The air was so sweet in New Orleans it seemed to come in soft bandannas; and you could smell the river and really smell the people, and mud, and molasses, and every kind of tropical exhalation, with your nose suddenly removed from the dry ices of a Northern winter.
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APAJack Kerouac Quotes. (n.d.). Jar of Quotes. Retrieved , from JarofQuotes.com Web site: https://www.jarofquotes.com/view.php?id=the-air-was-sweet-in-new-orleans-it-seemed-to-come-in-soft-bandannas-you-could-smell-river-really-smell-people-mud-molasses-every-kind-jack-kerouac
ChicagoJack Kerouac Quotes. Jar of Quotes, 2019. https://www.jarofquotes.com/view.php?id=the-air-was-sweet-in-new-orleans-it-seemed-to-come-in-soft-bandannas-you-could-smell-river-really-smell-people-mud-molasses-every-kind-jack-kerouac, accessed .
MLA"Jack Kerouac Quotes." Jar of Quotes, 2019. . https://www.jarofquotes.com/view.php?id=the-air-was-sweet-in-new-orleans-it-seemed-to-come-in-soft-bandannas-you-could-smell-river-really-smell-people-mud-molasses-every-kind-jack-kerouac
It's a sort of furtiveness ... Like we were a generation of furtive. You know, with an inner knowledge there's no use flaunting on that level, the level of the 'public', a kind of beatness "" I mean, being right down to it, to ourselves, because we all really know where we are "" and a weariness with all the forms, all the conventions of the world ... It's something like that. So I guess you might say we're a beat generation.
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And what does the rain say at night in a small town, what does the rain have to say? Who walks beneath dripping melancholy branches listening to the rain? Who is there in the rain's million-needled blurring splash, listening to the grave music of the rain at night, September rain, September rain, so dark and soft? Who is there listening to steady level roaring rain all around, brooding and listening and waiting, in the rain-washed, rain-twinkled dark of night?
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You don't realize what a strain it is on the nerves to write or think-of-writing all day long, and to sleep full of nervous dreams, and to wake up not knowing who one is: this all stems from anxiety about finishing the book, about time 'growing short', etc., and the perpetual strain of invention.
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