Ecstatic Beauty and Appalling Prickishness: Sexus, by Henry Miller

Henry Miller is a genius of words. I’ve read two of his books thus far, Tropic of Capricorn (companion piece to his most famous work, Tropic of Cancer) and Sexus (first novel in The Rosy Crucifixion trilogy, through which I will endeavor to persevere). There’s no denying his singular talent, the joyous, passionate, often transcendent passages his pen produced, the meditative soliloquies on life, universe, the human spirit, and, also compelling, insight into the tortuous life of a self-doubting writer in 1920s Paris and New York.

But he’s also a huge fucking prick, and I’m not sure I can get over that.

Purchased at San Francisco Library Spring Book Sale. Grove Press, 1965.

Granted, there’s no 100% guarantee that the thoughts and opinions contained within the narrator—a semi-autobiographical “Henry V. Miller”—are 100% the thoughts and opinions of the author. In fact, one of the more interesting things about Miller’s prose is that he often refrains from making value judgments on anything, and rather observes the people around him, the scenes he encounters, and extrapolates from these what are often grandiose philosophies on life and the self. Yet there’s no denying “Henry V. Miller” is a prick, and it’s almost impossible to not by extension grant Henry Miller the same designation.

I noticed it first in Tropic of Capricorn. Miller’s novels were extremely controversial when they were first published– Sexus and its sequels Plexus and Nexus were actually banned for about twelve years in the U.S.– because of their graphic content, mostly explicit sex. From detailed descriptions of genitalia and sex acts to the proliferation of extremely casual encounters, extramarital affairs, illicit group sex and queer trysts, he’s not for the faint of heart. The narrator is an insatiable womanizer and, I mean, kind of a sex addict. Literally every woman he sees is fair game. And almost every woman who becomes game is objectified, an assortment of erotic parts that he makes use of and then moves on.

Purchased at Shakespeare and Co., Paris. Grove Press, 1961.

On top of being a misogynist, he’s also a bigot and a racist and a xenophobe, at the risk of judging the past by the present’s standards and labels. One of his favorite female sex objects in Tropic of Capricorn is a part-black woman named Valeska, who he frequently refers to with uncomfortable epithets and in dehumanizing language (on top of the fact that by the end of his books I am completely desensitized to the C-word, which he liberally uses to refer to both the anatomy and metonymy of women). He also makes comments about Jews and foreigners, often reducing them to strange, inscrutable figures with stereotypical traits.

There’s even a moment in Sexus where he gets, well, sexual assault-y. Most of his women sex objects are uncommonly willing to oblige him in any way, any place, any time, leading me to wonder if he’s disgustingly attractive (but we don’t really know what he looks like; his intense, laser-focused selfhood precludes any consideration of his own appearance since that, ironically, would necessitate considering other people’s subjectivities as observers-of-him). But one woman, a fellow party guest who walks in on Henry in the bathroom, says things like “no” as he puts hands in weird places, which made me really uncomfortable; though when he encounters her later, her promiscuity suggests that consent in the earlier situation was given. Was it? Did it matter?

Three more complaints before I try to turn this around a bit:

1) He chronically, chronically borrows money from people, even though he has a job, and he acts like that’s normal and relatable, but I’m like, what’s up with that? He’s like a character in an Archie comic.

2) He has a wife and daughter through most of these two books, but basically acts like they don’t exist and isn’t really concerned for their welfare at all. The fact that this is #2 on my afterthoughts-list of his bad traits, when it’s really so freaking terrible, just shows how little focus they occupy in his books.

3) Though a brilliant writer, he could, maybe, use a better editing process. Sometimes the same descriptive word shows up in what I consider too-close quarters (same sentence, adjacent sentences) and shit if his soliloquies don’t go a little too long sometimes.

Serendipitously I was able to round out my trilogy months later with Plexus and Nexus, same edition, both discovered at Walden Pond Books, Oakland.

In Sexus, however, I was the least bit pleasantly surprised to discover that he actually cares about a woman beyond her status as a sex object. Mara, who becomes Mona, who is actually in real life his second wife June, is rather the object of his affections, love, obsession for most of the book. (Disregard, though, the fact that he remains married to his first wife for most of the book as well.) Though dysfunctional, that he is able to care significantly about another human being, a woman no less, is reassuring.

