was drizzling and mysterious at the beginning of our journey. I could see that it was all going to be one big saga of the mist.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P80.)
⭐⭐We were all delighted, we all realized we were leaving confusion and nonsense behind and performing our one and noble function of the time, move.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P80.)
We all must admit that everything is fine and there’s no need in the world to worry, and in fact we should realize what it would mean to us to UNDERSTAND that we’re not REALLY worried about ANYTHING.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P80.)
But why think about that when all the golden land’s ahead of you and all kinds of unforeseen events wait lurking to surprise you and make you glad you’re alive to see?
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P80.)
There was nothing to do but get happy with ourselves again and forget about it. When we got through Richmond we began forgetting about it, and soon everything was okay.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P81.)
He and I suddenly saw the whole country like an oyster for us to open; and the pearl was there, the pearl was there.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P82.)
We got out of the car for air and suddenly both of us were stoned with joy to realize that in the darkness all around us was fragrant green grass and the smell of fresh manure and warm waters.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P82.)
The air was so sweet in New Orleans it seemed to come in soft bandannas; and you could smell the river and really smell the people, and mud, and molasses, and every kind of tropical exhalation with your nose suddenly removed from the dry ices of a Northern winter. We bounced in our seats.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P83.)
On rails we leaned and looked at the great brown father of waters rolling down from mid-America like the torrent of broken souls - bearing Montana logs and Dakota muds and Iowa vales and things that had drowned in Three Forks, where the secret began in ice. Smoky New Orleans receded on one side; old, sleepy Algiers with its warped woodsides bumped us on the other.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P83.)
From bushy shores where infinitesimal men fished with sticks, and from delta sleeps that stretched up along the reddening land, the big humpbacked river with its mainstream leaping came coiling around Algiers like a snake, with a nameless rumble. Drowsy, peninsular Algiers with all her bees and shanties was like to be washed away someday. The sun slanted, bugs flip-flopped, the awful waters groaned.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P84.)
There was a mystic wraith of fog over the brown waters that night, together with dark driftwoods; and across the way New Orleans glowed orange-bright, with a few dark ships at her hem, ghostly fogbound Cereno ships with Spanish balconies and ornamental poops, till you got up close and saw they were just old freighters from Sweden and Panama. The ferry fires glowed in the night; the same Negroes plied the shovel and sang.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P87.)
Doors kept opening around the crooked porch, and members of our sad drama in the American night kept popping out to find out where everybody was.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P87.)
«I heard you,» she said across the lovely warm Gulf morning from the kitchen door. Great beautiful clouds floated overhead, valley clouds that made you feel the vastness of old tumbledown holy America from mouth to mouth and tip to tip. All pep and juices was Bull.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P88.)
He came out glassy-eyed and calm, and sat down under his burning lamp. The sunlight poked feebly behind the drawn shade.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P88.)
Mankind will someday realize that we are actually in contact with the dead and with the other world, whatever it is; right now we could predict, if we only exerted enough mental will, what is going to happen within the next hundred years and be able to take steps to avoid all kinds of catastrophes. When a man dies he undergoes a mutation in his brain that we know nothing about now but which will be very clear someday if scientists get on the ball. The _s right now are only interested in seeing if they can blow up the world.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P90.)
What is that feeling when you’re driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? - it’s the too-huge world vaulting us, and it’s good-by. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P92.)
We wheeled through the sultry old light of Algiers, back on the ferry, back toward the mudsplashed, crabbed old ships across the river, back on Canal, and out; on a two-lane highway to Baton Rouge in purple darkness; swung west there, crossed the Mississippi at a place called Port Alien. Port Alien - where the river’s all rain and roses in a misty pinpoint darkness and where we swung around a circular drive in yellow foglight and suddenly saw the great black body below a , bridge and crossed eternity again. What is the Mississippi River? - a washed clod in the rainy night, a soft plopping ( from drooping Missouri banks, a dissolving, a riding of the tide down the eternal waterbed, a contribution to brown foams, a voyaging past endless vales and trees and levees, down along, down along, by Memphis, Greenville, Eudora, Vicksburg, Natchez, Port Alien, and Port Orleans and Port of the Deltas, by Potash, Venice, and the Night’s Great Gulf, and out.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P92.)
Huge oil tanks and refineries loomed like cities in the oily fragrant air.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P93.)
Straight ahead lay the distant lights of El Paso and Juarez, sown in a tremendous valley so big that you could see several railroads puffing at the same time in every direction, as though it was the Valley of the World. We descended into it.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P95.)
We were in the mountains: there was a heaven of sunrise, cool purple airs, red mountainsides, emerald pastures in valleys, dew, and transmuting clouds of gold; on the ground gopher holes, cactus, mesquite.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P96.)
Tucson is situated in beautiful mesquite riverbed country, overlooked by the snowy Catalina range. The city was one big construction job; the people transient, wild, ambitious, busy, gay; washlines, trailers; bustling downtown streets with banners; altogether very Californian.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P97.)
⭐There was a brief good-by. «It certainly was pleasant,» said Hingham, looking away. Beyond some trees, across the sand, a great neon sign of a roadhouse glowed red. Hingham always went there for a beer when he was tired of writing. He was very lonely, he wanted to get back to New York. It was sad to see his tall figure receding in the dark as we drove away, just like the other figures in New York and New Orleans: they stand uncertainly underneath immense skies, and everything about them is drowned. Where go? what do? what for? - sleep. But this foolish gang was bending onward.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P97.)
