Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch

by Henry Miller

  But the letters…. To begin with, know ye all that Lilik, the son of Boris, who was the son of Bezalel as built the Ark, has the extraordinary gift of being able to talk in any tongue. Not that he is a linguist, though he does know half a dozen languages moderately well, including his native Hebrew. It is not knowledge of a language that he needs in order to communicate with his neighbor, be that man a Turk, an Arab, a Ceylonese, a Peruvian of the Andes, a pygmy or a Chinese mandarin. Lilik’s procedure is to start talking at once—with tongue, hands, feet and ears—explicating mimetically as he goes along by grunts and squeals, dance steps, Indian signs, Morse code and so on. It’s all sustained and borne along by an overflowing current of sympathy, empathy, identity, or whatever you wish to call that fundament of good will, good nature, brotherhood, sisterhood, divine benevolence and understanding which is his special heritage. Yes, Lilik can talk to a stone wall and get a response from it. Some of the living tombstones I have seen him plead with, when he desperately needed to sell a painting or an objet d’art from his father’s collection, were more deaf, more impenetrable, than any stone wall. There are human beings, as we all know, who freeze at the mere mention of a painting for sale. There are some who turn to stone whenever there is the slightest hint that they may be called upon to relinquish so much as a moldy crust of bread.

  If Lilik had a rough time of it in Big Sur, he’s having an equally rough time of it in his home town, Jerusalem. But his letters never sound that way. No, Lilik begins—invariably—with himself seated on the terrace of a noisy cafe and some poor devil begging to shine his shoes or sell him a rug which he doesn’t need. (It varies … sometimes it’s the dessicated toenail of a saint that’s being offered to him.) Even if it’s raining, the sun is always out (in his heart) and he, the professor (cher mâitre, cher ami), is in particularly fine fettle, either because he is just about to tackle a new series of oils or because he has just ended a bout of work. His letters start with the place, the moment, the immediate thought, the way he feels—whether short of breath, constipated, or delighted with his warm beer. In a few lines he manages to evoke the atmosphere of the crowd, the market place, the cemetery hard by, the waiters running to and fro, the peddlers and mendicants wheedling and whining, the chickens being plucked (by toothless hags), the mountebanks performing their stunts, the smell of food, grime, sweat and drink, the clove he just swallowed by mistake, yesterday’s delicious garlic (we used to airmail him a clove of garlic at a time), the juicy colors which he will squeeze on to his palette the moment he gets home. Und so weiter.

  Every other word is mispelled, whether written in English, German, Russian or French. It would take a mental acrobat to deliberately distort, or transmogrify, words the way Lilik does unwittingly. Only a homely word like fart comes off intact, so to say. And there is lots of farting in his jubilant epistles—on his own part and on the part of those around him. The Israelis apparently do not blush or hasten to excuse themselves when they “break wind,” as we say in polite literature.

