Wandered into the main Public Library in Bryant Park, Manhattan today during a respite from our eBay merchandise expedition - saw the name "Kerouac" illuminated in neon over a portal inside by the main entrance. It is a new exhibit of the famous poet/writer that will open t
But a benevolent passerby changed our fortune. We shared the invitation and entered this massive treasure trove of Kerouac memorabilia from the Library collections. There were first editions of his works, some of them hardbacks, many were just paperbacks. We saw a first paperback edition of the Ace Double of William Burrough's "Junkie". There were a multitude of fascinating artifacts of the Beat era, photos, art and more. Did we say manuscripts? Jack was a busy writer. And there were his many little notebooks. We surreptitiously snapped a flashless photo of one of the precious notebooks, but the glass case probably prevented proper focus as you can see, no time for a retake. We did not want to be thrown out on our ears by the guards. And did we mention the dim lighting for conservation? It was a Kerouac shrine, all lovingly placed in glass cases and frames, including the giant scroll for "On The Road", which we skimmed the first 20 feet or so of the fragile and yellowed masterpiece with penciled-in corrections. We have heard about this for decades, but there it was in all its mystic glory. But there was a poignant air of evanescence and futility about the whole thing. The paperbacks had lurid and sensational covers, the photos and the notes were of a man that did not receive recognition while he was alive, but who is now lionized. Yet he passed away in the most humble of circumstances. Did we mention that the scroll sold a few years ago at auction for $2.4 million? He lived the life of a transient, and yet the tattered remnants of his life are now treasured in a strange and callous way as authentic expression fifty years later.
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