In this way we floated and flapped down to the San Joaquin Valley. It lay spread a mile below, virtually the floor of California, green and wondrous from our aerial shelf.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P98.)
Dean’s California - wild, sweaty, important, the land of lonely and exiled and eccentric lovers come to forgather like birds, and the land where everybody somehow looked like broken-down, handsome, decadent movie actors.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P98.)
It seemed like a matter of minutes when we began rolling in the foothills before Oakland and suddenly reached a height and saw stretched out ahead of us the fabulous white city of San Francisco on her eleven mystic hills with the blue Pacific and its advancing wall of potato-patch fog beyond, and smoke and goldenness in the late afternoon of time.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P99.)
When we staggered out of the car on O’Farrell Street and sniffed and stretched, it was like getting on shore after a long voyage at sea; the slopy street reeled under our feet; secret chop sueys from Frisco Chinatown floated in the air.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P99.)
And for just a moment I had reached the point of ecstasy that I always wanted to reach, which was the complete step across chronological time into timeless shadows, and wonderment in the bleakness of the mortal realm, and the sensation of death kicking at my heels to move on, with a phantom dogging its own heels, and myself hurrying to a plank where all the angels dove off and flew into the holy void of uncreated emptiness, the potent and inconceivable radiancies shining in bright Mind Essence, innumerable lotus-lands falling open in the magic mothswarm of heaven. I could hear an indescribable seething roar which wasn’t in my ear but everywhere and had nothing to do with sounds. I realized that I had died and been reborn numberless times but just didn’t remember especially because the transitions from life to death and back to life are so ghostly easy, a magical action for naught, like falling asleep and waking up again a million times, the utter casualness and deep ignorance of it. I realized it was only because of the stability of the intrinsic Mind that these ripples of birth and death took place, like the action of wind on a sheet of pure, serene, mirror-like water. I felt sweet, swinging bliss, like a big shot of heroin in the mainline vein; like a gulp of wine late in the afternoon and it makes you shudder; my feet tingled. I thought I was going to die the very next moment.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P101.)
And oh, that pan-fried chow mein flavored air that blew into my room from Chinatown, vying with the spaghetti sauces of North Beach, the soft-shell crab of Fisherman’s Wharf - nay, the ribs of Fillmore turning on spits! Throw in the Market Street chili beans, redhot, and french-fried potatoes of the Embarcadero wino night, and steamed clams from Sausalito across the bay, and that’s my ah-dream of San Francisco. Add fog, hunger-making raw fog, and the throb of neons in the soft night, the clack of high-heeled beauties, white doves in a Chinese grocery window . . .
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P101.)
It was a sullen moment. We were all thinking we’d never see one another again and we didn’t care.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P103.)
Part Three
At dusk I walked. I felt like a speck on the surface of the sad red earth.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P105.)
Down in Denver, down in Denver
All I did was die
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P105.)
I was burning to know what was on his mind and what would happen now, for there was nothing behind me any more, all my I bridges were gone and I didn’t give a damn about anything at all.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P106.)
«We know life, Sal, we’re growing older, each of us, little by little, and are coming to know things. What you tell me about your life I understand well, I’ve always dug your feelings, and now in fact you’re ready to hook up with a real great girl if you can only find her and cultivate her and make her mind your soul as I have tried so hard with these damned women of mine. Shit! shit! shit!» he yelled.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P109.)
That thumb became the symbol of Dean’s final development. He no longer cared about anything (as before) but now he also cared about everything in principle; that is to say, it was all the same to him and he belonged to the world and there was nothing he could do about it.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P109.)
⭐«Well,» said Dean in a very shy and sweet voice, «shall we go?»
«Yes,» I said, «let’s go to Italy.» And so we picked up our bags, he the trunk with his one good arm and I the rest, and staggered to the cable-car stop; in a moment rolled down the hill with our legs dangling to the sidewalk from the jiggling shelf, two broken-down heroes of the Western night.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P111.)
He now fell silent himself, but standing in front of everybody, ragged and broken and idiotic, right under the lightbulbs, his bony mad face covered with sweat and throbbing veins, saying, «Yes, yes, yes,» as though tremendous revelations were pouring into him all the time now, and I am convinced they were, and the others suspected as much and were frightened. He was BEAT – the root, the soul of Beatific.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P114.)
“垮掉”
He was alone in the doorway, digging the street. Bitterness, recriminations, advice, morality, sadness - everything was behind him, and ahead of him was the ragged and ecstatic joy of pure being.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P114.)
«Ah, man, don’t worry, everything is perfect and fine.» He was rubbing his belly and licking his lips.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P114.)
Out we jumped in the warm, mad night, hearing a wild tenorman bawling horn across the way, going «EE-YAH! EE-YAH! EE-YAH!» and hands clapping to the beat and folks yelling, «Go, go, go!» Dean was already racing across the street with his thumb in the air, yelling, «Blow, man, blow!»
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P115.)
Dean stood in front of him, oblivious to everything else in the world, with his head bowed, his hands socking in together, his whole body jumping on his heels and the sweat, always the sweat, pouring and splashing down his tormented collar to lie actually in a pool at his feet.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P117.)
