KEROUAC, Jack (1922-1969). Typed letter signed (“Jack”) to Ed White, 9 May 1949, postmarked Jamaica, New York; with an early excerpt from On the Road.

Quarto. Three leaves; both sides; tape to verso; one autograph emendation. With envelope addressed in type.

One of the longest letters from Kerouac to Ed White, six densely-filled pages, and with an early excerpt from On the Road. Jack was freed from the constraints of thinking that what he wrote would be read not only by Ed but also by Burford and Jeffries and the result was a great freewheeling sweep of words, tinged with sadness, seemingly propelled by a need to understand and articulate the workings of the universe. In part:

I’ve been writing to you as if to the 3 of you, not knowing that actually you were alone. Therefore with great pleasure I revert to the old-fashioned letter – since Burf and Jeffries, tho great guys, might not catch on, somehow; tho of course I know they would. I am in a great gigantically sad mood to write a long letter anyhow – and I think you need one at this point. I can see you when you receive this letter. Perceiving its immense bulk, you’ll make great preparations before reading it. You’ll repair to a sidewalk table, order a pernod, spread the sheets, light up a butt, glance around leisurely a moment, and begin reading.

The letter roams from topic to topic. “My whole point sometimes resolves itself in: ‘What are we going to do?’ And in a statement: ‘There is no need to care, but care is man’s only need.’ And don’t I love to talk about myself. What a gigantic loneliness this all is.” Toward the bottom of page three he asks, What is Love? The meeting of two souls in a tangle of shrouds? And so on – (here I am dishonestly, merely copying some notes.) I’m in a very mad and nervous mood and actually don’t quite know what to say, except that I want to say everything at once to you. But the realest thing I felt when I woke up from this dream was that what we are doing here (in all this) is trying to do our best in whatever world we find ourselves.

The sixth page commands, “Read this description of the mobsters in jail listening to Gangbusters on Saturday night, in my 2nd novel On the Road.” Several paragraphs are excerpted, beginning with the line, “They even sat encircled in darkness like children, with eager regards, bending their ear to the human voice on the radio, the very voices so pathetically dedicated to the unravelment of some absurd plot about crime and eventual punishment at the hands of the law.”

His closing comment poses the challenge: “Write a madder letter if you can.”