Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch

by Henry Miller

  The more I see of Doner the more I understand the Diaspora. The fate of the Jew is not nearly as tragic as the fate of the Gentile who dispersed him far and wide, drove him underground, forced him to sharpen his wits and develop his inner powers. All the obstacles we have put in his path, all the handicaps we have imposed, have only strengthened him. Incapable of making him adapt to our way of life, we are finally beginning to adapt ourselves to his way of life. We are even beginning to admit that the Christian way of life was practiced by the Jew long before the first Christian appeared. In clinging stubbornly to his ways, the Jew is converting us to a Christianity which we have never put into practice.

  In Doner it is the Chassidic strain which predominates. This ecstatic element reveals itself in his work. If it is a scene from Nature which he paints, the canvas sings. In some of his seascapes the bare rocks, shrouded in guano, leap exultantly from the foam and mist like personifications of joy and abiding strength. The sea is always a mirror of supernal light, a restless, piercing light, which issues from the depths of the unknowable. All the chaos of water, wind and sky is subdued, or subjugated, by a poetic manipulation of the brush which seeks only to evoke the essential mystery of the scene. The horizon line, thin, wavering, semiobscure, bends under the impalpable weight of the heavens, but with the delicacy of a muscle yielding to a bidden urge.

  Contemplating such a painting, I know that there has been no undue dispersal of the artist’s forces. I realize, when I study the painting, that the conflicting interests which I had feared would pull him this way and that were but healthy seductions which he survived and made use of in alchemical fashion. The elasticity of soul which makes the giver is the supreme protection of the creator. When he returns to his rock, his sky, his sea, he puts into them all that he has endured, sacrificed and discovered through identification with the sorrows and sufferings of his fellow-men. The meaning of the diaspora shines through his work like a rainbow.

  If the first Christian was a Jew, it is quite possible that the last one will also be a Jew, for there is nothing in the history of the uncircumcised to indicate that they are capable of bridging the gap between man and man-god, or as the Chinese say, between “l’homme and l’homme-humain.”

  12.

  On the surface there is something not only quixotic but paradoxical about “the part of fortune.” One always likes to think he earned his good fortune, or that he made the most of the breaks which chance presented. Myself, I have come to believe that through being receptive, keeping one’s mind and heart open—showing faith and trust, in other words—one’s desires, or prayers, are realized. By prayer I do not mean asking, hoping, begging or bartering for that which one desires but, without formulating it, living the thought—“Thy will be done!” In short, acknowledging wholeheartedly to ourselves that, whatever the situation we find ourselves in, we are to regard it as an opportunity and a privilege as well as a challenge.

  Up to a certain point in my life I have known more ups and downs, I do believe, than fall to the lot of the ordinary man. About the time I moved into the Villa Seurat (1934), I became aware that the seismographic disturbances, so to speak, were diminishing. A definite rhythm and order was beginning to manifest itself, though outwardly my life was still hectic, troubled and confused. The realization that there was a pattern to my life, one which made sense, came about in a curious way. Shortly after moving into the Villa Seurat I had begun to record my dreams. And not only the dreams but the associations which the act of transcribing them induced. Doing this over a period of several months, I suddenly began to see. “To suddenly see,” as Saroyan says somewhere. A pregnant phrase—to anyone who has had the experience. An expression which has only one meaning: to see with new eyes.

  About this same time, through a concatenation of events, “haphazard” encounters, the reading of certain books—books that were thrown into my lap, as it were—things began to jell. I became more and more aware of a curious phenomenon, hitherto conspicuous by its absence: the realization of one dream after another. I soon developed an attitude of caution with regard to what I desired, having come to realize that we generally desire either what is unimportant or else what is actually harmful. At this point, as everyone knows who has had the experience, enter the subtle temptations.

  The trip to Greece (1939-40), which came about through an unforeseen friendship with Lawrence Durrell, clinched things. It was a “break” in a triple sense, for not only was it a stroke of good fortune—the very best thing that could have happened to me at the time—but it was also the means of breaking with a life which had already come to an end in the Villa Seurat. Above and beyond all this, however, is the fact that the Greek adventure was an eye-opener: from then on the world no longer looked the same to me. Even the expulsion from Greece, due to the war, was a blessing which I had not the wisdom at the time to comprehend. Finally, the rediscovery of America,* a then seemingly futile and unpleasant business, led to the discovery of Big Sur.

  From here on (Big Sur) things began to happen in earnest. If I did not succeed in finding the “peace and solitude” I had hoped to find, I most certainly found other things which have more than compensated for my disappointment. Once again, I might say that I found what I needed to find, experienced what I needed to experience.

  Of all the many fruitful experiences which I fell heir to since anchoring in Big Sur, the discovery of certain books holds as much, possibly more, importance, I find in retrospect, as the “coincidences,” rencontres hasardeux and other “unpredictables.” Of the “meetings” with these books I hope to have more to say later on.†

  Where to begin in this web which stretches out in all directions—vertically as well as horizontally—and which is apparently without limits? The first thing one realizes when one begins to examine into such a mysterious thing as “fortune” is the fact, and it is a stupendous one, that there is neither beginning nor end. All is interconnected and of a piece. When we put the parts together, like a puzzle, the good and the bad seem equally “the part of fortune.” Trifles particularly assume an importance altogether disproportionate to size or weight. Everything falls into whack, and to a degree which nullifies the vain assumptions of the ego. When I spoke of rhythm and order a while ago, what I meant was a matching of inner and outer, or—“as above so below.” If I read the stars, it was not to find out what was going to happen tomorrow but to seek confirmation in what was taking place at the moment.