The hornman sat absolutely motionless at a corner table with an untouched drink in front of him, staring gook-eyed into space, his hands hanging at his sides till they almost touched the floor, his feet outspread like lolling tongue his body shriveled into absolute weariness and entranced sorrow and what-all was on his mind: a man who knocked self out every evening and let the others put the quietus him in the night. Everything swirled around him like a cloud.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P117.)
Holy flowers floating in the air, were all these tired faces in the dawn of Jazz America.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P119.)
Mission Street that last day in Frisco was a great riot of construction work, children playing, whooping Negroes coming home from work, dust, excitement, the great buzzing and vibrating hum of what is really America’s most excited city - and overhead the pure blue sky and the joy of the foggy sea that always rolls in at night to make everybody hungry for food and further excitement.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P119.)
Actually we were; the car was swaying as Dean and I both swayed to the rhythm and the IT of our final excited joy in talking and living to the blank tranced end of all innumerable riotous angelic particulars that had been lurking in our souls all our lives.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P121.)
⭐Now you just dig them in front. They have worries, they’re counting the miles, they’re thinking about where to sleep tonight, how much money for gas, the weather, how they’ll get there - and all the time they’ll get there anyway, you see. But they need to worry and betray time with urgencies false and otherwise, purely anxious and whiny, their souls really won’t be at peace unless they can latch on to an established and proven worry and having once found it they assume facial expressions to fit and go with it, which is, you see, unhappiness, and all the time it all flies by them and they know it and that too worries them no end.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P121.)
It was a hot, sunny afternoon. Reno, Battle Mountain, Elko, all the towns along the Nevada road shot by one after another, and at dusk we were in the Salt Lake flats with the lights of Salt Lake City infinitesimally glimmering almost a hundred miles across the mirage of the flats, twice showing, above and below the curve of the earth, one clear, one dim.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P121.)
Dean headed pellmell for the mighty wall of Berthoud Pass that stood a hundred miles ahead on the roof of the world, a tremendous Gibraltarian door shrouded in clouds. He took Berthoud Pass like a June bug - same as at Tehachapi, cutting off the motor and floating it, passing everybody and never halting the rhythmic advance that the mountains themselves intended, till we overlooked the great hot plain of Denver again - and Dean was home.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P122.)
⭐⭐Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P122.)
«You don’t die enough to cry.» Every one of these things I said was a knife at myself.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P123.)
At night all the lights of Denver lay like a great wheel on the plain below, for the house was in that part of the West where the mountains roll down foothilling to the plain and where in primeval times soft waves must have washed from sea-like Mississippi to make such round and perfect stools for the island-peaks like Evans and Pike and Longs.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P124.)
«Sal, in my young days when I used to come to this corner to steal change off the newsstand for bowery beef stew, that rough-looking cat you see out there standing had nothing but murder in his heart, got into one horrible fight after another, I remember his scars even, till now years and y-e-a-r-s of standing on the corner have finally softened him and chastened him ragely, here completely he’s become sweet and willing and patient with everybody, he’s become a fixture on the corner, you see how things happen?»
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P125.)
At every look from us she flinched. She stood there with the immense winds that blew clear down from Saskatchewan knocking her hair about her lovely head like shrouds, living curls of them. She blushed and blushed.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P132.)
But we didn’t have to do that and only inched along through them, sometimes gently bumping as they milled and mooed like a sea around the car doors.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P132.)
There were riotous days in the past when they had stumbled around the streets of Laramie, Wyoming, arm-in-arm when the haying was over, but all this was dead and gone.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P133.)
In no time at all we were back on the main highway and that night I saw the entire state of Nebraska unroll before my eyes. A hundred and ten miles an hour straight through, an arrow road, sleeping towns, no traffic, and the Union Pacific streamliner falling behind us in the moonlight.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P134.)
It was a magnificent car; it could hold the road like a boat holds on water. Gradual curves were its singing ease.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P134.)
⭐It was remarkable how Dean could go mad and then suddenly continue with his soul - which I think is wrapped up in a fast car, a coast to reach, and a woman at the end of the road - calmly and sanely as though nothing had happened.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P134.)
Somewhere behind us or in front of us in the huge night his father lay drunk under a bush, and no doubt about it - spittle on his chin, water on his pants, molasses in his ears, scabs on his nose, maybe blood in his hair and the moon shining down on him.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P135.)
The magnificent car made the wind roar; it made the plains unfold like a roll of paper; it cast hot tar from itself with deference - an imperial boat. I opened my eyes to a fanning dawn; we were hurling up to it. Dean’s rocky dogged face as ever bent over the dashlight with a bony purpose of its own.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P135.)
All that old road of the past unreeling dizzily as if the cup of life had been overturned and everything gone mad. My eyes ached in nightmare day.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P136.)
As a seaman I used to think of the waves rushing beneath the shell of the ship and the bottomless deeps there under - now I could feel the road some twenty inches beneath me, unfurling and flying and hissing at incredible speeds across the groaning continent with that mad Ahab at the wheel. When I closed my eyes all I could see was the road unwinding into me. When I opened them I saw flashing shadows of trees vibrating on the floor of the car. There was no escaping it. I resigned myself to all.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P136.)