  “At this moment,” he will write, “we are having trouble again with the Arabs, or the Arabs with us.” Homeward bound, he may have to duck into a doorway several times in order to escape stray bullets. Every time he leaves the house his wife, Louise, wonders if he will come back dead or alive. But Lilik, from all accounts, doesn’t give much heed to these goings on; it’s all part of the daily routine. What interests him, what makes him chuckle—there’s a word he could never succeed in spelling if he went to school for three solid years!—is the news from the outside world. Perhaps getting it in Hebrew makes it appear even more complicated than it does to us. From that sunny café (even if it’s raining) where he sits leisurely sipping his warm beer, leisurely nibbling at a piece of stale cheese, the world outside seems what it truly is—absolutely cockeyed. Sure, he says, we may be having our troubles with the Arabs—he never says “with the bloody Arabs”—but what about Formosa, what about China, Indonesia, Russia, Japan, North Africa and South Africa, West Germany and East Germany, and so on, meaning up and down, back and forth, round and about the grisly gridiron on which the “civilized” nations of the world are matching wits, stoking fires, pushing each other around, shoving, grabbing, scrambling, lying to one another and insulting one another, jeering or menacing, patching up coalitions here, breaking down alliances there, disarming some nations and arming others to the teeth, talking peace and progress and preparing to murder en masse, promising this group of devil dogs the latest models in all-out destruction while cautiously limiting others to obsolete fleets, tanks, bombers, rifles, machine guns, hand grenades and flame-throwers, which were once effective in “saving civilization” but are now scarcely more destructive than Fourth of July firecrackers, and firecrackers may soon be eliminated altogether, even for Fourth of July celebrations, because they are dangerous for children to handle, whereas atom bombs, when kept neatly in stockpiles, wouldn’t hurt a fly. As he slyly puts it, quoting Professor Slivovitz, “the analects of logistics, when fed through I.B.M. machines, add up to little more than matzoth balls.” What Lilik implies, talking through his dummy professor, is that the voice of insanity can be heard above the evening call to prayer. What we need, as the professor would say, are not more amplifiers, or better amplifiers, but reductors, filters, screens, which will enable us to distinguish between the maudlin ravings of a statesman and the cooing of a turtle dove…. I must leave him, dear Lilik, in the peace and serenity of four in the afternoon when bullfighters meet their death and diplomats stab us in the back over their atom bomb cocktails.

  (So you grew a peenus, Mrs. Feitelbaum? Nu, what else is new?)

  Other voices, other rooms; other worries, other microbes. I don’t know why, but speaking of the lack of garlic brings to mind the image of that forlorn Basque girl whom I found standing on the road outside our house one late afternoon in winter, her thin, busted shoes waterlogged, her hands numb with cold, too timid to knock at the door but determined to see me if she had to stand there in the rain all night.

  What was her urgent mission? To inquire if I were acquainted with Nietzsche’s philosophy of “peace and disarmament” as given in the second volume of Thoughts Out of Season. The poor girl, what she needed was nourishment, not more “peace and dismemberment.” I brought her in, sat her by the fire, dried her skirt and stockings, and had my wife throw a good meal into her. Then, after I had listened to as much as I could take for one evening, I drove her down to Emil White’s and begged him to put her up for the night and see that she got a lift in the morning. (She was headed for L.A. No money, no car. All the nuts and crackpots seem headed for L.A. And they all travel light, like the birds of the air.)

  Finding the atmosphere congenial at Anderson Creek—the old story!—she lingered on for a week before hitting the road. She offered Emil a lay before leaving, to show her gratitude, but he wasn’t tempted. Too much “peace and dismemberment.”

  Three or four weeks later I received a letter from her—she was now in Montana—giving me a detailed account of the troubles which a certain tribe of Indians was having with our Federal government and conveying an earnest message from the head of the tribe to come immediately so that I might be informed at first hand of the complicated situation. She stated that they, the headmen of the tribe, would endeavor to persuade me to act as intermediary for them in Washington, D. C. I of course immediately chartered a private plane and, flying low over Duck Creek, impressed into my service a secretary, interpreter and full-fledged stenotypist.

  Lying awake that night, I thought of a humorous episode which took place in that make-believe world of Washington, D. C., shortly after my return from Europe. Someone in the upper circles, whose acquaintance I had made by hazard in another part of the world, had invited me to a luncheon at a famous club in the heart of our spotless capital. I thought I would be dining with a few of his intimate friends, the usual devotees of “tropical” literature. As one guest after another swept through the revolving door, I noticed that the
y all had under their arms packages which looked suspiciously alike. It also seemed to me that these guests were one and all men of standing. They were, indeed, as I soon learned. Each one was an official from those departments of the government whose duty it is to be on the lookout for, track down, and bring to just punishment the culprits who deal in pornographic literature. As I was at that time the chief culprit in the government’s eye, these representatives of truth and enlightenment were paying me a signal honor in bringing the offending books to be autographed. I must say that they all seemed like good fellows well met, not one of them deranged or undermined, damaged or deteriorated, by my “filthy” books. After apologies for being engaged in such unclean work—apologies given sincerely and accepted sincerely—they pressed me, each in turn, to think of something “original” to inscribe above my signature.

