Читать книгу Dr. Sax - Jack Kerouac - Страница 8

THERE ARE HUNDREDS of people strolling in the street, in the dream … it’s Sanurday sun Night, they’re all roshing to the Clo-Sol– Downtown, in real restaurants of reality, my mother and father, like shadows on a menu card sitting by a shadow-grill window with 1920’s drapes hanging heavy behind them, all an ad, saying “Thank you, call again to dine and dance at Ron Foo’s 467 Market Street Rochester,”—they’re eating at Chin Lee’s, he’s an old friend of the family’s, he knew me, gave us lichee nut for Christmas, one time a great Ming pot (placed on dark piano of parlor glooms and angels in dust veils with doves, the Catholicity of the swarming dust, and my thoughts); it’s Lowell, outside the decorated chink windows is Kearney Square teeming with life. “By Gosh,” says my father patting his belly, “that was a good meal.”

Step softly, ghost.