In the afternoon we crossed drowsy old Davenport again and the low-lying Mississippi in her sawdust bed; then Rock Island, a few minutes of traffic, the sun reddening, and sudden sights of lovely little tributary rivers flowing softly among the magic trees and greeneries of mid-American Illinois. It was beginning to look like the soft sweet East again; the great dry West was accomplished and done.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P137.)
As we passed drowsy Illinois towns where the people are so conscious of Chicago gangs that pass like this in limousines every day, we were a strange sight: all of us unshaven, the driver barechested, two bums, myself in the back seat, holding on to a strap and my head leaned back on the cushion looking at the countryside with an imperious eye - just like a new California gang come to contest the spoils of Chicago, a band of desperados escaped from the prisons of the Utah moon.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P137.)
Pretty soon the redness turned purple, the last of the enchanted rivers flashed by, and we saw distant smokes of Chicago beyond the drive.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P137.)
Great Chicago glowed red before our eyes.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P138.)
⭐⭐Something would come of it yet. There’s always more, a little further - it never ends. They sought to find new phrases after Shearing’s explorations; they tried hard. They writhed and twisted and blew. Every now and then a clear harmonic cry gave new suggestions of a tune that would someday be the only tune in the world and would raise men’) souls to joy. They found it, they lost, they wrestled for it, they found it again, they laughed, they moaned - and Dean sweated at the table and told them to go, go, go.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P140.)
⭐Her great dark eyes surveyed me with emptiness and a kind of chagrin that reached back generations and generations in her blood from not having done what was crying to be done - whatever it was, and everybody knows what it was. «What do you want out of life?» I wanted to take her and wring it out of her. She didn’t have the slightest idea what she wanted. She mumbled of jobs, movies, going to her grandmother’s for the summer, wishing she could go to New York and visit the Roxy, what kind of outfit she would wear - something like the one she wore last Easter, white bonnet, roses, rose pumps, and lavender gabardine coat.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P141.)
«What is he aching to do? What are we all aching to do? What do we want?» She didn’t know. She yawned. She was sleepy. It was too much. Nobody could tell. Nobody would ever tell. It was all over. She was eighteen and most lovely, and lost.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P141.)
If you sifted all Detroit in a wire basket the beater solid core of dregs couldn’t be better gathered.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P141.)
People slugged out of bottles and turned around and looked everywhere in the dark theater for something to do, somebody to talk to. In the head everybody was guiltily quiet, nobody talked.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P142.)
In the gray dawn that puffed ghostlike about the windows of the theater and hugged its eaves I was sleeping with my head on the wooden arm of a seat as six attendants of the theater converged with their night’s total of swept-up rubbish and created a huge dusty pile that reached to my nose as I snored head down – till they almost swept me away too. This was reported to me by Dean, who was watching from ten seats behind. All the cigarette butts, the bottles, the matchbooks, the come and the gone were swept up in this pile. Had they taken me with it, Dean would never have seen me again. He would have had to roam the entire United States and look in every garbage pail from coast to coast before he found me embryonically convoluted among the rubbishes of my life, his life, and the life of everybody concerned and not concerned. What would I have said to him from my rubbish womb? «Don’t bother me, man, I’m happy where I am. You lost me one night in Detroit in August nineteen fortynine. What right have you to come and disturb my reverie in this pukish can?»
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P142.)
What difference does it make after all? - anonymity in the world of men is better than fame in heaven, for what’s heaven? what’s earth? All in the mind.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P142.)
By this time Dean was so exhausted and out of his mind that everything he saw delighted him. He was reaching another pious frenzy. He sweated and sweated.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P142.)
I realized I was beginning to cross and re-cross towns in America as though I were a traveling salesman – raggedy travelings, bad stock, rotten beans in the bottom of my bag of tricks, nobody buying.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P142.)
We got there in early morning. Times Square was being torn up, for New York never rests.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P142.)
The trip was over. Dean and I took a walk that night among the gas tanks and railroad bridges and fog lamps of Long Island. I remember him standing under a streetlamp.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P142.)
«Just as we passed that other lamp I was going to tell you a further thing, Sal, but now I am parenthetically continuing with a new thought and by the time we reach the next I’ll return to the original subject, agreed?» I certainly agreed. We were so used to traveling we had to walk all over Long Island, but there was no more land, just the Atlantic Ocean, and we could only go so far. We clasped hands and agreed to be friends forever.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P143.)
Whenever spring comes to New York I can’t stand the suggestions of the land that come blowing over the river from New Jersey and I’ve got to go. So I went.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P145.)
⭐⭐«You mean we’ll end up old bums?»
«Why not, man? Of course we will if we want to, and all that. There’s no harm ending that way. You spend a whole life of non-interference with the wishes of others, including politicians and the rich, and nobody bothers you and you cut along and make it your own way.» I agreed with him. He was reaching his Tao decisions in the simplest direct way. «What’s your road, man? - holyboy road, madman road, rainbow road, guppy road, any road. It’s an anywhere road for anybody anyhow. Where body how?» We nodded in the rain.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P146.)
⭐⭐Sal, straight, no matter where I live, my trunk’s always sticking out from under the bed, I’m ready to leave or get thrown out. I’ve decided to leave everything out of my hands. You’ve seen me try and break my ass to make it and you know that it doesn’t matter and we know time - how to slow it up and walk and dig and just old-fashioned spade kicks, what other kicks are there? We know.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P146.)
