The first time I met Dean was shortly after my wife and I separated. I had just gotten over a serious illness which I won’t bother to talk about, except that it had something to do with the sad and painful break-up and with my feeling that everything was dead. With the arrival of Dean Moriarty began that part of my life you could call my life on the road. Up to that point I had always dreamed of going West to see the continent, always making vague plans and never leaving. Dean is the perfect type for a journey because he was literally born on the road, when his parents passed through Salt Lake City, in 1926, in an old jalopy headed for Los Angeles. The first news I got about him was from Chad King, who had shown me some of his letters written from a reformatory in New Mexico. I was enormously interested in those letters because they asked Chad, in such an innocent and sweet way, to teach him everything about Nietzsche and all the wonderful intellectual topics Chad knew. At some point, Carlo and I talked about the letters and wondered if we would ever meet that strange Dean Moriarty. All this happened a long time ago, when Dean was not yet what he is today, but just a young convict wrapped in mystery. Then came the news that Dean had gotten out of the reformatory and was coming to New York for the first time; it was said that he had just married a girl named Marylou. One day I was loafing around the University City and Chad and Tim Grey told me that Dean was living in an apartment without hot running water in East Harlem, Spanish Harlem. Dean had arrived in New York the night before for the first time with Marylou, his beautiful and lively chick…(Jack Kerouac)
Greet with joy!
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