"Suddenly came the drenching fall rains, all-night rain, millions of acres of Bo-trees being washed and washed, and in my attic millennial rats wisely sleeping."Now that's a very strange sentence, an oddly personal associative jump in the middle of it to the eternal rats. Not many prose writers alive (Celine, Genet, a few others) would have the freedom and intelligence to trust their own minds, remember they made that jump, not censor it but write it down and discover its beauty. That's what I look for in K's prose.
from Village Voice: Clip Job: Allen Ginsberg on The Dharma Bums
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