  When I thought I had signed them all, an official more imposing looking than the others unwrapped a special package and, dumping a few copies (of this same “tropical” literature), said to me in low tones: “This one, if you will be so kind, I would like inscribed to Secretary So-and-So.” When I had faithfully done as bidden, he murmured in an even lower tone of voice: “And this one is for President So-and-So.” As he reached for the third copy, I said to myself: “This must be for his Most Holy Eminence, the Pope of Rome!” But it wasn’t. It was for one of the nonentities in the Cabinet. The last one he asked me to inscribe, always with the same polite “if you will be so kind!”, was destined for the Ambassador from Soviet Russia. It developed that this emissary had requested his wife, who was then visiting Washington, to bring back the most obscene work of mine she could lay hands on. She was to bring it back in person, not entrust it to the diplomatic pouch. At this point, my gorge rising, I excused myself and went to the men’s room to throw up. I succeeded only in bringing up some bile….

  Not a word of all this is true, of course. Just the ravings of “a Brooklyn boy.”

  Speaking of this same “tropical” literature, I must add a word about the filthy, tattered, chewed up copies which are sent me from time to time by fans who, in the course of dumping antiquated phonographs and water pistols upon the unsuspecting aborigines of the hinterlands, make occasional visits to bordels and other “slaughterhouses of love” in order, no doubt, to wash away their sins. Since living here in Big Sur I must have received at least a dozen copies of the banned books which these nonchalant marauders filched from the private libraries which are (naturally) to be found in these unorthodox retreats. One wonders who the readers are—the madam, the girls, or the clients? Whoever had read the copies sent me had read them attentively, assiduously and often with a critical eye. Some corrected my spelling, some improved my punctuation, some added phrases here and there which would have thrilled a James Joyce or a Rabelais by their inventiveness. Others, under the influence of drink, no doubt, littered the margins with epithets such as I have never seen anywhere, neither in our own public toilets nor in the toilets of French newspapers, where invention and ribaldry run riot.

  Of all the tidbits which pop up in the mail the ones which excite me the most, which leave me dreaming longest, are the picture postcards from the assholes of creation. Imagine getting a postcard from a digger attached to some archaeological expedition in the dreary wastes of Asia Minor who says he has just stumbled on a copy of Sexus in the village of Christ knows what name! Or a cryptic message from a celebrated artist whom you have worshipped all your life but never dared write, though in your head you’ve written him letters yards long, and he says: “Having lunch here (on the banks of the Nile, the Ganges or the Brahmaputra) with some devoted followers of yours”; and there follow the signatures of the starry members of the Pleiades. Or from some atoll in the far Pacific a message scrawled with a broom handle states that the Colonel or the Brigadier-General lifted “my only copy of Capricorn, please get me another!” Adding, not entirely for effect—“before I am liquidated.” Or comes a letter in a language unknown to you, informing you that the sender has just run across a wonderful passage in a manuscript—a passage about Capricorn again—written by a man who died alone on a coral reef. Or an elderly gentleman, once a reviewer and one of the first to acclaim you, writes on crested stationery from his castle in the Hebrides, inquiring if you are still alive, have you written anything since and what is it, adding (sorrowfully): “You see, I’ve been knighted since!” Since what? Possibly since writing the review which cost him his job!

  All these messages, inquiries, fond wishes and tokens of affection and remembrance create an elation which may last for days, not because you’re puffed up but because, just as when you were very young and very much in love with a will-o’-the-wisp, some bedraggled Gypsy, reading your hand, drove you to fever pitch telling you all the things you already knew when all you wanted to hear were those three magic words—“She loves you!”

  When the Armenian soothsayer, in Athens, was predicting the varied and exciting voyages I was yet to undertake, when he was indicating the general directions of these voyages, one indubitably toward the Orient, another unmistakably toward the South Pacific, and so on, the question which was hammering in my brain was: “Be specific! Tell me if I shall ever get to Lhasa, to Mecca, to Timbuctoo!” Today I realize that if I do not get there in person one of my “emissaries” will, and I’ll one day know everything I long to know, not in the life to come but in this life here on earth.

