by Henry Miller
In all, almost a hundred painters, writers, dancers, sculptors and musicians have come and gone since I first arrived. At least a dozen possessed genuine talent and may leave their mark on the world. The one who was an unquestionable genius and the most spectacular of all, aside from Varda, who belongs to an earlier period, was Gerhart Muench of Dresden. Gerhart belongs in a category all by himself. As a pianist he is phenomenal, if not incomparable. He is also a composer. And in addition, a scholar, erudite to the finger tips. If he had done no more for us than to interpret Scriabin—and he did vastly more, all without result, alas!—we of Big Sur ought be forever indebted to him.
Speaking of artists, the curious thing is that few of this stripe ever last it out here. Is something lacking? Or is there too much … too much sunshine, too much fog, too much peace and contentment?
Almost every art colony owes its inception to the longing of a mature artist who felt the need to break with the clique surrounding him. The location chosen was usually an ideal one, particularly to the discoverer who had spent the better years of his life in dingy holes and garrets. The would-be artists, for whom place and atmosphere are all important, always contrive to convert these havens of retreat into boisterous, merry-making colonies. Whether this will happen to Big Sur remains to be seen. Fortunately there are certain deterrents.
It is my belief that the immature artist seldom thrives in idyllic surroundings. What he seems to need, though I am the last to advocate it, is more first-hand experience of life—more bitter experience, in other words. In short, more struggle, more privation, more anguish, more disillusionment. These goads or stimulants he may not always hope to find here in Big Sur. Here, unless he is on his guard, unless he is ready to wrestle with phantoms as well as bitter realities, he is apt to go to sleep mentally and spiritually. If an art colony is established here it will go the way of all the others. Artists never thrive in colonies. Ants do. What the budding artist needs is the privilege of wrestling with his problems in solitude—and now and then a piece of red meat.
The chief problem for the man who endeavors to live apart is the idle visitor. One can never decide whether he is a curse or a blessing. With all the experience which these last few years have provided, I still do not know how, or whether, to protect myself against the unwarranted intrusion, the steady invasion, of that prying, curious-minded species of “homo fatuoso” endowed with the annoying faculty of dropping in at the wrong moment. To seek a hide-out more difficult of access is futile. The fan who wants to meet you, who is determined to meet you, if only to shake your hand, will not stop at climbing the Himalayas.
In America, I have long observed, one lives exposed to all comers. One is expected to live thus or be regarded as a crank. Only in Europe do writers live behind garden walls and locked doors.
In addition to all the other problems he has to cope with, the artist has to wage a perpetual struggle to fight free. I mean, find a way out of the senseless grind which daily threatens to annihilate all incentive. Even more than other mortals, he has need of harmonious surroundings. As writer or painter, he can do his work most anywhere. The rub is that wherever living is cheap, wherever nature is inviting, it is almost impossible to find the means of acquiring that bare modicum which is needed to keep body and soul together. A man with talent has to make his living on the side or do his creative work on the side. A difficult choice!
If he has the luck to find an ideal spot, or an ideal community, it does not follow that his work will there receive the encouragement he so desperately needs. On the contrary, he will probably find that no one is interested in what he is doing. He will generally be looked upon as strange or different. And he will be, of course, since what makes him tick is that mysterious element “X” which his fellow-man seems so well able to do without. He is almost certain to eat, talk, dress in a fashion eccentric to his neighbors. Which is quite enough to mark him out for ridicule, contempt and isolation. If, by taking a humble job, he demonstrates that he is as good as the next man, the situation may be somewhat ameliorated. But not for long. To prove that he is “as good as the next man” means little or nothing to one who is an artist. It was his “otherness” which made him an artist and, given the chance, he will make his fellow-man other too. Sooner or later, in one way or another, he is bound to rub his neighbors the wrong way. Unlike the ordinary fellow, he will throw everything to the winds when the urge seizes him. Moreover, if he is an artist, he will be compelled to make sacrifices which worldly people find absurd and unnecessary. In following the inner light he will inevitably choose for his boon companion poverty. And, if he has in him the makings of a great artist, he may renounce everything, even his art. This, to the average citizen, particularly the good citizen, is preposterous and unthinkable. Thus it happens now and then that, failing to recognize the genius in a man, a most worthy, a most respected, member of society may be heard to say: “Beware of that chap, he’s up to no good!”
The world being what it is, I give it as my candid opinion that anyone who knows how to work with his two hands, anyone who is willing to give a fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay, would be better off to abandon his art and settle down to a humdrum life in an out of the way place like this. It may indeed be the highest wisdom to elect to be a nobody in a relative paradise such as this rather than a celebrity in a world which has lost all sense of values. But this is a problem which is rarely settled in advance.
