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September 24, 2010
Dreaming in American: Henry Miller.
My people were entirely Nordic. Every wrong idea which has ever been expounded was theirs. Never once had they opened the door that leads to the soul; never once did they dream of taking a blind leap into the dark.
--Henry Miller (1891–1980), Tropic of Capricorn (Grove Press, 1961)
Even when denouncing his own European tribe, he was funny, profound and painfully on target. Born in Manhattan and (interestingly) of German-Catholic parents, Henry Miller, novelist and painter, lived in Paris, Big Sur, Pacific Palisades, and many places in between. An inspiration to more than a few Beat poets and writers, he was a generation older than them--and beat most of them to it.
He lent an angry but insightful, funny and bawdy voice to the sentiment that Americans were too desperately conformist, unwittingly sterile and flat-out afraid to seize and live real life. Despite his often tiresome overtures of extreme existential dread, Miller was, and is, way fun to read. He could write beautifully; at his best, no one is better.
Women. He knew how to write about them in any profession, culture or walk of life. When he wrote of women, he was infuriating, hilarious or touching, moving easily from porn and hate, to awe and worship. Deep down, I think Miller loved them all--especially when he ranted against them. The whores of Paris, too.
"Every man with a bellyful of the classics is an enemy to the human race."
Posted by JD Hull at September 24, 2010 12:00 AM