Satori in Paris & Pic

by Jack Kerouac

The clerks say nothing, I pick up the suitcase and the chain falls off.

The clerks say nothing, I pick up the suitcase and the chain falls off. Naval cadets in there buying tickets stare as I lift the suitcase. I show them my name written in orange paint on a black tape strip near the keyhole. My name. I walk out, with it.

I lug the suitcase into Fournier’s bar and stash it in the corner and sit at the bar, feeling my railroad ticket, and have two hours to drink and wait.

Preakness, Shmeakness, they never even heard of it, they’ve got the Grand Prix de Paris to worry about

Preakness, Shmeakness, they never even heard of it, they’ve got the Grand Prix de Paris to worry about not to mention the Prix du Conseil Municipal and the Prix Gladiateur and the St. Cloud and Maisons Lafitte and Auteuil tracks, and Vincennes too, I gape to think what a big world this is that international horseplayers let alone pool players cant even get together.

But you, American passport, Lebris de Kerouac you say, and came here to find news of your family, why you leaving Brest in a few hours?”

Who ever thought that in my quest for ancestors I’d end up in a bookie joint in Brest, O Tony? brother of my friend?

“There, go see this Lebris.”

Anyway Fournier does get on the phone, gets Lebris the restaurateur, has me use my most elegant French getting meself invited, hangs up, holds up his hands, and says: “There, go see this Lebris.”

So I cut outa there carrying that suitcase down the Rue de Siam in broad daylight and it weighs a ton.

NOW STARTS ANOTHER ADVENTURE.

NOW STARTS ANOTHER ADVENTURE. IT’S A MARVELous restaurant just like Johnny Nicholson’s in New York City, all marble-topped tables and mahogany and statuary, but very small, and here, instead of guys like Al and others rushing around in tight pants serving table, are girls. But they are the daughters and friends of the owner, Lebris. I come in and say where’s Mr. Lebris, I been invited. They say wait here and they go off and check, upstairs. Finally it’s okay and I carry my suitcase up (feeling they didnt even believe me in the first place, those gals) and I’m shown a bedroom where lies a sharpnosed aristocrat in bed in mid day with a huge bottle of cognac at his side, plus I guess cigarettes, a comforter as big as Queen Victoria on top of his blankets (a comforter, that is, I mean a six-by-six pillow), and his blond doctor at the foot of the bed advising him how to rest—“Sit down here” but even as that’s happening a romancier de police walks in, that is, a writer of detective novels, wearing neat steel-rimmed spectacles and himself as clean as the pin o Heaven, with his charming wife—But then in walks in poor Lebris’ wife, a superb brunette (mentioned to me by Fournier) and three ravissantes (ravishing) girls who turn out to be one wed and two unwed daughters—

“You are Jean-Louis Lebris de Kérouac, you said and they said on the phone?”

And there I am being handed a cognac by Monsieur Lebris as he painstakingly raises himself from his heap of delicious pillows (O Proust!) and says to me liltingly: “You are Jean-Louis Lebris de Kérouac, you said and they said on the phone?” “Sans doute, Monsieur.” I show him my passport which says: “John Louis Kerouac” because you cant go around America and join the Merchant Marine and be called “Jean.”

Over the pillow comforter was the genealogical chart of his family, part of which is called Lebris de Loudéac, which he’d apparently called for preparatorily for my arrival.

“And your name?” I ask. “Ulysse Lebris.” Over the pillow comforter was the genealogical chart of his family, part of which is called Lebris de Loudéac, which he’d apparently called for preparatorily for my arrival. But he’s just had a hernia operation, that’s why he’s in bed, and his doctor is concerned and telling him to do what should be done, and then leaves.

At first I wonder “Is he Jewish? pretending to be a French aristocrat?”

