It's writers like Henry Miller that make me appreciate Bluey.

[mundungus42]

I thought I'd take a stylistic break from "Of Human Bondage" by reading Henry Miller's "Tropic of Cancer," and while it is undoubtedly a stylistic break, I'm nearing my saturation point on vaguely-arty Bohemian types living in squalor in Paris and moaning about the women they can't have. I'm only about 30 pages in, but I'm also a bit annoyed by the

Comments

[bluestocking79]

Awww, shucks! ~blushes~ I was going to try to fit in the lice and suicide, but I could never decide whether to wedge them in before or after the sculpture garden. ;-)

But seriously, thank you. And also, I agree with Ari's assessment of Miller, I'm afraid. I made the mistake of trying to read Miller on my own when I was about 19, and it made a lasting impression. Not the sort that an author hopes to make. His stuff truly is pornographic, and not only because of the enormous amounts of superfluous sex scenes. (Although I never in my life read so much gross sex. Ew. Pedophilia and graphic bestiality and rape and urophilia and... yeah, ew is the right word.) But it's poverty porn, too, and it's incredibly self-indulgent. Miller seems to glory in wallowing in filth, in the hopes that you might be shocked by him. I'm not a fan of Heart of Darkness, but I do think you'll get a lot more out of it.

Also... this is the Year of the Dead White Male Author, right? Whenever it's suitable, slip Good Morning, Midnight onto the

[mundungus42]

My pleasure. And thank you for writing the perfect remedy for recuperate from tacked on, dishonest endings and squalor as written by someone who can't even tell a louse from a bedbug. I have requested "Good Morning, Midnight" from the library and it should arrive tomorrow (yay [University] libraries

[bluestocking79]

That passage is just so completely ridiculous! I mean, the connection between the creation of art and childbirth is utterly obvious (more than once have I considered the final stages of writing a story to be like transition labor), but that metaphor is expressed so painfully literally here that I just want to laugh at it. I mean... ~throws up hands~ What else do you do with that? It's so ridiculous and self-important and yet totally lacking in self-awareness. (I already rec'd "Wonder Boys" to you, right? Much, much subtler and smarter and insightful about the Plight of the Writer.)

"Fanny Hill" actually amuses me quite a bit, too, precisely because it doesn't take itself seriously. (And it really is a tour de force of euphemism, don't you think?) Yes, it has issues, yes, it basically is an 18th C. Pretty Woman... but Cleland has no pretensions to Greatness. Miller very clearly does. ~shakes head