It is now the fall of my second year in Paris. We must get in step, a lock step, toward the prison of death.
The hero, then, is not Time, but Timelessness. Our heroes have killed themselves, or are killing themselves. Not the slightest indication of a change anywhere. There will be more calamities, more death, more despair. We might never have known each other so intimately, Boris and I, had it not been for the lice.īoris has just given me a summary of his views. How can one get lousy in a beautiful place like this? But no matter. I had to shave his armpits and even then the itching did not stop. Last night Boris discovered that he was lousy. There is not a crumb of dirt anywhere, nor a chair misplaced. Into this portmanteau of confused stories, images and essays, Miller poured the better self of a great man.” -Lawrence Durrell
It corroded and blistered where Joyce merely divagated and discharged. It was healthy where C”line and Lawrence were sick. It was the book of someone whose fidelity to himself had conquered the narrow confines in which we normally hem the range of subjects permissible to art. In Miller’s book all the passions are there, stripped of their romantic envelope it was not a book due to puritanical shock. “To read Tropic of Cancer is to understand how shockingly romantic all European writing after Rousseau has become. “Undeniably salacious but nevertheless serious and important literature, Miller’s novel with its ribald sexuality still provokes (and makes feminist hairs stand on end).” -Victoria A. “There is an eager vitality and exuberance to the writing which is exhilarating a rush of spirit into the world as though all the sparkling wines have been uncorked at once we watchfully hear the language skip, whoop and wheel across Miller’s page.” -William H.
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