  9.

  They say you can chop off a lizard’s tail and he’ll grow a new one just as fast as you please. But why chop the poor creature’s tail off? Similarly, it’s useless to vanquish, or even liquidate, your enemies since the morrow will only bring you new ones. Do we want peace or do we simply want to be spared a horrible end?

  I think in much the same fashion about what we style our needs. Not what we crave, for to crave (even sainthood) only piles up more Karma. In Dianetics they speak of “clears” and of those who have not yet been “cleared,” which means the vast majority of us. The only “clears” I have met thus far are men and women who never heard of Dianetics. When you’re a “clear,” no matter what school of thought you belong to—a genuine “clear” would belong to none—you usually get what you want when you need it. Neither too soon nor too late, neither too much nor too little. You and your needs go through the clearing house together, so to speak. With neurotics it’s the other way round: a neurotic is always on the outside looking in, or, if he is on the inside, he’s like a fish in an aquarium.

  I don’t wish to pretend that I’m a “clear,” but I do know that things are clarifying for me more and more every day. I didn’t have to reach the age of forty-five to realize that man is an angelic as well as a diabolic being; but it wasn’t until I reached my forties that I was able to put the two elements of our being together and regard them as happily wedded. As soon as I ceased to look for the devil in a man (or woman) I found the angel, and vice versa. Finally I was able to see a human being for what he is—not two but one. And when I reached that point I was able to understand many things which before I had conveniently labeled as white magic or black magic. I became aware eventually only of magic, pure magic, nothing but magic. If it were used for selfish purposes it worked disastrously; if used unselfishly the effect was beyond all expectation. But it was the same one substance, no matter how used.

  Today the whole world has been made aware of this simple truth through the frightening presence of the atom bomb. The difference between thinking in terms of atomic energy and thinking in terms of magic is the same as between examining a micro-organism through a microscope and piercing the multiverse with a high-powered telescope. In the one case you tend to concentrate on nothingness and in the other on infinitude.

  When you begin to differentiate between “shadow and substance” you’re already toying with magic. Or, to put it another way, you have the lamp in your hands but you haven’t yet learned to wish for the right thing. You rub it absent-mindedly now and then. And, “just like magic,” things ha
ppen. What an odd word—happen! Things happen, just like you yourself happened. It takes time to catch on to just what it is that happens each time, but by dint of repetition you gradually discover—the speed depending on the ratio between clear and foggy—that “to happen,” which is only an infinitive, is exactly the right expression, and that you are not dealing with an intransitive verb (the Chinese have no “intransitives”) but with a thought symbol mysteriously related to the most potent, continuous energy imaginable, what in good, old-fashioned parlance is called “the will of God.” Lifted out of the gibberish in which it’s generally wrapped, these four words simply mean that the Intelligence which directs the universe, or the Mind which is the Universe, is there to draw on, there to collaborate with, when you stop trying to run the show.

  To give a problematic example, here is how this perennial magic works….

  Instead of bucking your head against a stone wall (why do we get headaches so often?), sit quietly with hands folded and wait for the wall to crumble. If you’re willing to wait an eternity, it may happen in the twinkling of an eye. For walls often give way quicker than the proud spirit which rules us. Don’t sit and pray that it will happen! Just sit and watch it happen. Sit thus, indifferent to everything that has been said and taught about walls. From dwelling on the headache which you will notice has departed, dwell on the emptiness between things, and finally on the emptiness of things. When this vast emptiness is filled with nothing but emptiness you will awaken to the fact that what you regarded as a wall is not a wall at all, but a bridge possibly, or a ladder of fire. The wall will still be there, of course, and if you had only ordinary vision it would be much like any other wall, but now you’ve lost that kind of vision and with it the difficulty that a bricklayer has in understanding what a scientist means when he explains what the elements of a wall really are. You have an edge over the scientist because you feel no need to explain anything. What is, is.