It’s called And the Hippos Were Boiled in Their Tanks. The hippos. Because Burroughs and I were sitting in a bar one night and we heard a newscaster saying “…and so the Egyptians attacked blah blah … and meanwhile there was a great fire in the zoo in London and the fire raced across the fields and the hippos were boiled in their tanks! Goodnight everyone!” That’s Bill, he noticed that. Because he notices them kind of things.
Jack Kerouac, on the novel he wrote with William S. Burroughs
Phillip started telling me about Gerald Heard’s The Third Morality, about biological mutation, and finally about how the more forward-looking dinosaurs mutated into mammals while the bourgeois dinosaurs became extinct.
He had a third martini. He looked at me intently and took hold of my arm. “Look,” he said. “You’re a fish in a pond. It’s drying up. You have to mutate into an amphibian, but someone keeps hanging on to you and telling you to stay in the pond, everything’s going to be all right.”
I asked him why he didn’t take yoga in that case, and he said the sea was more to the point.
Jack Kerouac, And the Hippos Were Boiled in Their Tanks
For seven days she lay in bed looking sullenly at the ceiling as though resenting the death she had cultivated for so many years. Like some people who cannot vomit despite horrible nausea, she lay there unable to die, resisting death as she had resisted life, frozen with resentment of process and change.
And The Hippos Were Boiled in Their Tanks by William S. Burroughs and Jack Kerouac
Phillip walked away from 60th Street and I watched him for a while. I felt like running after him to say good-bye again. He disappeared around the corner walking determinedly, as if he were on his way to work, and I went back inside the bar. I saw the change on the sidewalk and went back outside to pick it up. Then I reentered the bar and ordered a beer and sat in an empty booth.
It was the loneliest beer I ever had.
Jack Kerouac, And The Hippos Were Boiled In Their Tanks