Of the Beats, Ferlinghetti is more or less the only one whose work I keep returning to; Kerouac offers diminishing returns as I grow older, Burroughs makes my head hurt, and frankly, I’m too prudish for most of Ginsberg. When I was traveling around the US before moving home, I stopped at City Lights on my last day in San Francisco; as I was rummaging around on the second floor, the door to the office opened and there he was. He smiled at me and nodded before closing the door. As a farewell to the Bay, it was almost too on-the-nose.