9. Oktobris 2004

• WORK was his fortress
• 9.10.04 21:17
• Mans darbs, mana pils. Grāmatā iznākušas Džeka Keruaka jaunības (nu viņš jau vispābā nekad nasanāca nekāds vecais) dienasgrāmatas. Es pat nezinu, kāpēc, bet uzreiz kaut kā ļoti sagribējās lasīt.
  
  
  
  "2,500-words today in a few hours. This may be it -- freedom. And mastery! -- so long denied me in my long mournful years of work, blind powerful work."
  
  "Tonight I'm going to write greatly and love greatly and strangle this folly. I'm catching these damnable changes of purpose in the flesh, red-handed, and throwing them to the winds, just like that."
  
  "Did 17 pages, batting .329 -- and I swear to God that I'll never be finished with this thing."
  
  In the face of such portentous oracular whispers, it's a wonder that Kerouac kept his mental balance.
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• 9.10.04 21:33
• Es atvainojos jau iepriekš, protams, jo zinu, ka neviens nelasa ierakstus, kas rakstīti svešās mēlēs, tomēr šis no JK likās pilnīgi traks:
  
  "no one has consciously realized the tremendous significance of American weekends, from proud sartorial Saturday night with its millions of premonitions of triumph and happiness, to dark Sunday night with its sweet and terrified loneliness"
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• 9.10.04 21:37
• Un pēkšņi šitāds:
  
  ''Don't talk to me about the Soviet state . . . those gloomballs are dead.''
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