In one volume are many of the letters he penned while at this house in Orlando: letters to editors, friends, fellow writers like Ginsberg and Snyder, and family. Letters laced with anger, some with sweetness, some with regret, some with contempt for publishers, editors, reviewers and critics. The volumes of letters may be the most telling of the inner literary genius and, maybe more so, the inner man.
Kerouac was complex, to say the least; a man who knew his faults but believed in his work. A sweet son when he wished, a great friend when he cared to be, and even a good husband - at times.
Letters - it's a shame we don't write them like we used to. A volume of email exchanges from a writer like Kerouac just wouldn't be the same.