We sighed in the rain. It was falling all up and down the Hudson Valley that night. The great world piers of the sea-wide river were drenched in it, old steamboat landings at Poughkeepsie were drenched in it, old Split Rock Pond of sources was drenched in it, Vanderwhacker Mount was drenched in it.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P146.)
⭐⭐ I’m cutting along in my life as it leads me.
我就跟随生活的道路走下去。
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P146.)
In the raw red dusk we said good-by, on a bridge over a superhighway.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P147.)
«Yes. We’re all getting in there now.» Ripples in the upside-down lake of the void, is what I should have said. The bottom of the world is gold and the world is upside down.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P147.)
⭐⭐I realized these were all the snapshots which our children would look at someday with wonder, thinking their parents had lived smooth, well-ordered, stabilized-within-the-photo lives and got up in the morning to walk proudly on the sidewalks of life, never dreaming the raggedy madness and riot of our actual lives, our actual night, the hell of it, the senseless nightmare road. All of it inside endless and beginningless emptiness. Pitiful forms of ignorance.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P147.)
He made one last signal. I waved back. Suddenly he bent to his life and walked quickly out of sight. I gaped into the bleakness of my own days. I had an awful long way to go too.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P147.)
The dark and mysterious Ohio, and Cincinnati at dawn. Then Indiana fields again, and St. Louis as ever in its great valley clouds of afternoon. The muddy cobbles and the Montana logs, the broken steamboats, the ancient signs, the grass and the ropes by the river. The endless poem. By night Missouri, Kansas fields, Kansas night-cows in the secret wides, crackerbox towns with a sea for the end of every street; dawn in Abilene. East Kansas grasses become West Kansas rangelands that climb up to the hill of the Western night.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P148.)
Here was a young kid like Dean had been; his blood boiled too much for him to bear; his nose opened up; but no native strange saintliness to save him from the iron fate.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P149.)
I was having a wonderful time and the whole world opened up before me because I had no dreams.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P150.)
Suddenly I had a vision of Dean, a burning shuddering frightful Angel, palpitating toward me across the road, approaching like a cloud, with enormous speed, pursuing me like the Shrouded Traveler on the plain, bearing down on me. I saw his huge face over the plains with the mad, bony purpose and the gleaming eyes; I saw his wings; I saw his old jalopy chariot with thousands of sparking flames shooting out from it; I saw the path it burned over the road; it even made its own road and went over the corn, through cities, destroying bridges, drying rivers. It came like wrath to the West. I knew Dean had gone mad again.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P150.)
It was like the imminent arrival of Gargantuan preparations had to be made to widen the gutters of Denver and foreshorten certain laws to fit his suffering bulk and bursting ecstasies.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P150.)
Then Dean suddenly grew quiet and sat in a kitchen chair between Stan and me and stared straight ahead with rocky doglike wonder and paid no attention to anybody.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P152.)
He simply disappeared for a moment to gather up more energy. If you touched him he would sway like a boulder suspended on a pebble on the precipice of a cliff. He might come crashing down or just sway rocklike. Then the boulder exploded into a flower and his face lit up with a lovely smile and he looked around like a man waking up.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P152.)
I couldn’t imagine this trip. It was the most fabulous of all. It was no longer east-west, but magic south. We saw a vision of the entire Western Hemisphere rockribbing clear down to Tierra del Fuego and us flying down the curve of the world into other tropics and other worlds. «Man, this will finally take us to IT!» said Dean with definite faith. He tapped my arm. «Just wait and see. Hoo! Wheel»
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P154.)
He was as white as a sheet. He was still calling Stan. There was something paralyzed about his movements, and he did nothing about leaving the doorway, but just stood in it, muttering, «Stan,» and «Don’t go,» and looking after us anxiously as we rounded the corner.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P154.)
Now we pointed our rattly snout south and headed for Castle Rock, Colorado, as the sun turned red and the rock of the mountains to the west looked like a Brooklyn brewery in November dusks. Far up in the purple shades of the rock there was someone walking, walking, but we could not see; maybe that old man with the white hair I had sensed years ago up in the peaks. Zacatecan Jack. But he was coming closer to me, if only ever just behind. And Denver receded back of us like the city of salt, her smokes breaking up in the air and dissolving to our sight.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P155.)
On the horizon was the moon. She fattened, she grew huge and rusty, she mellowed and rolled, till the morning star contended and dews began to blow in our indows - and still we rolled.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P156.)
The old car burned and bopped and struggled on. Great clouds of gritty wind blew at us from shimmering spaces.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P157.)
There was no night dew, not a breath of air, nothing except billions of moths smashing at bulbs everywhere and the low, rank smell of a hot river in the night nearby - the Rio Grande, that begins in cool Rocky Mountain dales and ends up fashioning world-valleys to mingle its heats with the Mississippi muds in the great Gulf.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P158.)
It was the bottom and dregs of America where all the heavy villains sink, where disoriented people have to go to be near a specific elsewhere they can slip into unnoticed. Contraband brooded in the heavy syrup air. Cops were red-faced and sullen and sweaty, no swagger. Waitresses were dirty and disgusted. Just beyond, you could feel the enormous presence of whole great Mexico and almost smell the billion tortillas frying and smoking in the night. We had no idea what Mexico would really be like.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P159.)