At first I wonder “Is he Jewish? pretending to be a French aristocrat?” because something about him looks Jewish at first, I mean the particular racial type you sometimes see, pure skinny Semitic, the serpentine forehead, or shall we say, aquiline, and that long nose, and funny hidden Devil’s Horns where his baldness starts at the sides, and surely under that blanket he must have long thin feet (unlike my thick short fat peasant’s feet) that he must waddle aside to aside gazotsky style, i.e., stuck out and walking on heels instead of front soles—

I’ve never seen anybody who looked like that except at the end of a lance in another lifetime,

And his foppish delightful airs, his Watteau fragrance, his Spinoza eye, his Seymour Glass (or Seymour Wyse) elegance tho I then realize I’ve never seen anybody who looked like that except at the end of a lance in another lifetime, a regular blade who took long coach trips from Brittany to Paris maybe with Abelard to just watch bustles bounce under chandeliers, had affairs in rare cemeteries, grew sick of the city and returned to his evenly distributed trees thru which at least his mount knew how to canter, trot, gallop or take off—A coupla stone walls between Combourg and Champsecret, what matters it? A real elegant— Which I told him right off, still studying his face to see if he was Jewish, but no, his nose was as gleeful as a razor, his blue eyes languid, his Devil’s Horns out-and-out, his feet out of sight, his French diction perfectly clear to anybody even old Carl Adkins of West Virginia if he’d been there, every word meant to be understood, Ah me, to meet an old noble Breton, like tell that old Gabriel de Montgomeri the joke is over—For a man like this armies would form.

It’s that old magic of the Breton noble and of the Breton genius,

It’s that old magic of the Breton noble and of the Breton genius, of which Master Matthew Arnold said: “A note of Celtic extraction, which reveals some occult quality in a familiar object, or tinges it, one knows not how, with ‘the light that never was on sea or land.’”

Where else but in a book can you go back and catch what you missed, and not only that but savor it and keep it up and shove

I feel like a clod has to esplain himself.

I say: “But my, you are an elegant character, hey what?” No answer, just a bright glance. I feel like a clod has to esplain himself. I gaze on him. His head is turned parrotwise at the novelist and the ladies. I notice a glint of interest in the novelist’s eyes. Maybe he’s a cop since he writes police novels. I ask him across the pillows if he knows Simenon? And has he read Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler and James M. Cain, not to mention B. Traven?

Me and Ulysse cant even get a word in edgewise thru our own thoughts.

I could better go into long serious controversies with M. Ulysse Lebris did he read Nicholas Breton of England, John Skelton of Cambridge, or the ever-grand Henry Vaughan not to mention George Herbert—and you could add, or John Taylor the Water-Poet of the Thames? Me and Ulysse cant even get a word in edgewise thru our own thoughts.

no conversation is possible when every Lord and his blessed cat has an opinion on everything.

BUT I’M HOME, THERE’S NO DOUBT ABOUT IT, EXCEPT if I were to want a strawberry, or loosen Alice’s shoetongue, old Herrick in his grave and Ulysse Lebris would both yell at me to leave things alone, and that’s when I raw my wide pony and roll. Well, Ulysse then turns to me bashfully and just looks into my eyes briefly, and then away, because he knows no conversation is possible when every Lord and his blessed cat has an opinion on everything.

“Come over and see my genealogy”

But he looks and says “Come over and see my genealogy” which I do, dutifully, I mean, I cant see any more anyhow, but with my finger I trace a hundred old names indeed branching out in every direction, all Finistère and also Côtes du Nord and Morbihan names. Now think for a minute of these three names :– (1) Behan (2) Mahan (3) Morbihan Han? (for “Mor” only means “Sea” in Breton Celtic.)

I search blindly for that old Breton name Daoulas, of which “Duluoz” was a variation I invented just for fun in my writerly youth (to use as my name in my novels).

“Where is the record of your family?”

“Where is the record of your family?” snaps Ulysse. “In the Rivistica Heraldica!” I yell, when I shoulda said “Rivista Araldica” which are Italian words meaning: “Heraldic Review.” He writes it down.

His daughter comes in again and says she’s read some of my books,

His daughter comes in again and says she’s read some of my books, translated and published in Paris by that publisher who was out for lunch, and Ulysse is surprised. In fact his daughter wants my autograph. In fact I’m very Jerry Lewis himself in Heaven in Brittany in Israel getting high with Malachiah.

