Went to the Jack Kerouac On the Road exhibit at the New York Library, where they had the original scroll Jack wrote on (all 120 feet, though only the first 60 were laid out) unrolled down the middle of the exhibit room, like a yellowing center line on blacktop. Pictures and old letters lined the walls: Burroughs, Ginsburg, Corso, all old heroes of mine. I stared at one picture of Burroughs brandishing a knife until I thought he was going to come out of the picture and stab me in the heart.
Ginsburg seemed perfectly happy, pleased, even, under the scrutiny of the camera's gaze, Kerouac was resigned to the academic treatment, only Burroughs still seemed slightly feral, burning eyes and sallow skin radiating heat from 50 years past, saying, "Do your worst, you can't fuck me into submission."
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