Saturday, December 12, 2015

H. Miller: "Sexus"

I read through the next of the works of Mr. Miller. "Sexus", the first book of "The Rosy Crucifixion" trilogy was following me accross the half of the world.
Let me sketch a few interesting material circumstances, showing the changes in our civilisation. The book befell on me in not at all old-fashioned paper edition when I was still in Taipei, in a green-bound behemoth containing all three of "Rosy crucifixion" novels... Yes, it was cheap to buy, but my, it was heavy even to hold in hand, not to think about reading it! And eyes had to work hard to go from one to another side of the too-extended page of that Olympia Press mega-edition. Still, I endured it when reading it stretched on bed, in my portion of the air-climatized nightmare of Taipei.
Next it acted as a brick in my luggage to Croatia, and found its resting place on my island. I will not move it from there any more. Before my leaving Croatia for France, I read about half of it.
For the further read, with my stomach following the stars, and limited luggage possibilities, I had to switch to ethereal eInk device. My 9inch screen Kindle is now my portable library for such heavy-weights. So, this is the edition which came with me to Warsaw. I am curious what would Mr. Miller think of it. I think he would be fond of eInk, as I am.

What the great Buddha of the Big (Cock)Sur shoveled to us here? Lots of sex with all its juices, bites and scratches, then lots of human rot, as usual... even more raw than in his more famous "Tropic" novels. But then, he is just frank, painfully frank. And I only occasionally was disturbed by his over-frankness. And oh my, that guy knew his talk! I am not surprised girls were melting, I can imagine their uteruses convulsing orgasmically when such a Master talked.
If only he would not be such an utter... prick. But prick-ishness is not a measure of the writer, as amount of booze or dope is not a measure of a singer.

I extend here an appraisal of his mastery in writing and in conveying the message: a man is to go and live, be utterly fucked-up, screwed and screw, do what he pleases to do... But, I would add, please, do not screw up your dreams, because you will finish as a dog. What Mr. Miller duly achieved at the end of this first volume of the trilogy... a beaten dog which even does not bark any more.
It is a miracle and a feat of human race that he managed to stand up from that and survive to become a Buddha in that American Tibet of California, Big Sur.

I will continue to follow him, although I feel this trilogy starting to taste a bit like wartching the "Star Wars" movies, with its broken time-line.

For Mr. Miller is such a superb talker! Even when the written rendering by him is not much of an art.

But it often IS pure art: " "The world would only begin to get something of value from me the moment I stopped being a serious member of society and become-myself. The State, the nation, the united nations of the world, were nothing but one gret aggregation of individuals who repeated the mistakes of their forefathers. They were caught in the wheel from birth and they kept at it till death-and this treadmill they tried to dignify by calling it "life". If you asked any one to explain or define life, what was the be all and the end all, you got
a blank look for answer. Life was something which philosophers dealt with in books that no one read. Those in the thick of life, "the plugs in harness", had no time for such idle questions. "You'we got to eath, haven't you?" This query, which was supposed to be a stop-gap, and which had already been answered, if not in the absolute negative at least in a disturbingly relative negative by those who knew, was a clue to all the other questions which followed in a veritable Euclidian suite. From the little reading I had done I had observed that the men who were most IN life, who were moulding life, who were life itself, ate little, slept little, owned little or nothing. They had no illusion about duty, or the perpetuation of their kith and kin, or the preservation of the State. They were interested in truth and in truth alone. They recognized only one kind of activity-creation. Nobody could command their services because they had of their own pledged themselves to give all. They gave gratuitously, because that is the only way to give."

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