Why Didn’t Henry Miller Stop After the Tropic Books? — II
…and so what if Black Spring was sandwiched between the two.
I won’t ever ask Mr. Miller to define eternity — ’cause for eternity I have been reading Black Spring and it seems like till eternity I will.
Even Bukowski only liked Miller when he (nasal) “stunck to the bansics”. Like:
Freend hnad a bnig dinck.
Freend liked screwinng with hnis bnig dinck.
And what not.
But all this self-indulgent philosophical nonsense he spouts about the universe being wrapped inside his ex-girl’s ovaries (probably in the heat to throw the shit out that he accidentally consumed during his life in the name of ‘refined literature’) is capable of being read only — and only — if you are an obsessive neurotic like me.
Only then.
I could have even enjoyed it if I had 200 milligrams of some raw Amsterdam inside me, who knows.
But then I’d enjoy watching a dog take a shit by the road just as well.
There have been moments, I won’t deny. Like when he talks about reading Dostoevsky for the first time in The Fourteenth Ward.
And don’t get me wrong, I often judge my state of mind by my reaction to a book rather than judge the book with my mind.
But this one, nonetheless, has been one glorious motherfucker.
I had heard that Pynchon is a smart ass who hates the reader. Well… then Miller here is a dumb whore trying hard to seduce the reader with fake tits.