There is one young man in this community who seems to have espoused the kind of wisdom I refer to. He is a man with an independent income, a man of keen intelligence, well educated, sensitive, of excellent character, and capable not only with his hands but with brain and heart. In making a life for himself he has apparently chosen to do nothing more than raise a family, provide its members with what he can, and enjoy the life of day to day. He does everything single-handed, from erecting buildings to raising crops, making wines, and so on. At intervals he hunts or fishes, or just takes off into the wilderness to commune with nature. To the average man he would appear to be just another good citizen, except that he is of better physique than most, enjoys better health, has no vices and no trace of the usual neuroses. His library is an excellent one, and he is at home in it; he enjoys good music and listens to it frequently. He can hold his own at any sport or game, can vie with the toughest when it comes to hard work, and in general is what might be called “a good fellow,” that is, a man who knows how to mix with others, how to get along with the world. But what he also knows and does, and what the average citizen can not or will not do, is to enjoy solitude, to live simply, to crave nothing, and to share what he has when called upon. I refrain from mentioning his name for fear of doing him a disservice. Let us leave him where he is, Mr. X, a master of the anonymous life and a wonderful example to his fellow-man.
While in Vienne (France) two years ago I had the privilege of making the acquaintance of Fernand Rude, the sous-préfet of Vienne, who possesses a remarkable collection of Utopian literature. On leaving, he presented me with a copy of his book, Voyage en Icarie,* which is the account of two workers from Vienne who came to America just a hundred years ago to join Étienne Cabet’s experimental colony at Nauvoo, Illinois. The description given of American life, not only at Nauvoo but in the cities they passed through—they arrived at New Orleans and left by way of New York—is worth reading today, if only to observe how essentially unchanged is our American way of life. To be sure, Whitman was giving us about this same time (in his prose works) a similar picture of vulgarity, violence and corruption, in high and low places. One fact stands out, however, and that is the inborn urge of the American to experiment, to try out the most crack-brained schemes having to do with social, economic, religious and even sex relations. Where sex and religion were dominant, the most amazing results were achieved. The Oneida Community (New York), for example, is destined to remain as memorable an experiment as Robert Owen’s in New Harmony (Indiana). As for the Mormons, nothing comparable to their effort
s has ever been undertaken on this continent, and probably never will again.
In all these idealistic ventures, particularly those initiated by religious communities, the participants seemed to possess a keen sense of reality, a practical wisdom, which in no way conflicted (as it does in the case of ordinary Christians) with their religious views. They were honest, law-abiding, industrious, self-sustaining, self-sufficient citizens with character, individuality and integrity, somewhat corroded (to our present way of thinking) by a Puritan sobriety and austerity, but never lacking in faith, courage and independence. Their influence on American thought, American behavior, has been most powerful.
Since living here in Big Sur I have become more and more aware of this tendency in my fellow-American to experiment. Today it is not communities or groups who seek to lead “the good life” but isolated individuals. The majority of these, at least from my observation, are young men who have already had a taste of professional life, who have already been married and divorced, who have already served in the armed forces and seen a bit of the world, as we say. Utterly disillusioned, this new breed of experimenter is resolutely turning his back on all that he once held true and viable, and is making a valiant effort to start anew. Starting anew, for this type, means leading a vagrant’s life, tackling anything, clinging to nothing, reducing one’s needs and one’s desires, and eventually—out of a wisdom born of desperation—leading the life of an artist. Not, however, the type of artist we are familiar with. An artist, rather, whose sole interest is in creating, an artist who is indifferent to reward, fame, success. One, in short, who is reconciled from the outset to the fact that the better he is the less chance he has of being accepted at face value. These young men, usually in their late twenties or early thirties, are now roaming about in our midst like anonymous messengers from another planet. By force of example, by reason of their thoroughgoing nonconformity and, shall I say, “nonresistance,” they are proving themselves a more potent, stimulating force than the most eloquent and vociferous of recognized artists.
The point to note is that these individuals are not concerned with undermining a vicious system but with leading their own lives—on the fringe of society. It is only natural to find them gravitating toward places like Big Sur, of which there are many replicas in this vast country. We are in the habit of speaking of “the last frontier,” but wherever there are “individuals” there will always be new frontiers. For the man who wants to lead the good life, which is a way of saying his own life, there is always a spot where he can dig in and take root.
But what is it that these young men have discovered, and which, curiously enough, links them with their forebears who deserted Europe for America? That the American way of life is an illusory kind of existence, that the price demanded for the security and abundance it pretends to offer is too great. The presence of these “renegades,” small in number though they be, is but another indication that the machine is breaking down. When the smashup comes, as now seems inevitable, they are more likely to survive the catastrophe than the rest of us. At least, they will know how to get along without cars, without refrigerators, without vacuum cleaners, electric razors and all the other “indispensables” … probably even without money. If ever we are to witness a new heaven and a new earth, it must surely be one in which money is absent, forgotten, wholly useless.
