The entire purpose of our Lowell trip was in homage to Jack Kerouac, whom Sam adores. We trekked a really long time to his grave, which was somewhat disappointing - it said something really simple and cliche, like, "He loved life," or something, and that's all - and not very picture worthy. (I've never gotten all that into photographing graves, anyway.) But there was also this really pleasant, small shady park off a side street dedicated to him, which consisted of slabs of marble engraved with excerpts of his different poetry/stories/ramblings. Although I've never been a huge Kerouac reader myself, my favorite part was on the biographical information slab, which it took me awhile to figure out was taken from his own words. Read and studied alone all my life. Had own mind. - Am known as "madman bum and angel" with "naked endless head" of "prose." - Also a verse poet, Mexico City Blues - Always considered writing my duty on earth. Also the preachment of universal kindness, which hysterical critics have failed to notice beneath frenetic activity of my true-story novels about the "beat" generation. - Am not actually "beat" but strange solitary crazy Catholic mystic. . . Final plans: hermitage in the woods, quiet writing of old age, mellow hopes of Paradise (which comes to everybody anyway) - 1960

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