
No one recommended this book to me, but I found it in my granddaughter’s street side lending library and, curious, realized that I had never ever read any of Henry Miller’s books (not to be confused with Henry James, of several generations earlier but a similar genre) although I recognized the name as a classic writer. He lived mostly in Manhattan and California.
After reading about 60 pages, I realized the wisdom of avoiding Henry Miller’s’ writing. At that point he is entirely negative about everything, including life itself.
Writing in the first person singular tense, there is little plot but what there is him working to hire employees for the Cosmodemonic telegraph company. The main narrative is nothing but a free flow of random thoughts, with a stream of consciousness that defies any logic. Later there are snippets of family history and perhaps some autobiography. Sex-obsessed, almost the whole book is loaded with the most explicit pornographic description of casual sexual encounters that you will ever read. (The book was banned in the U.S. until 1961.) Women and girls are just play toys, apparently always available.
In the last 50 pages or so, he develops some semi-sensible reflections of a philosophical nature about trying to become a writer albeit still abstract, contradictory, and negative, but at least without pornography.
To give a sense of the schizophrenic goobledygook, surrealist free association, and mysticism that comprises much of the book, one quote will suffice: « From Times Square to 58th Street, all that Saint Thomas Aquinas forgot to include in his Opus Magnus is here included, which is to say among other things, hamburger sandwiches, collar buttons, poodle dogs, slot machines, grey bowlers, typewriter ribbons, oranges sticks, free toilets, sanitary napkins, mint jubes, billiard balls, chopped onions, crinkled doilies, manholes, chewing gum, sidecars and sour-balls, cellophane, cord tyres, magnetos, horse linament, cough drops, feenamint, and that feline opacity of the hysterically endowed eunich who marches to the soda fountain with a sawed off shotgun between his legs ».
Suffice it to say I will not be reading more of this author.
1/5


