Watch you money. Watch you driving. I say this to you personal, I’m Red, everybody call me Red. Ask for Red. Eat good. Don’t worry. Everything fine. Is not hard enjoin yourself in Mehico.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P160.)
We gazed and gazed at our wonderful Mexican money that went so far, and played with it and looked around and smiled at everyone. Behind us lay the whole of America and everything Dean and I had previously known: about life, and life on the road. We had finally found the magic land at the end of the road and we never dreamed the extent of the magic.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P160.)
«Now, Sal, we’re leaving everything behind us and entering a new and unknown phase of things. All the years and troubles! and kicks - and now this! so that we can safely think of nothing else and just go on ahead with our faces stuck out like this you see, and understand the world as, really and genuinely speaking, other Americans haven’t done before us - they were here, weren’t they? The Mexican war. Cutting across here with cannon.»
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P160.)
Across the fields an old man plodded with a burro in front of his switch stick. The sun rose pure on pure and ancient activities of human life.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P161.)
Across this plateau the big manufacturing town of Monterrey sent smoke to the blue skies with their enormous Gulf clouds written across the bowl of day like fleece.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P162.)
⭐And besides he knew the road would get more interesting, especially ahead, always ahead.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P162.)
A steady, insistent desert breeze blew into the car. It was very hot.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P163.)
It was hard to come around without a common language. And everybody grew quiet and cool and high again and just enjoyed the breeze from the desert and mused separate national and racial and personal high-eternity thoughts.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P164.)
But now the bouncing was no longer unpleasant; it was the most pleasant and graceful billowy trip in the world, as over a blue sea.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P164.)
The mere thought of looking out the window at Mexico - which was now something else in my mind - was like recoiling from some gloriously riddled glittering treasure-box that you’re afraid to look at because of your eyes, they bend inward, the riches and the treasures are too much to take all at once. I gulped. I saw streams of gold pouring through the sky and right across the tattered roof of the poor old car, right across my eyeballs and indeed right inside them; it was everywhere.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P165.)
«Why,» said Dean, his face still transfigured into a shower of supreme pleasure and even bliss.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P165.)
Soon it would be mysterious night in old gone Gregoria. The mambo never let up for a moment, it frenzied on like an endless journey in the jungle.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P167.)
His sweet polite smile glowed in the redness as we waved to him from the car. Behind him were the sad park and the children.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P168.)
Immediately outside Gregoria the road began to drop, great trees arose on each side, and in the trees as it grew dark we heard the great roar of billions of insects that sounded like one continuous high-screeching cry.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P169.)
And now we shot in inky darkness through the scream of insects, and the great, rank, almost rotten smell descended, and we remembered and realized that the map indicated just after Gregoria the beginning of the Tropic of Cancer.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P169.)
I stuck my head out the window; bugs smashed at my face; a great screech rose the moment I cocked my ear to the wind. Suddenly our lights were working again and they poked ahead, illuminating the lonely road that ran between solid walls of drooping, snaky trees as high as a hundred feet.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P169.)
«Bueno, bueno» he said to himself and with reluctance and sadness turned away and went back to his lonely rounds. Such lovely policemen God hath never wrought in America. No suspicions, no fuss, no bother: he was the guardian of the sleeping town, period.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P170.)
Still no air, no breeze, no dew, but the same Tropic of Cancer heaviness held us all pinned to earth, where we belonged and tingled. There was no sign of dawn in the skies.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P170.)
Dawn came rapidly in a gray haze, revealing dense swamps sunk on both sides, with tall, forlorn, viny trees leaning and bowing over tangled bottoms.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P170.)
So off we roared again, creating air for hot. caked faces.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P171.)
Then the mountains loomed ahead, all green. After this climb we would be on the great central plateau again and ready to roll ahead to Mexico City. In no time at all we soared to an elevation of five thousand feet among misty passes that overlooked steaming yellow rivers a mile below.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P171.)
They were like the eyes of the Virgin Mother when she was a child. We saw in them the tender and forgiving gaze of Jesus. And they stared unflinching into ours. We rubbed our nervous blue eyes and looked again. Still they penetrated us with sorrowful and hypnotic gleam. When they talked they suddenly became frantic and almost silly. In their silence they were themselves.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P172.)
They stroked Dean and thanked him. He stood among them with his ragged face to the sky, looking for the next and highest and final pass, and seemed like the Prophet that had come to them.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P172.)
We came into the dizzying heights of the Sierra Madre Oriental. The banana trees gleamed golden in the haze. Great fogs yawned beyond stone walls along the precipice. Below, the Moctezuma was a thin golden thread in a green jungle mat.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P172.)
The end of our journey impended. Great fields stretched on both sides of us; a noble wind blew across the occasional immense tree groves and over old missions turning salmon pink in the late sun. The clouds were close and huge and rose.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P172.)
A brief mountain pass took us suddenly to a height from which we saw all of Mexico City stretched out in its volcanic crater below and spewing city smokes and early dusklights.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P173.)
Long, ragged adobe slums stretched out on the plain; we saw lonely figures in the dimming alleys. Soon night would come. Then the city roared in and suddenly we were passing crowded cafes and theaters and many lights.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P173.)
