So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, and all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars’ll be out, and don’t you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all the rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty.”
"There is one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath."
“But now when the sun goes down and the holidaymakers start to leave and the local fisherman come and cast their lines from off the pier and are silhouetted by the red sunset, I think of the down-and-out bums lost in their alcoholic stupors. I think of the landscape; the rolling hills and snow-capped mountains. I think of the dead sheep lay in a heap among the herd. I think of the father and his mad son who are alone, and I think of Helena and my self and how we’re alone too. I think of the Senegalese vendors like ghosts who haunt the night, of those fishermen and of nature that surrounds us and at whose behest we may exist, and meanwhile it remains; the Pan di Zucchero, nature, the earth; enormous, mysterious, forever.”
"A mighty flame followeth a tiny spark."