So he drank himself to death. Which is only another way of living, of handling the pain and foolishness of knowing that it’s all a dream, a great, baffling, silly emptiness, after all.
”’You should sign up for this,’ my sister said, showing me an article about a bookstore that doubles as a matchmaking service. At the Brooklyn indie, lovelorn bookworms choose their prospective romantic interests based on their list of favorite authors pinned to a cork board. The article went on to point out that women never wrote down Jack Kerouac as one of their coveted authors.
My decade-long enamor with the poets and writers of the Beat Generation was about to pay off. As the only woman who adored Kerouac, I would be the vixen of the literary matchmaking board.”
—Stephanie Nikolopoulos, “On the Highway of Love, Jack Kerouac Divides Men and Women,” a look at the gendered fandom of Jack Kerouac.
We turned at a dozen paces, for love is a duel, and looked at each other for the last time