I even went so far as to help myself, to myself’s own invitation (but with a polite (?) eh?) to a third cognac,

ALL JOKING ASIDE, M. LEBRIS WAS, AND IS, YAIR, an ace—I even went so far as to help myself, to myself’s own invitation (but with a polite (?) eh?) to a third cognac, which at the time I thought had mortified the romancier de police but he never even glanced my way as tho he was studying marks of my fingernails on the floor—(or lint) —

me and M. Lebris talked a blue streak

The fact of the matter is, (again that cliché, but we need signposts), me and M. Lebris talked a blue streak about Proust, de Montherlant, Chateaubriand, (where I told Lebris he had the same nose), Saskatchewan, Mozart, and then we talked of the futility of Surrealism, the loveliness of loveliness, Mozart’s flute, even Vivaldi’s, by God I even mentioned Sebastian del Piombo and how he was even more languid than Raffaelc, and he countered with the pleasures of a good comforter (at which point I reminded him paranoiacally of the Paraclete), and he went on, expounding ’pon the glories of Armorica (ancient name of Brittany, ar, “on,” mor, “the sea,”) and I then told him with a dash of thought :– or hyphen:– “C’est triste de trouver que vous êtes malade, Monsieur Lebris” (pronounced Lebriss), “It’s sad to find that you’re ill, Monsieur Lebris, but joyous to find that you’re encircled by your lovers, truly, in whose company I should always want to be found.”

you are the equal of the idol who has given you your inspiration” (que vous êtes l’égale de l’idole qui vous à donnez votre inspiration),

a sponge of vinegar kills the thirst?”

Picking up: “But, certes, Monsieur, your words, like the flowered barbs of Henry Fifth of England addressed to the poor little French princess, and right in front of his, Oh me, her chaperone, not as if to cut but as the Greeks say, the sponge of vinegar in the mouth was not a cruelty but (again, as we know on the Mediterranean sea) a shot that kills the thirst.” “Well of course, expressed that way, I shall have no more words, but, in my feebleness to understand the extent of my vulgarities, but that is to say supported by your faith in my undignified efforts, the dignity of our exchange of words is understood surely by the cherubs, but that’s not enough, dignity is such an exe-crable word, and now, before—but no I havent lost the line of my ideas, Monsieur Kerouac, he, in his excellence, and that excellence which makes me forget all, the family, the house, the establishment, in any case :– a sponge of vinegar kills the thirst?”

And, if I could continue to explain everything that I know, your ears would lose the otiose air they wear now—

“Say the Greeks. And, if I could continue to explain everything that I know, your ears would lose the otiose air they wear now—You have, dont interrupt me, listen—” “Otiose! A word for the Chief Inspector Char-lot, dear Henri!” The French detective story writer’s not interested in my otiose, or my odious nuther, but I’m trying to give you a stylish reproduction of how we talked and what was going on.

I sure hated to leave that sweet bedside.

I sure hated to leave that sweet bedside. Besides, lots of brandy there, as tho I couldnt go out and buy my own.

When I told him the motto of my ancestral family, “Aimer, Travailler et Souffrir” (Love, Work and Suffer) he said: “I like the Love part, as for Work it gave me hernia, and Suffer you see me now.”

Why change your name unless you’re ashamed of something.

And old Lebris de Loudéac he shall certainly see Lebris de Kéroack again, unless one of us, or both of us, die—Which I remind my readers goes back to: Why change your name unless you’re ashamed of something.

“You mean to tell me I missed that Paris train by three minutes? What are you Bretons tryna do, keep me here?”

