One night in the summer of 1945...
First Meeting with Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg at Columbia University
One night in the summer of 1945 I was with a fellow named Hal Chase. We had been drinking and since we were both young and full of the juice of life, we took to speaking of life. Hal, at that time was quite an influence on me, mainly because he had done things that I had not. It follows that what he said to me was more important than might otherwise be the case.
"Another fellow I was most interested in was one Allen Ginsberg."
"Yea? who's he?"
"He's a terribly decadent intellectual whom I roomed with last year at school."
"Tell me about him."
"Well, I don't know of a proper beginning point. However, he's a poet, but, unlike many when he composes rhyme he calls it shit and the like. Also he takes great delight in proving one wrong and even though he knows little of what one is talking about he'll start contradicting, and through sheer perseverance wear one doubt and make one doubt oneself. In fact, he bothered me so much that near the end of the term I had to take defensive measures."
"Oh yeah? in what way?"
"It's most difficult to explain, but, the main point is --"
Then he described in a rather vague way what he had done to "defend himself" from this wild, terribly brilliant, yet terribly decadent young man. Hal then spoke of his friend's homosexuality and its disasterous effects.
In a short twenty minutes I had an extreme, abstract portrait of a young college Jew, whose amazing mind had the germ of decay in it and whose sterility had produced a blasé, yet fascinating, mask. His soul had dried up into a mind which excreted verbalistic poetry, and his handmade sexlife had created a cynical, symbolic outlook toward all the confusions of life.
This picture, becoming more abstract as time passed, remained firmly with me. Occasionally I wondered about this Allen, but the speculation about him had ceased to be conscious. I had even forgotten he was queer when one evening 18 months later, I met him.
I had gone to New York in the fall of 1946, and having just arrived, I looked up Hal Chase. After supper we went to a rather vapid bar near the campus. We had just ordered our drinks when Hal recognized a voice and said "that's Allen Ginsberg" just as a head popped up from the next booth and looked at me. He had coal-black hair which struck my eye first. It was a bit too long yet not an over-done mass of garish distaste as some more normal poet of an intellectual nature might affect. I was pleased with the manner in which the hair parted and fell into a natural forelock and the swept back sides were perfect for his face, the appearance of its perfectious grooming was belied by the realization that he gave little attention to his crowning glory. Passing from his natural attribute my eyes fastened on his nose. It was a plainly jewish nose, but, more modified than most, in fact, instead of standing out on the face, as is the usual wont of jewish noses, his seemed to blend into a simple statement -- "this is a nose, with which to breathe and smell" -- his lips were heavy, over-full, almost negroid. At first glance I thought them sensual, yet, looking closer, I somehow felt they lay too peacefully when in repose and disappeared too quickly in a smile to be called sensual or lustful in the accepted sense. Rather, instinctively I felt them there just as the nose was, to be used, not accentuated. If there was any part of his face he was conscious of, it was the eyes. They were large, dark, and brooding. I was not quite sure how much of the brooding was there as such; and how much he was putting there for us to read into.
His voice, although I've heard it a thousand times, escapes my memory. I recall it was pleasant, varied and cultured, but the tone qualities are lost to me.
Hal looked up and said "hello Allen." Allen nodded, a bit curt I thought.
"This is Neal Cassady, he just got in from Denver and has never been here before."
"Hello."
"How do you do."
Neal's looking for a place to stay, any suggestions?"
"Has he tried the Mills Hotel?"
"Hardly, since he's got his wife with him."
"Oh well then, I don't know of any place around here."
We both sat down again in our respective booths. Allen was with someone Hal didn't know and since there were several in our party anyway, there was no attempt made for the two parties to get together.
A few moments later Allen again stuck his head over the top of the booths. "Is your name LuAnne? What a strange name," he said and sat back down. My wife mumbled "yes", looked embarrassed, and suggested we leave. We did.
I didn't see Allen for over a month, then, about January 10, 1947, we met again. A close friend, Jack Kerouac, suggested that we go uptown and he would introduce me to a fabulous woman named Vicki. He had spoken of her many times before and since it suited my mood, I acquiesced.
She lived on 89th St. on the top floor of a large studio apartment building. When we got off the elevator and started down the narrow hall I hear a loud, rapidly talking male voice in eager and earnest oratory. I paused outside the door to listen. He was talking even faster than I had first supposed, so fast, in fact, I half expected the words to blur and run together, but they did not.
"That's Norman. He's a nut on Reichian-Analisis."
"What's that?"
"You'll find out," said Jack and then lightly rapped on the door. The flow of words ceased at once and a girl's voice inquired "Yes, who is it?"
"It's Jack."
"Just a moment."
The door bolts were unlatched and Jack shuffled forward, I followed.
"Hello, greetings and all that, you wonderful boy," slurped Vicki as she gushingly kissed his cheek. Jack quickly looked around the room and mumbled "hello," and then perceiving Allen, "Hi, what you say?"
My first view of the room saw how small it was. I judged it to be about 10 x 14 ft. with a bed and dresser the only furniture. On the bed, which obviously was the seat of all activity that took place in the room, sat Norman and Vicki. Jack and I stood and Allen occupied the small stool by the radio, which was playing...