By the second week of June, Kerouac, is tanned, rested and prepared to write his novel. Typewriter on desk, and a fresh ream of paper, his desk lamp casts a luminescent ring over the battlefield set before him. He is especially inspired. He is pent up. He turns the pages of The Web and the Rock to place himself in the proper mindset:
“This novel is about one man’s discovery of life and of the world—discovery not in a sudden and explosive sense as when “a new planet swims into his ken,” but discovery through a process of finding out, and finding out as a man has to find out, through error and through trial, through fantasy and illusion, through falsehood and his own foolishness, through being mistaken and wrong and an idiot and egotistical and aspiring and hopeful and believing and confused, and pretty much what every one of us is, and goes through, and finds out about, and becomes.”
For Kerouac, Wolfe wrings truth from the phantom dogs of existence.
Wolfe wrings truth from the phantom dogs of existence.