L a locomotive arrives in swimming across the city rustling. In a deep trench, houses on both banks, full of light living ... We threw the bundle on the wharf, a hundred meters before the canopy in the grinding of irons. Before cutting the rails, along the railway square in the laundry of the week, to the brakeman that Kerouac charring his sketches, his long chorus syncope with black borders books.
Under magic stars straddling the darkness over the earth rail , was elected to celestial brother, Jack, the tireless drummer ink. We got on the road, so when typing in each band of wandering landscape derails in twelve steps, each face nailed his blues riff. A devil of a place this referral when life returns to the snow's not lost. This end of the roll of the world and all its trembling that poetically named everything.
excerpts from Jack Kerouac's "Book of sketches" Lucien Suel translation published in The Round Table in Spring
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