BUT I GOT SO FASCINATED BY OLD DE LOUDÉAC, AND not one taxi outside on Rue de Siam, I had to hurry with that 70 pound suitcase in my paw, switching it from paw to paw, and missed my train to Paris by, count it, three minutes. And I had to wait eight hours till eleven in the cafes around the station—I told the yard switchmen: “You mean to tell me I missed that Paris train by three minutes? What are you Bretons tryna do, keep me here?” I went over to the deadend blocks and pressed against the oiled cylinder to see if it would give and it did so now at least I could write a letter (that’ll be the day) back to Southern Pacific railroad brakemen now train masters and oldheads that in France they couple different, which I s’pose sounds like a dirty postcard, but it’s true, but dingblast it I’ve lost ten pounds running from Ulysse Lebris’ restaurant to the station (one mile) with that bag, alright, shove it, I’ll store the bag in baggage and drink for eight hours—

(I’m looking for my tranquilizers which you must admit I need by now),

You can drive a nail, but not a spike.

The train came at eleven and I got on the first firstclass coach and got into the first compartment and was alone and put my feet up on the opposite seat as the train rolled out

“Le roi n’est pas amusez.” (The king is not amused.) (“You frigging A!” I shoulda yelled out the window.)

I heard from the other car, “Ça c’est un Kérouac,” (Now that’s a Kerouac)—

And a sign said:–“Dont throw anything out the window” and I yelled “J’n’ai rien à jeter en dehors du chaussi, ainque ma tête!” (I got nothing to throw out the window, only my head). My bag was with me—I heard from the other car, “Ça c’est un Kérouac,” (Now that’s a Kerouac)—I dont even think I was hearing right, but dont be too sure, about not only Brittany but a land of Druids and Witchcraft and Warlocks and Féeries—( not Lebris)—

“Hoodlums are what gave Hitler his start.”

the People are first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth, eleventh and twelfth in the cabstand line and if you try to bug them, you may find yourself with a blade of grass in your bladder, which cuts finest.

And when I say “the people” I dont mean that created-in-the-textbook mass first called at me at Columbia College as “Proletariat,” and not now called at me as “Unemployed Disenchanted Ghetto-Dwelling Misfits,” or in England as “Mods and Rods,” I say, the People are first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth, eleventh and twelfth in the cabstand line and if you try to bug them, you may find yourself with a blade of grass in your bladder, which cuts finest.

“This seat reserved for those wounded in the service of France.”

THE CONDUCTOR SEES ME WITH MY FEET ON THE other seat and yells “Les pieds a terre!” (Feet on the ground!) My dreams of being an actual descendant of the Princes of Brittany are shattered also by the old French hoghead blowing at the crossing whatever they blow at French crossings, and of course shattered also by that conductor’s enjoinder, but then I look up at the plaque over the seat where my feet had been :– “This seat reserved for those wounded in the service of France.” So I ups and goes to the compartment next, and the conductor looks in to collect my ticket and I say “I didnt see that sign.” He says “That’s awright, but take your shoes off.” This King will ride second fiddle to anyone so long’s he can blow like my Lord.

Arriving in Paris in the morning.

AND ALL NIGHT ALONG, ALONE IN AN OLD PASSENGER coach, Oh Anna Karenina, O Myshkin, O Rogozhin, I ride back St. Brieuc, Rennes, got my brandy, and there’s Chartres at dawn— Arriving in Paris in the morning. By this time, from the cold of Bretagne, I got big flannel shirt on now, with scarf inside collar, no shave, pack silly hat away into suitcase, close it again with teeth and now, with my Air France return trip ticket to Tampa Florida I’se ready as the fattest ribs in old Winn Dixie, dearest God.

SO HERE WE ARE IN PARIS. ALL’S OVER. FROM NOW on I’m finished with any and all forms of Paris life.

“If you’re in a real hurry I’ll show you how to chukalug a beer down!”

We jump out, run into this cafe thru the now-rain, and duck up to the bar and order two beers. I tell him :– “If you’re in a real hurry I’ll show you how to chukalug a beer down!” “No necessity,” he says sadly, “we have a minute.” He suddenly reminds me of Fournier the bookie in Brest. He tells me his name, of Auvergne, I mine, of Brittany. At the spot instant when I know he’s ready to fly I open my gullet and let a halfbottle of beer fall down a hole, a trick I learned in Phi Gamma Delta fraternity now I see for no small reason (holding up kegs at dawn, and with no pledge cap because I refused it and besides I was on the football team), and in the cab we jump like bankrob-bers and ZAM! we’re going 90 in the rain slick highway to Orly, he tells me how many kilometers fast he’s going, I look out the window and figure it’s our cruising speed to the next bar in Texas.