Also, consider this lovely little passage about his chaste youthful love for a girl named Miriam:

I never had an impure thought about her; never desired her, never craved for a caress. I loved her so deeply, so completely, that each time I met her it was like being born again. All I demanded was that she should remain alive, be of this earth be somewhere, anywhere, in this world, and never die. I hoped for nothing, I wanted nothing of her. Her mere existence was all-sufficing. Yes, I used to run into the house, hide myself away, and thank God aloud for having sent Miriam to this earth of ours. What a miracle! And what a blessed thing to love like this! (209-210)

I concede, then, that the novel is by its nature subjective, that Miller’s own, often mundane experiences (working in telegraphic HR; hanging out with friends; screwing) don’t have to be important or earth-shattering, that rather he writes to write and to extemporize and to philosophize and write his thoughts large over the world and existence. You don’t have to like a main character to appreciate a novel. You don’t have to relate to or approve of his lifestyle to find commonality and profundity in his experiences.


Take it away, Henry.

Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heart-ache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. (35)


10 responses

  1. You should also read some Anais Nin, if you havent already. I forget which work, but she details her affair with Henry Miller. So, they are both jerks- but – what beautiful words.

    1. I will look her up. Yes the words are definitely beautiful! I think the difficulty for me is that, more than other artists/authors who are jerks (and there are so, so many), we as readers really have to be completely immersed in his jerkishness because that’s his subject matter. And he’s so unconcerned with evoking sympathy! I just wanted to smack him sometimes. But no argument that he writes gorgeously.

  2. I stumbled on this because I was looking for that quote about Miriam. I kept trying variations on “be of this earth, and never die,” and had almost given up hope when I found your page. Thanks!

    “Ecstatic beauty and appalling prickishness” – not a bad way to sum up old Henry. I used to have that other quote, the one about slaughtering our finest impulses, blown up on the wall of my room. (I went on slaughtering my finest impulses though.)

    1. Glad I was able to help with the quote! And also, considering I picked them at random from the book as I was reading it, I’m also glad to discover they had the same resonance with someone else.

      As far as Henry goes, I like him a little better after finishing Nexus because he’s less of a prick in that one… but we still have our occasional differences :)

      1. Another one from Sexus I liked: “In the insect world is where we see the defense system par excellence. In the gregarious life of the animal world we see another kind of defense system. By comparison the human being seems a helpless creature. In the sense that he lives a more exposed life he is. But this ability to expose himself to every risk is precisely his strength. A god would have no recognizable defense whatever. He would be one with life, moving in all dimensions freely.” I try to think of this when I’m biking down Market Street.

      2. Haha. You’re braver than I am! (And in my previous comment: I meant *Plexus*, not Nexus. Still have to read that one. Ah these esoteric rhyming titles!)

  3. FUN FIND! Ok, I read Sexus 20 years ago (I was 17) while sitting in a marine biologist barracks on an island off the coast of far north Queensland. I’m not kidding :) I have been posting my journal entries as they occurred 20 years to the day. I was going to link my Sexus comments to some type of info on the book and found you!
    This is the quote I have written in the front page of my journal:
    “To think that there was something hanging between a man’s legs which could make her forget herself completely was exasperating to her…”
    I had guy who wrote me love letters (see letters from Griffin) and he suggested I read it.
    Anyway! After those comments tell me you didn’t like 50 Shades of Grey!
    Happy to have found you!

    1. Thanks for reading! I’ll admit I’m not brave enough to try 50 Shades of Grey… at least Henry Miller (despite being prickish) expands his focus beyond his sexual exploits at times… I’ll check out your blog :)

      1. Haha….well said. I didn’t read it either, but saw the satire play “Spank” hilarious as I had heard enough about it to get it! I’ve been on a non fiction kick of late…! Thanks for taking a peek!

  4. You summed him up very well. I stumbled across your page looking for a quote where he talks about June as always changing, because the one I found isn’t as I remember it. Henry is that old, terrible SOB you love to hate, and after reading several of his novels I wonder if most of it isn’t an act, but I guess that’s true of narcissists anyway, in a way. When he talks about mind machine in Sexus, it’s a very good experiential account of what bipolar people go through. His redemption, bounded as it is, is in his love for June, though he reveals in a later book that’s how he loves, and he’s loved that way several times. And if you think his behavior is bad in these books, it gets worse in Quiet Days in Clichy.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: