Tropic Of Cancer

ISBN: 0802101135
ISBN 13: 9780802101136
By: Henry Miller

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About this book

No punches are pulled in Henry Miller's most famous work. Still pretty rough going for even our jaded sensibilities, but Tropic of Cancer is an unforgettable novel of self-confession. Maybe the most honest book ever written, this autobiographical fiction about Miller's life as an expatriate American in Paris was deemed obscene & banned from publication in this country for years. When you read this, you see immediately how much modern writers owe Miller.

Reader's Thoughts

John Doe

George Orwell wrote an essay about this book called, “Inside the Whale.” The title alludes to the Jonah story in the bible. In that story Jonah rejected his responsibility, ran, and was swallowed by a whale. He finally accepted his responsibility and returned to the world. In contrast, Orwell’s Miller doesn’t want to leave the whale. God’s punishment ironically is Miller’s safe and comfortable oasis. Miller can attempt to triumph over god in this way because he has chosen an ironic stance towards his life. God’s punishment is only a punishment for a serious person. A serious person makes the world’s values and causes his values, his causes. Such a person feels happy and safe in the world, has plans, wants to buy a condo in the suburbs, etc. The unserious person, on the other hand, is alienated by the world’s values and from its causes. Slavery, wars, poverty, racism, the rate race—inside a whale at the bottom of the ocean with a ton of blubber insulating you on every side is not such a bad way to ride out a nuclear winter. Clearly, Miller is not a Jonah. Jonah is a criminal guilty of a specific crime. For Miller, the world is guilty and the best a person can hope for is not to be an accomplice, etc. Orwell is really smart and his insight is really helpful. But, he makes it clear that he is not a Miller fan. I, on the other hand, am a fan.

Phil

This book defines what it means to live a totally free existence, a life wallowing in art and free of the constraints of time and money. Miller's amazing writing style and incredible vision make this one of the great books of the last century. The backdrop of this book is a civilization teetering, about to collapse. The squalid street life of 1920's Paris flows through this book with amazing force. Miller lives a parasitic existence whose only purpose is to write and read and eat and screw. His mind freely wanders and dares to go where it will because Miller's character-narrator has nothing to lose. I tried to achieve this level of freedom at one point in my life and this book was an inspiration to succeed. Miller's savage and dynamic prose stands in stark contrast to the whiney and irrelevant Lost Generation writers such as F Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway who are sliding back into a well-deserved obscurity. This book will live as a pean to intellectual freedom and contempt for a pre-cast existence. Read it now.

Sketchbook

Henry Miller performs a cunning stunt. There is no odious P.C. here, which one must deplore. This faux-memoir isnt "sexy," but it is a vomit of hilarity. I long for the Baz Luhrmann musical version. Meantime, plunge in, whacckkk it, and then slurp a gonarrhea cocktail. Btw, don't eat the ham sandwich in the bidet.

Shannon

This one was hard to rate. It is a worthy read for so many reasons: the tales of Paris in the window of time woven into the lives of intellectual bohemians spun so marvelously in both crass and captivating language. However, sensitive souls beware. It was a contributing factor (one of many) to a crisis of faith in my early twenties. The honest depravity of the male characters and the author himself confirmed all my worst suspicions of males being utterly inhuman and by far a lesser sex.

Janet

Funny, rude, shockprovoking, a terrific portrait of bohemian life in Paris in the 1930's--enough of a roman a clef that one, with a little research ('Henry Miller in Paris') identify all the characters... I feel like I lived in the Hotel Chaotica with all these people. On a trip to Paris I even walked down that street in Montparnasse and stood in front of the house. Alas, it has been all gentrified, but the park is still there, and one must just imagine the fleas and the bedbugs, the ever mooching Miller, the great scene of the turd in the bidet (not a spoiler, I don't think). I read it for titillation value as a teenager--to see 'cunt' in print!! Even knowing it was my dear Anais he was describing... But now, having lived a bit of that life myself, as have most artists of a certain age, it's just funny as hell.

