Close Readings Modern Technique and Tradition

Thats right, man, now youre talking. And a kind of

Holy lightning I saw flashing from his excitement and
his visions, which he described so torrentially that people
in buses looked around to see the overexcited nut. In
the West he had spent a third of his time in the poolhall, a
third of his time in jail, and a third of his time in the
public library. Theyd seen him, rushing eagerly down
the winter streets, bareheaded, carrying books to the
poolhall, or climbing trees to get into the attics of
buddies where he spent days reading or hiding from the
law. 1955 J ack Kerouac

from On the
Road

"Our battered
suitcases were
piled on the
sidewalk again;
we had longer
ways to go. But
no matter, the
road is life."


The only people for me are
the mad ones, the ones who
are mad to live, mad to talk,
mad to be saved, desirous
of everything at the same
time, the ones who never
yawn or say a
commonplace thing, but
burn, burn, burn, like
fabulous yellow roman
candles exploding like
spiders across the stars..."
-- "On The Road


We turned off the Avenue up the Rue des Pyramides, through
the traffic of the Rue de Rivoli, and through a dark gate in to
the Tuileries. She cuddled against me and I put my arm
around her. She looked up to be kissed. She touched me with
one hand and I put her hand away.
Never mind.
Whats the matter? You sick?
Yes.
Everybodys sick. Im sick, too.

1926 Ernest Hemingway
from The Sun Also Rises
We kissed again on the stairs and as I called for
the cordon the concierge muttered something
behind her door. I went back upstairs and from
the open window watched Brett walking up the
street to the big limosine drawn up to the curb
under the arclight. She got in and it started off.
I turned around. On the table was an empty
glass and a glass half-full of brandy and soda. I
took them both out to the kitchen and poured
the half-full glass down the sink. I turned off
the gas in the dining room, kicked off my
slippers sitting on the bed, and got into bed.
This was Brett, that I had felt like crying about.
Then I thought of her walking up the street and
stepping into the car, as I had last seen her, and
of course in a little while I felt like hell again.
It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about
everything in the daytime, but at night it is
another thing. TSAR p. 34
Painting of Hemingway
as Kid Balzac
By artist pal
Waldo Pierce
Joey Perrone leaned back and turned her draped face toward the fading light.
The sky out there, I bet its all pink and gold. God, I must look like a horror with
this blindfold.
Is Chaz your first husband?
Second. The first one died. She added quickly: In an accident.
That sucks.
He was a stockbroker. Chaz is a biologist.
Stranahan said, The no-see-ums are chewing you up. Lets go back inside.
Funny, the only time my eyes really hurt is when I cry, she said. If only I
could stop.
Come on, take my hand.
No, I like it out here. The bugs dont bother me. Joey gave a defiant sniffle.
And, listen, its not that s.o.b. Chaz Perrone that Im bawling about. Im ninety-
nine percent sure I didnt even love him anymore.
2004 Carl Hiassen
from Skinny Dip

Though perhaps not an artist
of literary merit Carl
Hiaasen did actually win the
Newberry Honor Award for
his childrens book Hoot.
He could see the street down which he had come, and
the other street, the one which had almost betrayed him;
and further away and at right angles, the far bright
rampart of the town itself, and in the angle between the
black pit from which he had fled with drumming heart
and glaring lips. No light came from it, from here no
breath, no odor. It just lay there, black, impenetrable, in
its garland of Augusttremulous lights. It may have been
the original quarry, abyss itself.
1932 William Faulkner
from Light in August

Good morning, old sport. Youre having lunch with me today and
I thought wed ride up together.
He was balancing himself on the dashboard of his car with
that resourcefulness of movement that is so peculiarly American
that comes, I suppose, with the absence of lifting work or rigid
sitting in youth and, even more with the formless grace of our
nervous, sporadic games. This quality was constantly breaking
through his punctilious manner in the shape of restlessness. He was
never quite still; there was always a tapping foot somewhere or the
impatient opening and closing of a hand.
He saw me looking with admiration at his car.
Its pretty isnt it, old sport? He jumped off to give me a better
view.
1925 F. Scott Fitzgerald
from The Great Gatsby
Henry came banging out of the door, shoving his tie inside his vest as he came.
Elisa stiffended and her face grew tight. Henry stopped short and looked at her,
Whywhy, Elisa. You look so nice!
Nice? You think I look nice? What do you mean by nice?
Henry blundered on, I dont know. I mean you look different, strong and happy.
I am strong? Yes, strong. What do you mean strong?
He looked bewildered. Youre playing some kind of game, he said helplessly.
Its a kind of a play. You look strong enough to break a calf over your knee, happy
enough to eat it like a watermelon.
For a second she lost her rigidity. Henry! Dont talk like that. You didnt know
what you said. She grew complete again. Im strong, she boasted, I never
knew before how strong.
1937 John Steinbeck
from The Chrysanthemums