This was the great and final wild uninhibited Fellahin-childlike city that we knew we would find at the end of the road.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P173.)
I looked up out of the dark swirl of my mind and I knew I was on a bed eight thousand feet above sea level, on a roof of the world, and I knew that I had lived a whole life and many others in the poor atomistic husk of my flesh, and I had all the dreams.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P174.)
I grabbed the cramps in my belly and groaned.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P174.)
«Sal Paradise,» I said, and heard my name resound in the sad and empty street.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P176.)
Dean, ragged in a moth-eaten overcoat he brought specially for the freezing temperatures of the East, walked off alone, and the last I saw of him he rounded the corner of Seventh Avenue, eyes on the street ahead, and bent to it again.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P178.)
So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars’ll be out, and don’t you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P178.)
2021跨年文案唯美句子 第5篇
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P18.)
Every shot was wiped away by the rushing wind of the open truck, wiped away of its bad effects, and the good effect sank in my stomach.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P20.)
«I hope you get where you’re going, and be happy when you do.»
«I always make out and move along one way or the other.»
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P21.)
The floors of bus stations are the same all over the country, always covered with butts and spit and they give a feeling of sadness that only bus stations have. For a moment it was no different from being in Newark, except for the great hugeness outside that I loved so much. I rued the way I had broken up the purity of my entire trip, not saving every dime, and dawdling and not really making time, fooling around with this sullen girl and spending all my money. It made me sick. I hadn’t slept in so long I got too tired to curse and fuss and went off to sleep; I curled up on the seat with my canvas bag for a pillow, and slept till eight o’clock in the morning among the dreamy murmurs and noises of the station and of hundreds of people passing.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P24.)
Just ahead, over the rolling wheatfields all golden beneath the distant snows of Estes, I’d be seeing old Denver at last. I pictured myself in a Denver bar that night, with all the gang, and in their eyes I would be strange and ragged and like the Prophet who has walked across the land to bring the dark Word, and the only Word I had was «Wow!»
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P24.)
Carlo and I went through rickety streets in the Denver night. The air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great, that I thought I was in a dream.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P28.)
The nights in Denver are cool, and I slept like a log.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P29.)
It was a wonderful night. Central City is two miles high; at first you get drunk on the altitude, then you get tired, and there’s a fever in your soul. We approached the lights around the opera house down the narrow dark street; then we took a sharp right and hit some old saloons with swinging doors. Most of the tourists were in the opera. We started off with a few extra-size beers. There was a player piano. Beyond the back door was a view of mountainsides in the moonlight. I let out a yahoo. The night was on.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P34.)
⭐⭐I wished Dean and Carlo were there - then I realized they’d be out of place and unhappy. They were like the man with the dungeon stone and the gloom, rising from the underground, the sordid hipsters of America, a new beat generation that I was slowly joining.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P34.)
«What the hell’s the matter? Any fights? Just call on me.» Great laughter rang from all sides. I wondered what the Spirit of the Mountain was thinking, and looked up and saw jackpines in the moon, and saw ghosts of old miners, and wondered about it. In the whole eastern dark wall of the Divide this night there was silence and the whisper of the wind, except in the ravine where we roared; and on the other side of the Divide was the great Western Slope, and the big plateau that went to Steamboat Springs, and dropped, and led you to the western Colorado desert and the Utah desert; all in darkness now as we fumed and screamed in our mountain nook, mad drunken Americans in the mighty land. We were on the roof of America and all we could do was yell, I guess - across the night, eastward over the Plains, where somewhere an old man with white hair was probably walking toward us with the Word, and would arrive any minute and make us silent.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P35.)
Suddenly we came down from the mountain and overlooked the great sea-plain of Denver; heat rose as from an oven. We began to sing songs. I was itching to get on to San Francisco.
(Jack Kerouac. On the Road. New York: The Viking Press. 1959. P35.)