Elisa

E io gli risi in faccia.Henry Miller rideva spesso in faccia alle persone. Questa frase spunta fuori tante volte durante la narrazione. Non potei trattenermi, scoppiai a ridergli in faccia. Ho passato il tempo a immaginare la sua risata. Meglio, il momento esatto in cui il tentativo di trattenerla si trasformava in un misero fallimento. Volevo avere in testa il suo viso esatto ai tempi del racconto, e così l'ho cercato: http://img2.bdbphotos.com/images/orig... . Uno così ha un viso perfetto per ridere in faccia alla gente.È pulito e bonaccione. Davanti a un viso così, placido come un piccione albino, uno si accoccola sulla sedia e vomita in un colpo solo mal di vivere e aspirazioni. Henry Miller ascoltava tutte le sparate egotistiche dei conoscenti, e loro lo prendevano in simpatia. Dovunque andasse, qualche amico lo rimediava. Lui, zitto zitto, sorrideva, si faceva due risate dentro e sperava in qualche franco di ricompensa. I parassiti sono sempre quelli che ne sanno di più sul conto degli uomini. Volta per volta, ride in faccia a tutto. Cosa è il mondo se non un'accozzaglia di ossa morte (doppiamente morte), scheletri in trepidazione per un miraggio paradisiaco, fogne e vuoto? Tutto puzza, ma ci convinciamo di vivere immersi nel profumo di rose. Cosa siamo noi, se non meteore che bruciano rapidamente, destinate a scomparire del tutto, lasciando solo un nome, e forse nemmeno quello? Eppure pare che la vita debba avere valore solo se si arriva allo scalino più alto della scala sociale. E cosa impedisce di pensare che il paradiso non esista, che non abbia alcun senso vivere disperando nella speranza, quando si può prendere atto che il cielo è vuoto e afferrare ciò che la vita offre di piacevole? Miller sospetta che nel centro della terra, Dio o il Diavolo lavorino di continuo in camicia di forza a macinare per quel paradiso che non è che un venire in sogno . Bella fregatura, sarebbe, aver vissuto nella castità e nel rigore. La felicità è molto più simile a un orgasmo che al paradiso. Chi può additare un uomo che passa la vita di bordello in caffè, vivendo alla giornata, tra lavori saltuari e serate passate a spassarsela, conscio del fatto che anche questa, come l'idea del paradiso, è una delusione a cui si ricorre per andare avanti? Il mondo di Miller è senza speranza, ma non disperato. Tanto siamo già morti. Perché non ridere, allora?Se la vita deve essere vissuta, l'arte non deve essere da meno. Non di frottole deve essere fatta, di storie inventate e progettate da un dio capace di rappresentare il mondo che vorrebbe, ma verità, nuda e cruda. Miller è talmente unito al suo libro da essere la macchina da scrivere. L'arte deve essere un escremento umano, il risultato di un'assimilazione della realtà, in tutte le sue componenti (anche quelle socialmente inaccettabili), e deve puzzare di vita vera, non evaporare come una scoreggia secca. Che senso ha creare mondi armoniosi, se nella realtà si dà più importanza a un cesto di verdure al mercato che a un mendicante cencioso? Che senso ha vivere di idee, se la realtà sembra ridere loro in faccia? L'estetica dell'idea produce vasi di fiori e i vasi di fiori si mettono alla finestra. Ma se non c'è né pioggia né sole, a che serve mettere i fiori fuori dalla finestra?Miller non si poneva problemi a parlare di erezioni e triangoli, belle fiche e puttane. Ma il suo narrare porta la luce sugli aspetti disperati del sesso: spesso è meccanico, privo di passione, è come un urlo dell'uomo che cerca di far coincidere le sue aspettative e la realtà. Sono uomini e donne disorientati, delusi dalle promesse che avevano fatto a loro stessi, vanno incontro ad atti sessuali interrotti, ballerini in una danza in cui l'orgasmo arriva sempre nel momento sbagliato o non arriva affatto. Si va in cerca della fica ricca, del proprio orientamento sessuale, delle vergini, delle giovani, per poi accorgersi che l'ideale di completo appagamento si sposta sempre più in là. Non era questo, non era questo. Come quando fuori piove e malediciamo il tempo perché è tetro e, quando il sole risplende, continuiamo a maledirlo perché stavolta splende troppo. L'uomo si annichilisce, schiacciato dalla fanfara del futuro che pare debba essere sempre migliore, ma solo a parole. Sì, sicuramente lo sarà. Invece, è solo una promessa americana (ma l'America non esiste, spiega Miller: è solo un nome che si dà a un'idea astratta). La miseria, poi, è sempre dietro l'angolo, anche se il sole a volte scalda l'aria di Parigi e la rende così bella. Anche se oramai sono passati ottant'anni dalla pubblicazione, e quindi dovremmo avere smesso di guardare solo al contenuto sessuale come alla vuota rappresentazione di un accoppiamento, c'è sempre qualcuno che sfodera l'indice dell'ammonimento. Ho letto un commento in cui una lettrice trasformava la pagina bianca in un pio confessionale da social network. Sentiva il bisogno di specificare che lei il libro lo aveva letto solo fino a pagina 18 (quindi nessuna aggravante), e che sua zia, che glielo aveva prestato, lo aveva letto tutto solo perché costretta al liceo (forse per un docente in cui lo stesso Henry Miller si era reincarnato, tanto per potersi sentire ancora una volta un plenipotenziario degli spiriti liberi, e insegnare agli alunni come si accoppiano gli elefanti). In sostanza, Miller era solo uno sporcaccione. Lui le avrebbe riso in faccia fragorosamente, senza nemmeno pensare di trattenersi un secondo. Forse più per il riferimento allo sporco, che per la pudicizia. Avrebbe detto di lei ciò che pensò riguardo alla signora Wren: Uscendo dal vinaio, sento scrosciare il pisciatoio. Tutto è lubrico ed effuso. Vorrei che la signora Wren ascoltasse.

Ben

A marvelous pretention of a travel memoir from an American in Paris. More a song than a book: a love ballad to a city. In parts it reads like the surreal confessions of a sex addict. In other parts it is nothing less than a mock-serious philosophical treatis. Tropic of Cancer is almost always as fun to read as it must have been to write. I say almost because at the outset, I kept wondering how much of his self-preening I'd let Miller get away with before I lost all interest; he can at times be highly idealistic and self-indulgent (I mean really really self-indulgent), but then I began to indulge myself in all his blarney... skimming in short to make the passages a jumble of images and impressions. Nevertheless several passages of this book I will continually return to inorder to mark the essential expressions of existential transformation, which are really the hallmark of Miller's style.

Taylor K.

I knew this would be raunchy, but what I didn't expect was how funny it would be. Maybe I've watched too many male-centric sex comedies, but that's how the "obscene" parts of this book played out to me. (Stop reading here if you are easily offended when it comes to sex.) There's a scene where he has sex with a woman in a bathroom and comes on her dress and she gets ticked off at him, another where he's watching a friend have sex and he keeps tickling the guy's ass, there's a gay sailor character, etc. There were parts where he lost me, though, for example, this moment where he's staring at a woman's vagina and is thinking about how it's like a tunnel or a black hole or something and goes on this weird abstract train of thought. I don't know if I'd personally call it a masterpiece, but it surprised me, in a good way.

Simona

Si è detto molto, troppo di questo romanzo di Miller. C'è chi leggendolo si è scandalizzato, chi come me lo ha adorato, amato. Ho adorato lo stile di Miller, il modo in cui racconta il suo vissuto, la sua storia, le avventure con i suoi amici, il suo flusso di coscienza sugli scrittori che ama e che detesta. Siamo a Parigi e il fatto stesso che sia ambientato in questa città, che amo alla follia, aggiunge più di un punto a suo favore. Dimenticate per un attimo la Parigi che avete imparato a conoscere e amare, la Parigi delle "Blinding lights" come cantano gli U2. La Parigi descritta da Miller è una Parigi sull'orlo dello sfacelo, della disperazione, contorniata da prostitute e barboni agli angoli delle strade con personaggi al limite che tentano di sopravvivere e di arrivare a fine giornata.Un romanzo arido, duro, forte, una piccola perla che vi invito a leggere.