Here I should like to quote from a review of Living the Good Life, by Helen and Scott Nearing.* Says the editor: “What we are trying to suggest is that the solution for a cluttered, frustrated existence is not merely in moving to the country and attempting to practise ‘the simple life.’ The solution is in an attitude towards human experience which makes simple physical and economic arrangements almost a moral and esthetic necessity. It is the larger purpose in life which gives to its lesser enterprises—the obtaining of food, shelter and clothing—their essential harmony and balance. So often people dream of an ideal life “in community,” forgetting that a “community” is not an end in itself, but a frame for higher qualities—the qualities of the mind and the heart. Making a community is not a magic formula for happiness and good; making a community is the result of the happiness and the good which people already possess in principle, and the community, whether of one family or several, is the infinitely variable expression of the excellences of human beings, and not their cause…”
Digging in at Big Sur eleven years ago, I must confess that I had not the least thought or concern about the life of the community. With a population of one hundred souls scattered over several hundred square miles, I was not even conscious of an existent “community.” My community then comprised a dog, Pascal (so named because he had the sorrowful look of a thinker), a few trees, the buzzards, and a seeming jungle of poison oak. My only friend, Emil White, lived three miles down the road. The hot sulphur baths were three miles farther down the road. There the community ended, from my standpoint.
I soon found out how mistaken I was, of course. It was no time before neighbors began popping up from all sides—out of the brush, it seemed—and always laden with gifts, as well as the most discreet and sensible advice, for the “newcomer.” Never have I known better neighbors! All of them were endowed with a tact and subtlety such as I never ceased to marvel at. They came only when they sensed you had need of them. As in France, it seemed to me that I was once again among people who knew how to let you be. And always there was a standing invitation to join them at table, should you have need of food or company.
Being one of those unfortunate “helpless” individuals who knew nothing but city ways, it wasn’t long before I had to call upon my neighbors for aid of one kind or another. Something was always going amiss, something was always getting out of order. I hate to think what would have happened had I been left entirely to my own resources! Anyway, with the assistance that was always willingly and cheerfully extended, I received instruction in how to help myself, the most valuable gift that can be offered. I discovered all too quickly that my neighbors were not only extremely affable, helpful, generous in every way, but that they were far more intelligent, far wiser, far more self-sufficient than I had fatuously thought myself to be. The community, from being at first an invisible web, gradually became most tangible, most real. For the first time in my life I found myself surrounded by kind souls who were not thinking exclusively of their own welfare. A strange new sense of security began to develop in me, one I had never known before. In fact, I would boast to visitors that, once a resident of Big Sur, nothing evil could possibly happen to one. I would always add cautiously: “But one has first to prove himself a good neighbor!” Though they were addressed to my visitor, I meant these words for myself. And often, when the visitor had departed, I would repeat them to myself like a litany. It took time, you see, for one who had always lived the jungle life of the big city to realize that he too could be “a neighbor.”
Here I must say flatly, and not without a bad conscience, that I am undoubtedly the worst neighbor any community could boast of. That I am still treated with more than mere tolerance is something which still surprises me.
Often I am so completely out of it all that the only way I can “get back” is to look at my world through the eyes of my children. I always begin by thinking back to the glorious childhood I enjoyed in that squalid section of Brooklyn known as Williamsburg. I try to relate those squalid streets and shabby houses to the vast expanse of sea and mountain of this region. I dwell on the birds I never saw except for the sparrow feasting on a fresh pile of manure, or a stray pigeon. Never a hawk, a buzzard, an eagle, never a robin or a hummingbird. I think of the sky which was always hacked to pieces by roof-tops and hideous smoking chimneys. I breathe again the air that filled the sky, an atmosphere without fragrance, often leaden and oppressive, saturated with the reek of burning chemicals. I think of the games we played in the street, ignorant of the lure of stream and forest. I think, and with tenderness, of my little companions, some of whom later went to the pentitentiary. Despite i
t all, it was a good life I led there. A wonderful life, I might say. It was the first “Paradise” I knew, there in that old neighborhood. And though forever gone, it is still accessible in memory.
But now, now when I watch the youngsters playing in our front yard, when I see them silhouetted against the blue white-capped Pacific, when I stare at the huge, frightening buzzards swirling lazily above, circling, dipping, forever circling, when I observe the willow gently swaying, its long fragile branches drooping ever lower, ever greener and tenderer, when I hear the frog croaking in the pool or a bird calling from the bush, when I suddenly turn and espy a lemon ripening on a dwarfish tree or notice that the camellia has just begun to bloom, I see my children set against an eternal background. They are not even my children any longer, but just children, children of the earth … and I know they will never forget, never forsake, the place where they were born and raised. In my mind I am with them as they return from some distant shore to gaze upon the old homestead. My eyes are moist with tears as I watch them moving tenderly and reverently amid a swarm of golden memories. Will they notice, I wonder, the tree they were going to help me plant but were too busy then having fun? Will they stand in the little wing we built for them and wonder how on earth they ever fitted into such a cubicle? Will they pause outside the tiny workroom where I passed my days and tap again at the windowpane to ask if I will join them at play—or must I work some more? Will they find the marbles I gathered from the garden and hid so that they would not swallow them? Will they stand in reverie at the forest glade, where the little stream prattles on, and search for the pots and pans with which we made our make-believe breakfast before diving into the woods? Will they take the goat path along the flank of the mountain and look up in wonder and awe at the old Trotter house teetering in the wind? Will they run down to the Rosses, if only in memory, to see if Harrydick can mend the broken sword or Shanagolden lend us a pot of jam?