Just now, 11am February 23, 2021, read in the NYT that Lawrence Ferlinghetti died. He was a friend of the Library, friend of the Big Sur coast and friend of artist everywhere. We will miss him as will many, many people around the world. Below text written by Henry Miller’s dear friend Bill Webb in 1991.

The photos above, by William Webb, are of Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Joanna Jarvis, Mary Webb and Emil White. The dog’s name is unknown.. (The note was given to the gate to give to me, Magnus, during a poetry slam when Lawrence stopped by but didn’t have $10 for the cover. We of course comped him so he could visit and enjoy some of the slam! The volunteers at the gate were a little bit embarrassed.)

Lawrence Ferlinghetti  by William Webb, 1991

Lawrence and Henry, so far as I know, barely knew one another. They shared a kind of generic address, though strict constructionists would not include Bixby Canyon in Big Sur. Lawrence had a cabin near the mouth of Bixby Canyon, a short walk from the shore. Here he would come from time to time to write, and edit the work of others he was to publish in his City Lights Books. And here is where Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg sojourned once upon a time. 

While visiting at Lawrence’s cabin Kerouac once decided he’d like to run down the coast and meet Henry. Lawrence made the arrangements for the next day, but at the appointed time was obliged to phone Henry that Jack had overindulged and was in no condition to make the drive. 

Lawrence and Henry shared an outlook and concerns that made them sympatico, even if they weren’t close friends. In his poetry Lawrence spoke out powerfully against the indifference and in-sensitivity of America to its artists, a theme that Henry worked again and again. To both men, Kenneth Patchen was a poignant symbol of this neglect, and both men gave of themselves to come to his aid. 

In continual agony during his last years, the result of a youthful injury to his back, Patchen was reduced to penury, relieved only by occasional minute royalty payments and handouts from his loyal friends. Several of us were trying to do some-thing for him during this trying period. Lawrence published what he could through his City Lights Books, and Henry launched public campaigns to try to marshall the faithful. 

Suffering incredible pain, Kenneth was often outside of himself, lucid when drawing/writing one of his picture poems, but paranoid and very difficult otherwise, or so I thought. 

In the end, it seemed hopeless that anything might be done. Whatever we were able to offer was looked upon suspiciously, as some cagey way of exploiting the Patchens, but Henry and Lawrence never gave up.