Katie Abbott Harris

I thought this fictionalized memoir was highly overrated, and mostly tedious. It is a tale of ex-pat Henry Miller's time in Paris - the people he meets, the money he spends, the places he stays, the books he reads, and the sex, sex, and more sex in which he participates. The prose is an erratic and meandering stream of consciousness, and I have to sheepishly admit that if it weren't for the gratuitous erotic sections and profanity, I would have stopped reading out of boredom. In saying all of this, the book DOES have great value and I still believe it to be worth reading. After being released in France in the 1930's, the novel was finally published in the United States in 1961 and promptly led to an obscenity trial. America's laws on pornography were tested, paving the way for future authors to do what they do best. For this reason, it is a truly important and landmark piece of literature and should be experienced, but don't expect too much.

Jason Pettus

(Reprinted from the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography [cclapcenter.com]. I am the original author of this essay, as well as the owner of CCLaP; it is not being reprinted here illegally. Sorry; the last paragraph today gets cut off a few sentences early!)The CCLaP 100: In which I read for the first time a hundred so-called "classics," then write reports on whether or not they deserve the labelBook #20: Tropic of Cancer, by Henry Miller (1934)The story in a nutshell:Like many of the other novels to first become commercial hits under the moniker of "Modernism" (see, for example, past CCLaP-100 title Mrs Dalloway from the same period), Henry Miller's infamously raunchy Tropic of Cancer from 1934 doesn't bother to concern itself much with traditional plot or a traditional three-act structure, but is rather an attempt to capture the details of a particular moment in history in as intense a way as possible, using not only humorous anecdotal tales but also the brand-new literary technique known as "stream of consciousness." And man, what a period of history to capture -- based on Miller's own experiences from half a decade before, the novel is set in Paris in the years after World War One, a time when most young people had turned permanently cynical and nihilistic, horrified as they rightly were over what exact carnage humans had proven themselves capable of, now that humans had added mechanized industry (trains, machine guns, biological weapons) to the business of war. Add to this that the US itself had still not established its own global-class artistic community (which wouldn't happen until New York's Greenwich Village after World War Two), and you're left with the situation Miller describes with such black humor here -- of entire Parisian neighborhoods become boisterous, drunken melting pots, packed to the gills with bohemians from around the world who no longer give a crap about anything, who embrace such things as casual sex and exotic drugs in a way no other generation had embraced them before, as they party their way to the apocalypse they were all sure was right around the corner. Multiply by 300 pages, and you basically have Miller's book.The argument for it being a classic:There are two basic arguments over why Tropic of Cancer should be considered a classic, starting with the book itself: It is, after all, a shining example of early Modernism, the exact kind of radical departure from the flowery Victorian style that so many young artists were embracing back then, here done in a mature and self-assured way that builds on the literary experiments of the previous twenty years, but that finally makes it palatable for the first time to the general reading audience (and by "palatable" I mean "not incomprehensible," thank you very MUCH James Freaking Joyce). As such, its fans say, the novel should be rightly celebrated for the literary masterpiece it is; one of those rare books that gets stream-of-consciousness exactly right, one of those rare books that perfectly shows the combination of arrogance and self-hatred that mixes in the warm dysfunctional heart of any true bohemian. Ah, but see, in this case there's an entirely different second reason why this should be considered a classic; because for those who don't know, thirty years after its initial publication in Europe, this was one of the landmark artistic projects of the 1960s to help finally lift the yoke of government censorship in America, one of the first projects used by the courts to help define was exactly is and isn't "obscene," adding immense fuel to the countercultural fire that was going on in this country at the same time. If it wasn't for Tropic of Cancer, fans say, we would still have the all-or-nothing paradigm of the Hays Code in the arts, instead of the "put out what you want and we'll give it a rating" paradigm of our present day; no matter what you think of the book itself, they argue, this alone is a reason to consider it a classic.The argument against:Like many of the titles in the CCLaP 100 series (see The Catcher in the Rye, for example), the main argument against Tropic of Cancer seems to be the "What Hath God Wrought" one; that is, the book itself may not be that bad, but it legitimized something that should've never been legitimized, in this