Neal Cassady
The Road-Burning Angel of the American Night
The road goes on forever, and I’m the ghost in its engine.
You won’t find me in one place, and I won’t find peace in any. I was born in Denver, raised by reform schools and rail lines, and baptized in the sweat of a jazz club at 3 A.M. Jack called me IT, Ginsberg called me love, and the cops called me a damn thief. I’m all of it. I’m motion, I’m madness, I’m the man who taught Sal Paradise how to really live—by never stopping long enough to die inside. I stole cars, stole time, stole hearts. I wrote letters that burned like tire rubber. And yeah, I crashed. But I never slowed.
What I'm Into: stolen pies, the wheel of a fast car, monologues that don’t end, jazz in all-night diners, Mexico at sunrise
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