2021跨年文案唯美句子 第6篇
小时候作文里的2020也要走到最后啦。
一眨眼就2021年了，早知道我不眨眼了。
今年进度条♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥100%。
咔！2020年杀青了。
2020不讲武德，希望2021耗子尾汁。
你的2021正在派件，请保持好心情。
一年一年又一年，干饭干饭还干饭。
开启下一年的单身模式。
扶贫还是没让我这块硬骨头走向小康。
顺利跨到2021年，全民小康的漏网之鱼。
恭喜大家，离领退休金的日子又近了一天。
如果说新年快乐太羞涩的话，不介意你给我发个红包。
你们都把手里的活放一放，准备一下给我的跨年礼物吧。
跨年有需要电灯泡的吗？吃不吃饭不重要，主要是想近距离看看爱情。
即使年年不见，也要岁岁平安。
往后的日子是崭新的，谁也别回头看了。
生活温暖顺心，其他别无所求。
唯愿家人平安喜乐，其余都是锦上添花。
晚风吹拂着脸颊，就这样虚度着年华，没牵挂，真好。
因为时区的不同，零点的钟声和欢呼声还要在这个星球上响彻许多次。
新年快乐，希望你不用新年也能快乐。我是说，希望你有很多值得快乐的事情，不需要一定的节日或仪式感，依旧能常常感到快乐。
应该去看元旦第一天刚升起的太阳，吃最早的早点，而不是喝的烂醉不省人事。新的一年会更好！不能再糟！
2021年，我不要再当熬夜冠军，国家一级退堂鼓选手，自我否认先驱。我要变成赚钱暴君，学习天才，事业大魔王，全小区健康养生达人，愉快人际关系持有者，发自内心快乐小宝贝第一名。
跨年那天，给我发信息吧，叫我出去吧，带我跑步吧，在灯光下牵我的手吧，说喜欢我吧。我想和你在一起。
我想和你一起过这个冬天，跨年的那天晚上一起倒数，把我冻的通红的鼻子和脸蛋埋进你怀里，说我有多喜欢你。
期待跨年并不是因为最后一天会有多精彩，而是喜欢那种旧年翻篇，一切如新的感觉，这会让我对未来又重新充满期待，总觉得遗憾可以弥补，好运又再次满值，故事才刚刚开始。
这是我第一次跟你说新年快乐，我不说恭喜发财，也不说前程似锦。我只希望你新的一年里平平安安，快快乐乐，愿你做一个小太阳，而我这颗万千星辰里最普通的一粒星，会永远围绕你左右，护你平安。我爱你。新年快乐。
和2020说再见，和2021说你好。
明年还会继续爱你！明年见！
2022跨年文案
2020年跨年文案
注：图文来源网络侵权联系可删。
2021跨年文案唯美句子 第7篇
1、一眨眼就是2021年了，早知道就不眨眼了。
2、有一天，我会忘记你，我没有很期待，也没有觉得失落，我只是知道，有那么一天。
3、我爱的人爱我的人、新年快乐。
4、回想这一年，我们似乎一直过着猪一样的生活，却不能像猪一样无忧无虑！
5、如果跨年的时候还单身，你就应该好好反省一下自己，是不是对性别的要求太严格了。
6、这两天一直嚷嚷着找人跨年的，是年底开始冲业绩了吗？
7、他们都送了你好看高级的元旦礼物，我没有。但是我可以从今天开始，坚持不洗头，在新年的第一天，为你下一场雪。
8、念旧的人总是容易受伤，喜欢拿余生来等一句别来无恙，只是你念你的旧，他又能记你多久。
9、你腿太短跨不了年，这是我听过最残忍的话。
10、希望你这一年比上一年过得好一点，希望你好的这部分有一点是因为我。
11、原来，最难过的不是一个人跨年，而是今年陪你跨年的人，明年的今天可能就不在你身边了。
12、渐渐的知道了，很多东西可遇而不可求，不属于自己的，何必拼了命去在乎。
13、希望以后的每一个跨年都有你在我身边陪我一起度过。
14、愿新年，胜旧年。
15、再见啦，我要去拥抱2021啦！
16、你们都把手里的活放一下，准备准备一下我的跨年礼物。
17、过年期间千万别给我发什么节日祝福，一个红包就可以让我感受到你的诚意。
18、终于结束了去年的单身生活，好开心！接着准备开始明年的单身生活吧。
19、跨年，完美幸福新年开始，吉祥如意。跨年，美满平安瑞阳高照，和谐融洽。跨年，快乐吉祥一帆风顺，心想事成。跨年，紫气东来财运亨通，四季发财。祝朋友跨年快乐！健康长寿，安逸生活，与日同辉。
20、腿长的是跨年，腿短的叫蹦年；有对象的是跨年，没对象的叫熬夜。我就不一样了，我是蹦着熬夜。
21、总有一天我会从你身边默默地走开，不带任何声响。我错过了很多，我总是一个人难过。
22、有对象的才叫跨年，没对象的顶多叫熬夜。
23、万物更新，旧疾当愈。往事清零，爱恨随意。
24、如果只是友情的话，能好好做朋友就好好做朋友吧，不要太贪心了。爱情这种事太极端，要么一生，要么陌生。
25、朝暮与年岁并往，然后与你一同行至天光。
26、一起跨年吗或者把你老公借过我，让他陪我跨年啊。
27、我要别有用心的告诉你，我又陪了你一年哦。
28、纵使城市里五彩缤纷绽放的过新年的礼花，也引诱不了我们目光坚定的回家步伐。
29、今年依然是作业陪我跨年，它追了我好多年我也不想和它在一起。
30、对于一个吃货来说，过年体重没增加就已经是在减肥了。
31、过年秀红包，年后秀脂肪。
32、如果你不喜欢我，请在过年的时候，用红包砸我的脸。
33、过年那天要是我喝醉了，跟你说了什么，你别惊慌。因为那都是我的真心话，藏在心里那么久，终于可以说出来了。
34、愿命途风霜尽，乾坤气象和，历添新岁月，福满旧山河。
35、马上就跨年了，一起都四年了，你怎么舍得离开呢。
36、新年愿望：雪花变成爆米花，有人赚钱给我花，新年快乐，招财进你。
37、唯愿你，常开心，常欣喜，有趣有盼，无灾无难。
38、做玫瑰，要做你心上野草，一点点湿意便肆意疯长，烧不尽吹又生。
39、新年和往常一样，愿望也不一定非要在过年期盼。唯有一些特别的人，他们用心告诉你，我又陪了你一年。
40、我倔强的不愿屈服，换来的却也只是伤痕累累。从此我的世界不再有你。心碎了无痕，我感动天感动地，就是感动不了你。
