Old Angel Midnight

By Jack Kerouac and Donald Allen (Editor)

A sensory narrative poem capturing the rhythms of the universe and secrets of the subconscious with stunning linguistic dexterity from the author of On the Road

A spontaneous writing project in the form of an extended prose poem, this sonorous and spiritually playful book is one of Jack Kerouac's most boldly experimental works. Collected from five notebooks dating from 1956 to 1959—a time in which Kerouac was immersed in Buddhist theory—Old Angel Midnight is comprised of sixty-seven short sections unified by an unwavering dedication to sounds, the subconscious, and verbal ingenuity.

Friday Afternoon in the Universe, in all directions in & out you got your men women dogs children horses pones tics perts parts pans pools palls pails parturiences and petty Thieveries that turn into heavenly Buddha. Thus begins Kerouac's Joycean language dance. From birdsong to dharmic verse, street jargon to French slang, the resonances of the universe come blaring in though the windows, unfurling their meaning as the mind lets go and listens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Mar 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504033978

Jack Kerouac

<B>Jack Kerouac</B> was born in 1922 in Lowell, Massachusetts. The best-known of his many works, <I>On the Road</I>, published in 1957, was an international bestseller. He died in St. Petersburg, Florida, at the age of forty-seven.

Book preview

1Friday Afternoon In The Universe, in all directions in & out you got your men women dogs children horses pones tics perts parts pans pools palls pails parturiences and petty Thieveries that turn into heavenly Buddha—I know boy what’s I talkin about case I made the world & when I made it I no lie & had Old Angel Midnight for my name and concocted up a world so nothing you had forever thereafter make believe it’s real—but that’s alright because now everything’ll be alright & we’ll soothe the forever boys & girls & before we’re thru we’ll find a name for this Goddam Golden Eternity & tell a story too—and but d y aver read a story as vast as this that begins Friday Afternoon with workinmen on scaffolds painting white paint & ants merlying in lil black dens & microbes warring in yr kidney & mesaroolies microbing in the innards of mercery & microbe microbes dreaming of the ultimate microbe-hood which then ultimates outward to the endless vast empty atom which is this imaginary universe, ending nowhere & ne’er e’en born as Bankei well poled when he ferried his mother over the rocks to Twat You Tee and people visit his hut to enquire What other planet features this? & he answers What other planet? tho the sounds of the entire world are now swimming thru this window from Mrs McCartiola’s twandow & Ole Poke’s home dronk again & acourse you hear the cats wailing in the wailbar wildbar wartfence moonlight midnight Angel Dolophine immensity Visions of the Tathagata’s Seat of Purity & Womb so that here is all this infinite immaterial meadowlike golden ash swimswarming in our enlighten brains & the silence Shh shefallying in our endless ear & still we refuse naked & blank to hear What the Who? the Who? Too What You? will say the diamond boat & Persepine, Recipine, Mill town, Heroine, & Fack matches the silver ages everlasting swarmswallying in a simple broom—and at night ya raise the square white light from your ghost beneath a rootdrinkin tree & Coyote wont hear ya but you’ll ward off the inexistency devils just to pass the time away & meanwhile it’s timeless to the ends of the last lightyear it might as well be gettin late Friday afternoon where we start so’s old Sound can come home when worksa done & drink his beer & tweak his children’s eyes—

2and what talents it takes to bail boats out you’d never flank till flail pipe throwed howdy who was it out the bar of the seven seas and all the Italians of 7th Street in Sausaleety slit sleet with paring knives that were used in the ream kitchens to cut the innards of gizzards out on a board, wa, twa, wow, why, shit, Ow, man, I’m tellin you—Wait—We bait the rat and forget to mark the place and soon Cita comes and eat it and puke out grit—fa yen pas d cas, fa yen pas d case, chanson d idiot, imbecile, vas malade—la sonora de madrigal—but as soon as someone wants to start then the world takes on these new propensities:

1.Bardoush

(the way the craydon bi fa shta ma j en vack)

2.Flaki—arrete—interrupted chain saw sting eucalyptus words inside the outside void that good God we cant believe is anything so arsaphallawy any the pranaraja of madore with his bloody arse kegs, shit—go to

Reviews for Old Angel Midnight

[edwinbcn · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Socalled stream-of-conscious "automatic writing" is prone to lead to disappointment in readers, and even in it's best form somewhat difficult to appreciate. It should be considered the "abstract" painting of prose style. Kerouac's novels include some interesting experiments with this approach to writing. However, Old Angel Midnight should not be counted among his successes with this style. It is a bit unfair, too, because the introductrion states that these short pieces of writings were experiments, try-outs for Kerouac to develop his ability and style. Apparently, they were not intended for publication, and the title was added later. A later editors made various decisions about the order of the material. It is, therefore, questionable whether this material should have been published at all, and dubious to publish it as poetry, even though the short pieces look like poetry in terms of form. The collection of fragments known as Old Angel Midnight is also included in Vol. 1 of the poetry of Jack Kerouac in the Library of America edition.

[stahl2ricco · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Seriously, Kerouac is one of my all-time favorites, so to honestly review this, is painful for me.
This book is just a hot mess. I honestly understood maybe 1/50th of what I read. I know, I know - it's called spontaneous prose, or automatic writing. Like I said, I'm a big fan of the man. But this? This is just gobblydee gook! And much like those two words, full of crazy misspellings and abbreviations that make it virtually unreadable. I was sad as I turned each page, and would have given up entirely if not for brevity of the material. Gee whiz, I could have gone to the grave without knowing this was out in the world. I truly believe that only a famous author could have stuff like this actually published. I might have to re-read "On the Road" for the umpteenth time to get this bad taste outta my brain!