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作词 : Jack Kerouac
作曲 : Steve Allen
……
S：In the early 1950s, the nation recognize in its myths,
a social movement called The Beat Generation.
S：A novel, titles, On The Road, became a best seller,
and its author, Jack Kerouac, became a celebrity.
S：Partly because he'd written the powerful and successful book.
S：Partly because he..eah.. seems to be the embodiment of the new generation.
S：Jack and I made a album together few month back,
in which I played background piano for his poetry reading.
S：And at that time I made a note to book him on the show
because I thought you'd enjoy meeting him.
S：So here he is, Jack Kerouac!
S：Jack told me he a little was nervous, are you nervous now?
J：No.
S：No？good.
S：Jack, ah...I'd couple of square questions,
but I think the answer would be interesting.
S：How long does it take you to write On The Road？
J：Three weeks.
S：Ahm...?
J：Three weeks.
S：Three weeks!? that's amazing!
S：How long were you on the road itself？
J：Seven years.
S：uh...Seven years...I was on the road once for three weeks
and it took me seven years to write about it. a better way around.
S：I've heard that you write so fast that you don't like to use regular typing paper,
but instead you prefer to use one big long roll of paper, is that true？
J：Yeah. When I write narrative novels,
I don't want to changes my narrative thoughts, I keep going.
S：You don't want to change the pages at the end, you mean?
J：A foot-long teletype paper.
S：oh~ teletype rolls, where you got？
J：one. ahuh？
S：Where you got the paper？
J：Ah, teletype paper.
S：I mean where did you get them？
J：In a very good stationery store.
S：I see.
J：When I write my symbolistic, serious, impressionistic novels,
I write them in pencil.
S：oh~ yeah. I've seen a lot of your poetry written in pencil,
I didn't realize that's how you work on the prose, sir.
J：For narrative it's good, keep going.
S：yeah. I got a the most tart questions of all,
everybody always puts it to you i'm sure...
S：How would you define the word, “Beat”？
S：uha…I dont' mean why not time....
J：Well, sympathetic.
S：Sympathetic? Alright, ah..yes.
S：Well, about this point, actually we're planed to have Jack to read some poetry.
S：And while looking again through this book the other day it struck me,
it occur to me all over again.
S：That his prose is extremely..uh.. poetic.
S：I think it's probably more poetic than that..uh..
Who else writes poetic type prose?
S：Tomas Walfe, I guess.
J：Walt Whitman.
S：auh...ha....
J：Specimen Days. Walt Whitman's Specimen Days.
S：I shall such real, put me under....
J：No,no,no.
S：Alright, we'll look into that..
S：And right now we'll look into..uh..Jack Kerouac's On The Road.
S：...you know usually passion read by those people.
S：That's alright, I'll play the blues.
S：We didn't think i'm sure...
Jack:
A lot of people ask me why do I write that book or any book.
All the stories I wrote were true, Cause I believe in what I saw.
I was travelling west one time, at the junction of the state line of Colorado,
It's arid western one, state line of poor Utah.
I saw in the clouds huge and mass above the theory golden desert of evenfall,
Great image of god, with forefinger pointed straight at me.
Through halos and rolls and gold falls there will likely existence of
gleaming spear in his right hand would say:
“Come on boy, go thou across the ground.”
“Go moan for man, go moan, go grown, go grown alone.”
“Go roll your bones, alone!”
“Go down and be little beneath my sight.”
“Go down and be my new seed in the part.”
“Go thou, go thou, thy hands.”
“And this world report you well and truly.”
Anyway, I Wrote the book because we're all gonna die.
In the loneliness of my life, my father dead,my brother dead,my mother far away,
my sister my wife far away.
Nothing here but my own tragic hands that once regarded by a world.
Sweet attention.
But now are left to guide and disappeared their own way
into the common dark of our death.
Sleeping on me roar bed alone as stupid.
With just this one pride in consolation.
My heart broke, in the general despair.
Opened up inwards to the lord.
I made supplication in this dream.
So in the last page of On The Road I describe how the hero Dean Moriaty
come to see me all the way from west coast just for a day or two.
Which has been back and forth across the country several times and cars
and our adventures over.
We're still great friends, we have to go into later phases of our lives.
So there you go, Dean Moriaty ragged moth-eaten overcoat he brought
especially for the freezing temperature of East, Walked off alone.
and the last time I saw of him,
he rounded the corner of Seventh Avenue.
Eyes on the street ahead
and bent to it again.
God.
So in America, when the sun goes down,
and I sit on the old broken down river pier
watching the long long sky over New Jersey,
And sense all that raw land rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge
over to the west coast.
And all that road going, all the people dreaming the immensity of it.
And in lowa I know by now 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 dropping and shedding her sparkles dims on the prairie,
Which is just before the coming of the complete night that blesses the Earth,
Darkens all rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in.
And nobody, nobody knows what's gonna happened to anybody besides
the forlorn rags of growing old.
I think of Dean Moriaty,
I even think of Old Dean Moriaty the father we never found.
I think of Dean Moriaty,
I think of Dean Moriaty.
S：Yeah~well, Jack.
S：Thank you very much.
S：Jack Kerouac.
…
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