case whiny confessional stream-of-consciousness rants from broke artists in their twenties living in big cities, complaining for 300 pages about how unfair life is and how all the prostitutes keep falling in love with them. Yep, it was Tropic of Cancer that started all that, critics claim; and anytime you come across yet another sad little blog about how the heart of the city beats in the weary soul of some overeducated, entitled slacker, that's one more time we should visit the grave of Miller and pee all over it, in retribution for him creating a situation where such blogs are encouraged in the first place. Again, it's not so much that people complain about the book being awful on its own (although some will definitely argue that stream-of-consciousness has always been a house of cards, difficult to make work well within a literary project); it's more that the book simply isn't great, and should've never gotten the accolades and attention it did, with Miller being damn lucky that he had as exciting a sex life as he did at the exact moment in history that he did, along with the shamelessness to write it all down.My verdict:So as will very rarely be the case here at the CCLaP 100, let me admit that this is one of the few books of the series I've actually read before; in fact, much more than that, it was one of the books I practically worshipped in my early twenties as a snotty, overeducated, oversexed artist myself, a book that had a bigger impact on both my artistic career and just how I lived my life in general back then than probably any other single project you could mention. So needless to say I was a bit biased going into this week's essay; I not only consider Tropic of Cancer a classic, but easily among the top-10 of all the books in this series, one of those books that any restless young person of any generation should immediately gravitate towards starting around their 18th or 19th birthday. And that's because Miller is so good here, so damn good, at perfectly capturing that restlessness that comes with any generation of young, dissatisfied creatives -- that sense that they want to do something important, that they should be doing something important, just that none of them know how to do that important thing, so instead let that passion seep out through their sex lives, their clothing choices, the bands they listen to, etc. Tropic of Cancer is all about yearning, all about grasping life to the fullest you possibly can, not for the sake of simply doing so but rather because this is the only way you'll ever find what you're truly seeking. Or as MIller himself puts it: "I can't get it out of my mind what a discrepancy there is between ideas and living."But that all said, let me just plainly warn you -- whoo man, is this a filthy book, with it unbelievably enough still just as able to shock and offend as when it first came out. And again, I see this as an asset and strength of Miller as an author; because ultimately it's not really the language itself that has gotten people so upset about this book over the decades (you'll hear worse in most Hollywood hard-R sex comedies), but rather that Miller embraces a prurient attitude throughout, one that plainly addresses the cold realities about sex which are not usually discussed in polite company. Just take, for example, the chapter where he compares for the reader the various young artsy prostitutes who live in his neighborhood; of how the best ones are the ones who have come to grips with the fact that they're whores and not wives or girlfriends, and therefore lustily embrace the exact disgusting acts that wives and girlfriends won't, the main reason men visit prostitutes in the first place. Yeah, not for delicate sensibilities, this one is; despite it being almost 75 years old now, you should still exercise caution before jumping into it feet-first.And then finally, re-reading it this week for the first time since college two decades ago, I've realized something else about this book; that it's not just the fun little stories of crazy sex and urban living that Miller gets right, but also the more somber reflections of perpetual poverty, of the almost existential dread that can develop when waking up in the morning and not knowing how you're going to eat that day. This is the flip-side of the crazy bohemian life, something plainly there in Tropic of Cancer but that most people don't see when first reading it, or when reading it at a young age; that to live a life rejecting middle-class conformity and embracing chaos is not just endless evenings of absinthe and oral sex, that there's a very real price to pay for rejecting all these things as well, the price of health and kids and normal relationships and any kind of slow building one could potentially do in their chosen career. Let's not ever forget that the things Miller talks about in Tropic of Cancer happened half a decade before his literary career ever really took off, years where basically none of them got anything accomplished at all except to definitively list all the kinds of books they didn't want to write; let's also never forget that Miller's life got dramatically more boring after his literary career took off, busy as he suddenly was with...you know, writing all those books. The artistic life can be...

