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October in The Railroad Earth / Octubre en las vías del Tren (1957)

October in The Railroad Earth / Octubre en las vías del Tren (1957)

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El siguiente texto está consagrado, por la crítica y por el mismo Kerouac, como una de las mejores muestras de escritura espontánea de la obra de Jack Kerouac. Aunque fue escrito en 1957, no se publicó en formato libro hasta 1960 en la recopilación de ensayos Lonesome Traveler.
Aquí podrás leer el texto en formato bilingue (en el idioma original y en castellano)
Título original: October in The Railroad Earth.
Traducción: Martín Abadía
El siguiente texto está consagrado, por la crítica y por el mismo Kerouac, como una de las mejores muestras de escritura espontánea de la obra de Jack Kerouac. Aunque fue escrito en 1957, no se publicó en formato libro hasta 1960 en la recopilación de ensayos Lonesome Traveler.
Aquí podrás leer el texto en formato bilingue (en el idioma original y en castellano)
Título original: October in The Railroad Earth.
Traducción: Martín Abadía

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Published by: Juan Ignacio Antonio on Dec 21, 2012
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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06/06/2014

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text

original

 
Dossier
 
Kerouac:
 
October
 
in
 
The
 
Railroad
 
Earth
 
/
 
Octubre
 
en
 
las
 
vías
 
del
 
Tren
 
(1957)
 
N. del T
: El siguiente texto está consagrado, por la crítica y por el mismoKerouac, como una de las mejores muestras de escritura espontánea de laobra de Jack Kerouac. Aunque fue escrito en 1957, no se publicó enformato libro hasta 1960 en la recopilación de ensayos
 Lonesome Traveler 
.Aquí podrás leer el texto y escuchar al propio Kerouac leyéndolo. Debajo,la traducción al castellano.
Título original
:
October in The Railroad Earth
.
Traducción
: Martín Abadía
 
There was a little alley in San Francisco back of the Southern Pacificstation at Third and Townsend in redbrick of drowsy lazy afternoons witheverybody at work in offices in the air you feel the impending rush of theircommuter frenzy as soon they’ll be charging en masse from Market andSansome buildings on foot and in buses and all well-dresses thruworkingman Frisco of Walkup truck drives and even the poor grime-bemarked Third Street of lost bums even Negroes so hopeless and long leftEast and meanings of responsibility and try that now all they do is standthere spitting in the broken glass sometimes fifty in one afternoon againstone wall at Third and Howard and here’s all these Millbrae and San Carlosneat-necktied producers and commuters of America and Steel Civilizationrushing by with San Francisco Chronicles and green Call-Bulletins noteven enough time to be disdainful, they’ve got to catch 130, 1321, 134, 136all the way up to 146 till the time of evening supper in
 
homes of the railroadearth when high in the sky the magic stars ride above the following hotshotfreight trains. It’s all in California, it’s all a sea, I swim out of it inafternoons of sum hot meditation in my jeans with head on handkerchief orbrakeman’s lantern or (if not working) on book, I look up at blue sky of perfect lostpurity and feel the warp of wood of old America beneath meand have insane conversations with Negroes in second-story windowsabove and everything is pouring in, the switching moves of boxcars in thatlittle alley which is so much like the alleys of Lowell and I hear far off inthe sense of coming night that engine calling our mountains.
 
But it was that beautiful cut of clouds I could always see above the littleS.P. alley, puffs floating by from Oakland or the Gate of Marin to the northor San Jose south, the clarity of Cal to break your heart. It was the fantasticdrowse and drum of hum of lum mum afternoon nathin’ to do, old Friscowith end of land sadness — the people — the alley full of trucks and cars
 
of business nearabouts and nobody knew or far from cared who I was allmy like three thousand five hundred miles from birth-O opened up and atlast belonged to me in Great America.
 
Now it’s night in Third Street the keen little neons and also yellowbulblights of impossible-to-believe flops with dark ruined shadows movingback of torn yellow shades like a degenerate China with no money — thecats in Annie’s Alley, the flop comes on, moans, rolls, the street is loadedwith darkness. Blue sky above with stars hanging high over old hotel roofsand blowers of hotels moaning out dusts of interior, the grime inside theword in mouths falling out tooth by tooth, the reading rooms tick tock bigclock with creak chair and slantboards and old faces looking up overrimless spectacles bought in some West Virginia or Florida or LiverpoolEngland pawnshop long before I was born and across rains they’ve come tothe end of the land sadness end of the world gladness all your SanFranciscos will have to fall eventually and burn again.
 
But I’m walking and one night a bum fell into the hole of construction jobwhere theyre tearing a sewer by day the husky Pacific & Electric youths intorn jeans who work there often I think of going up to some of em like sayblond ones with wild hair and torn shits and say “You oughta apply for therailroad its much easier work you dont stand around the street all day andyou get much more pay” but this bum fell in the hole you saw his foot stick out, a British MG also driven by some eccentric once bucked into the holeand as I came home from a long Saturday afternoon local to Hollister out of San Jose miles away across verdurous fields of prune and juice joy here’sthis British MG backed and legs up wheels up into a pit and bums and cops

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