Re-reading The Dharma Bums, which is making me feel old and weary with its faux-naivety and its golden-glow masking of the general cuntery of the protagonists involved; but every so often the odd bit of magic will shine through – particularly in the mountain scenes, which still have a simple joy about them, however forced. The odd bit like this, which comes after their moonlit descent of the Matterhorn:
We got in the car and drove back to San Francisco drinking and laughing and telling long stories and Morley really drove beautifully that night and wheeled us silently through the graying dawn streets of Berkeley as Japhy and I slept dead to the world in the seats. At some point or other I woke up like a little child and was told I was home and staggered out of the car and went across the grass into the cottage and opened my blankets and curled up and slept till late the next afternoon a completely dreamless beautiful sleep. When I woke up the next day the veins in my feet were all cleared. I had worked the blood clots right out of existence. I felt very happy.