This Tuesday I turn 27. I plan to keep it quiet at work– because who needs awkward coworker well wishes?– but the cosmos have granted me a mini work related birthday gift anyway, because on Tuesday November 20th the 275 Battery office building where I work will be holding a Book Fair in the lobby which I plan to make full use of on my break. A Book Fair! It could be the rinky dinkiest thing, and I’ll still be happy and say thanks to the cosmos for the gift and for remembering.
Also, in regards to my last post, I’ve been continuing my muscling through of Henry Miller’s autobiographical trilogy The Rosy Crucifixion and am now reading book 2, Plexus. And I feel like, while I kind of ripped into Henry Miller in my last post, we’re getting to be friends. Unlike Sexus, there has been almost nothing offensive or vulgar in this book so far, probably because at this point in the trilogy he is now married to a woman he really loves and has forsaken (for now) his youthful escapades. And also, after three books, I’m getting immersed in his world, knowing all of his New York friends by name and personality, understanding his tics, following his somewhat mundane quotidian experiences yet still being entertained. You’re growing on me Henry… even if you are still a jerk.
Here’s what I saw at Moe’s today:
That is all.
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.
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.
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.
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)