Kate

I got through the first 150 pages before I decided that life is too short to waste time reading books you hate. Maybe I'm not smart enough or deep enough to appreciate a book like Tropic of Cancer, but for me each page was a tedious struggle. The author of the book's introduction boldy asserts that Henry Miller is "the greatest living author" (obviously, the edition I read was published prior to Miller's death in 1980), but I found Miller's frenetic, meandering style tiresome. Don't get me wrong, I'm not one to carelessly fling aside any book that doesn't capture my attention in the first 100 pages. Once I start a book, it's difficult for me to give it up, mostly because it makes me feel like a quitter; but I found myself getting angry as I grudgingly plodded through this one. I kept thinking, "Henry, for chrissakes, give me something, ANYTHING to latch onto here!" That's when I decided it was time to give up. Some semblance of a plot might have helped keep my interest piqued, but I don't think that storytelling was the author's aim. The long and short of it is - these kinds of books are not my cup of tea.

Jonathan

This may be the greatest book ever written. This opening passage proves it: "I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive. A year ago, six months ago, I thought I was an artist. I no longer think about it. I am. Everything that was literature has fallen from me. There are no more books to be written, thank God. This then? This is not a book. This is libel, slander, defamation of character. This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty ... what you will. I am going to sing for you, a little off key perhaps, but I will sing. I will sing while you croak, I will dance over your dirty corpse.... To sing you must first open your mouth. You must have a pair of lungs, and a little knowledge of music. It is not necessary to have an accordian, or a guitar. The essential thing is to want to sing. This then is a song. I am singing."

Trenton Judson

This may be one of the best books in the American cannon, and also, unfortunately, one of the most underrated. I read a lot of the reviews on the book before writing this and I found not very many that were thought out. I recall one reviewer giving up on the book because the "frenetic style was tiresome." Usually when someone has feelings like that, it is because they don't understand the literature and so their mind wanders. Another review noted that Miller's supposed "shock tactics" were outdated. Miller never meant to shock people, that is in your head. If you read the opening quote by Emerson, it states something to the effect that telling a true story about yourself is something near to impossible, this is Miller's attempt at doing that. He pulls no punches on the everyday vernacular that he must have used and imagined. This makes the story not only authentic, but also compelling. Miller's mix of philosophy and the impressionistic portrait that he paints of Paris make for a challenging and gorgeous read. Like Whitman, Miller finds beauty in all things and despite atrocious circumstances, he finds the will and the hope to enjoy his freedom. His style cries Whitman with its use of many objects to describe a single scene or feeling, but he has a different touch than Whitman that allows for the darker underbelly of human life that we so often discard because we lack the ability to understand the parts of ourselves that we have been taught to be shamed by. A must read for those who have read Whitman and really love him. Great companions to this book are: Whitman's "Leaves of Grass" and Charriere's "Papillon."

August

Seems the contemporary catch phrase to label Miller by is "Misogynist." Whatever... he wrote from his perspective and never swayed from his own vantage point to impress anyone. He is a true artist. How else would he have attracted the love interest of such an intelligent, beautiful woman as Anaiis Nin? Tropic of Cancer, to me, borders on spiritual enlightenment by way of pure honesty. I also enjoyed reading Nin's diary showing her side of their mutual lust affair. She was as much of a lost soul as he was, as well as his intellectual equal. They both survived off other people for the most part: Anaiis was married to a wealthy man and slept with him and his contemporaries as well as Miller; Miller was married to whoever would take him in and feed him (some food, but most often intellectual conversation) and slept with his friend's friend's friends, as well as a plethora of prostitutes. The bottom line is that he and Anaiis both explored their depravities through the medium of writing, creating literary works of art in the process.

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