The Satori taxidriver of page one.

We discuss politics, assassinations, marriages, celebrities, and when we get to Orly he hauls my bag out the back and I pay him and he jumps right back in and says (in French) : “Not to repeat myself, me man, but today Sunday I’m working to support my wife and kids—And I heard what you told me about families in Quebec that had kids by the twenties and twenty-fives, that’s too much, that is—Me I’ve only got two—But, work, yes, yowsah, this and that, or as you say Monsieur thissa and thatta, in any case, thanks, be of good heart, I’m going.” “Adieu, Monsieur Raymond Baillet,” I say. The Satori taxidriver of page one. When God says “I Am Lived,” we’ll have forgotten what all the parting was about.

AIN’T NEVER NOBODY LOVED ME like I love myself, cept my mother and she’s dead.

AIN’T NEVER NOBODY LOVED ME like I love myself, cept my mother and she’s dead. (My grandpa, he’s so old he can remember a hunnerd years back but what happened last week and the day before, he don’t know.) My pa gone away so long ago ain’t nobody remember what his face like. My brother, ever’ Sunday afternoon in his new suit in front of the house, out on that old road, and grandpa and me just set on the porch rockin and talkin, but my brother paid it no mind and one day he was gone and ain’t never been back.

“I seed the Lawd come thu that fence a hunnerd years ago and He shall come again.”

Grandpa, when we was alone, said he’d ten’ the pigs and I go mend the fence yonder, and said, “I seed the Lawd come thu that fence a hunnerd years ago and He shall come again.” My Aunt Gastonia come by buttin and puffin said that it was all right, she believed it too, she’d seen the Lord more times than they could ever count, and hallelujahed and hallelujahed, said “While’s all this the Gospel word and true, little Pictorial Review Jackson” (that’s me) “must go to school to learn and read and write,” and grandpa looked at her plum in the eye like if’n to spit tobacco juice in it, and answered, “Thass awright wif me,” jess like that, “but that ain’t the Lawd’s school he’s goin’ to and he shall never mend his fences.”

I seen white boys come by my house, and I seed pink boys, and I seed blue boys, and I seed green boys, and I seed orange boys, then black, but never seed one so black as me.

So I went to school, and came on home from school the afternoon after it and seed nobody would ever know where I come from, if what they called it was North Carolina. It didn’t feel like no North Carolina to me. They said I was the darkest, blackest boy ever come to that school. I always knowed that, cause I seen white boys come by my house, and I seed pink boys, and I seed blue boys, and I seed green boys, and I seed orange boys, then black, but never seed one so black as me.

So I knew they was a North Carolina, and they was a toad, and I dreamed of it ’at night.

He said it was no frog, but a TOAD, and said TOAD like to make me jump a hunnerd miles high, he said it so plain and loud, and they skedaddled over the hill back of my grandpa’s property. So I knew they was a North Carolina, and they was a toad, and I dreamed of it ’at night.

he said Mr. Otis was a mighty fine man and he knowed his pappy and his pappy’s pappy clear back a hunnerd years, and they was good folks.

Here come Mr. Otis one time in his big old au-to, bought me two bottles Dr. Pepper, en I took one home to grandpa: he said Mr. Otis was a mighty fine man and he knowed his pappy and his pappy’s pappy clear back a hunnerd years, and they was good folks.

My grandpa’s house, it was all lean-down and ’bout to break, made of sawed planks sawed when they was new from the woods and here they was all wore out like poor dead stumplewood and heavin out in the middle.

PO GRANDPA, he never get up one mornin, and ever’body come over from Aunt Gastonia’s and said he was ’bout to die of misery.

They said grandpa was mighty sick and would die for sho, and me, li’l Pic, well what was they t’do with me?