The Night I Drove Kerouac Home

By Phil Cousineau Photo by Matthew Ronder on Unsplash The amber lights flicker past as we slip across the long stretch of the Golden Gate Bridge.  The twin towers loom above us like colossal sentinels.  Foghorns moan across the Bay. Jan stares mournfully at the neon redley twinkle of the

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Coming to America

I think that I have a sort of foreigner trauma. I have never felt really comfortable in a place except for a very few years when I was a newlywed mother in Chile. We had a little prefab house where for a few years, I felt that that was really home. But as a child, and as a young adolescent, we were moving all the time, we were leaving behind countries, friends, sometimes a language.

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Graham Greene: Doubt in Many Places

Greene liked to live on “the dangerous edge of things.” Whether researching a story in Uruguay about the Tupamaros —a terrorist group, covering a civil war in Panama, or the French war in Indo-China, he believed in seeing the action for himself— like his character, Fowler, in The Quiet American–a journalist who does not attend the French press briefings but goes upcountry to experience the fighting for himself.

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The Book of Qualities

Courtesy loves conversation and all kinds of musical instruments—old, rare, and new. He knows who wants a simple thank you note and who wants a more elaborate expression of gratitude. He still likes to address envelopes. He writes condolence notes by hand.

Grieving our war-torn, speed-mad world Courtesy is often melancholy. Still, he takes great delight in the simple rituals of daily life.

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Coveting the Writer’s Cat

True Confession: I married a man who co-opted my cat and stole my identity as a writer. Darcy, who had earned his nickname for his aristocratic airs, at first refused to sit on my pristine linen couch, saying it was “redolent of dander.” Then when my wizened Maine Coon leapt upon on the bed, he hissed at her like an Old Tom, decreeing that when we lived together, there would be no cats.

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Refuge for a First-rate Mind

Samuel Butler was one of the greatest literary intellectuals of the Victorian age. After a miserable childhood, his life was, in large part, a search for a happy home. Butler was raised at the Rectory at Langar, a scrap of a village in Nottinghamshire, in a gracious, spacious, pleased-with-itself Georgian mansion with an ill-tempered clergyman father who was home all week, and a fluttery, manipulative mother who trapped him on the sofa until he confessed to some infraction.

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Sherlock’s Home

As I enter, Dr. Watson removes a decanter of brandy from the tantalus on the sideboard and pours me a drink, adding a splash of soda water from a handsome gasogene before inviting me to take a chair by the fireplace. I can see the ‘VR’ on the pockmarked wall created by a bored Holmes with his revolver. In the corner is the wax bust he used to deceive Colonel Sebastian Moran (“the second most dangerous man in London”) and nearby, a violin left carelessly close to Holmes’ glassware and chemicals on a lab table.

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Shelley’s Perfect Villa

In England, Shelley’s health was poor and he was deeply depressed; he blamed his ills on living there, on “the smoke of cities, and the tumult of human kind, on the chilling fogs and rain.”

Shelley believed that moving to Italy would change everything. “Health, competence, tranquility,” he wrote a friend “all these Italy permits, and England takes away.” His chief pleasure in life was “the contemplation of nature” and Italy’s natural beauty would satisfy him as no other place could.

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The Philosophy of Sailing

“The sea is in all things the teacher of men….Time on the water is quite different from time on land. It is more continuous; it is more part of the breathing of the world; less mechanical and divided for it is in the hours when he is alone at the helm, steering his boat along the shores, that a man broods most upon the past, and most deeply considers the nature of things.”

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