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Poetic life :

becoming a writer

while living in a down and out hotel


                 "In the few years that I came to inhabit the Ivanhoe Hotel, I often found myself locked away in my cell in that moribund cloister, as I had done in my apartments years earlier, though now my room was amidst a condemned fraternity of other men, most of whom were twice my age- in wearied appearance if not in years- most of whom who had fallen away from life, who were unemployed, divorced or never married, drunks and junkies, oddballs, idlers, morons, and thieves, and also a large number who simply had no desire for the troubles of respectability and success required in the showboat world; such outward ostentations were superfluous divergences for which they had no need and yet which the world still proceeded to hold up to them as mirrors of condemnation and judgment everyday.

                It was a domesticated pack of lone wolves in the Hotel, all seeking shelter from the unendurable rain, all under the same sorrowful roof, in rooms stained with a hundred years of blood, semen, urine, wine, and tears. A prideless pack of ugly ducklings, runts, scapegoats, hobbled stallions, and flightless eagles cursed to the ignominy of the crumbling perch.

                All that most of these men wanted- and all they got, for that matter- was a cold beer before noon, a cigarette every hour, a hot meal at night, and the deathly silence of the halls and rooms of this outcastís priory, in which each in his own solitude could slowly, methodically recount, contemplate, and admit to the broken steps which they had chosen and which had led to their troubled and valueless lives.

                The whole place was like a living morgue, where the undead cadavers moved about in sloth and melancholy, haunting their own rooms with a sentence placed upon them by no one but themselves.

   Thus the many rooms I came to inhabit over the next few years became my inner-city castle and keep. It was within the protected confines of these cells that, locked away in the inner altar of the soul, the images and tribulations within me would ferment up and boil over, spilling out onto page after page as manic notes, taken like an incarcerated secretary receiving dictation from a verbose and brutal master. In short, I was becoming a writer, which is a simple way of saying- all hope was lost.

                I say this because I was not born blessed with an affinity for the artistís finesse in life, but rather for its rough and wild side, and so instead of effortlessly penning artful sentences, eloquently delineating the subtler aspects of life, I had to learn to write as one with only a battleaxe for a quill, and his own blood for the ink. ..."



Excerpted from IN, AND OF, by Jack Haas






What the critics have said about Jack Haas' books:


"...very strongly recommended reading..." Midwest Book Review

"The Kerouac of the new millennium." Frank Wolf (author of Blind Bay)

"...inspires us to rediscover the mystery of ourselves..." Judine Slaughter (Express Yourself Books)

"...Read in awe." Benjamin Tucker (author of Roadeye)

"...groundbreaking..." Joanne Turner (The Messenger)

" embarrassment of riches..." George Fisk (author of A New Sense of Destiny)

"...poetic and stunning..." Nancy Jackson (Dog-Eared Book Reviews)






Books by Jack Haas

to see more about the books, click on the image.




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