  Stay put and watch the world go round!

  Aye, but like a tightrope walker, not a slug. Treading softly, eyes front. A miss is as good as a mile. This side of Paradise and that side of Paradise. One thing as good as another. Alert and relaxed; empty and wide awake. In step, but not in uniform. The revolver always handy, but loaded with blank cartridges. A weather eye open for weeds, thistles, burrs, nettles and thorns. To arms! when the bugle calls, but minus a trigger finger.

  Never pray for money! If you send out an S.O.S., ask for chicken feed. Otherwise you’ll be cruelly deceived. Never mention the filthy lucre except in terms of what it can buy. Take commodities and light your pipe with the greenbacks! Remember, if you can’t make money, make friends. Not too many either, because one real friend is all you need to protect you against the blows of outrageous fortune.

  I said at the beginning of this potpourri that it started like a haemorrhage—with Cingria. And who put Cingria under my nose? Gerald Robitaille of the 19th Arrondissement. Answer this—how did Gerald know that what I needed to start the merry-go-round was a copy of the N.R.F. with its “couronne” for the recently departed and sorely beloved Charles-Albert Cingria? And how could any mortal foresee that the remembrance of a single meeting with the said Charles-Albert would galvanize these last eleven years of my life?

  What is Hecuba to me or I to Hecuba?

  A potpourri, did I say? Why yes. Or—point-counter-point. Hearts are trumps. Win or lose, it’s the same two-handed game of pinochle.

  Ever since I began writing I
have been compelled at intervals to send out letters begging for help. The intervals between these cries of distress grow bigger with the years, heureusement. Of late—the last seven years or so—I have noticed something strange and interesting taking place. No sooner have I had the letters mimeographed, and the first batch off in the mail, than a check arrives which makes the whole thing seem ridiculous. Not a check in answer to my appeal, mind you, but a check from the blue. Usually it’s for a debt which I had written off as hopeless or payment for royalties which I had forgotten all about.

  “Should I not have displayed a little more patience?” I ask myself. “Or, is it possible that, in taking action, I gave fate a little push in the right direction?”

  Oddly enough, the important thing turns out to be not the money but the discovery of a friend I didn’t know I had. Yes, it’s good to send out an appeal, even if at the last moment it turns out to have been unnecessary. Why? Because, aside from discovering your real friends, the ones who send you their widow’s mite, you learn what you have always known—that the rich are generally the last to respond. My last experience in this realm, an overwhelming one, revealed the fact that the four individuals (out of a hundred or more) who failed to respond, even with a “No thank you!” were the very wealthiest ones on my list. The aid which one of these alone might have offered without batting an eyelash…. But why go into it? The sad thing, the ironic thing, about this quartet, is that they all regard themselves as great friends of mine. One of them always slaps me on the back when we meet and, in his blithe, jovial way, says: “Henry, you’re a saint!” I ought to ask him sometime just what he means by this remark—whether he’s grateful because I don’t hound him or whether it takes a saint to live on nothing.

  When I was getting ready to go to Greece I gave into the hands of a friend for safekeeping a trunk containing the notebooks and manuscripts I thought precious enough to keep. The war broke out, I lost contact with my friend, and soon I resigned myself to the thought that the trunk was lost. In fact, after a few years I thoroughly forgot that there was such a trunk. Then, shortly after I was installed at Partington Ridge, I received word from an officer in the merchant marine that he was holding two trunks consigned to me. He added that he was one of my readers and that it was a pleasure to be of service—no charge for the transportation.

  When the trunks arrived I saw to my amazement that one of them belonged to the man I call Fillmore in Tropic of Cancer. (Those who know the story will recall how I packed him off to America, sans cheapeau, sans bagage.) For a good two years, after he got back to his town town, Fillmore, who was somewhat of a lawyer as well as a “bohemian,” drove the customs officials and the railway officials (at the Gare St. Lazare where he had left his trunk en consigne) crazy. I believe he even went so far as to address a letter of abuse to the President of the Republic. And now, here it was, intact. I opened it out of curiosity: it contained nothing but law books, family albums and souvenirs of his days at Yale. I opened the other one, which was mine, and found that nothing had been tampered with. Everything I had put in it was there, and in good condition. Among the contents was the original voluminous script of the Tropic of Cancer, an item which may one day fetch a small fortune.

  Where had these trunks been all the time? Who had sent them to me? A déménageur from a village outside Paris, a man whom I had met only twice and with whom I had exchanged but a few brief words. When I wrote to thank him I inquired what I could possibly give him in return for the great gift he had made me. I made it very clear that I considered the recovery of the trunk a priceless boon. He replied: “Nothing! Nothing at all! It was a pleasure to be of service.” I wrote again, several times in fact, hoping that I could induce him to suggest, if not money, something which he and his family might have need of. (The French at that time were still sorely in need of many things.) But no, not a thing did he crave. His last reply was to the effect that, if I would be so kind, I might send him an autographed copy of one of my books—nothing more. In the course of correspondence I learned that the trunks had been entrusted to him when my friend left France at the outbreak of war. But how this conscientious moving man discovered my whereabouts is still a mystery. And how Fillmore’s trunk, along with my own, happened to find its way into the cellar of the good Marius Battedou is also a mystery.

  Had the trunk contained the Dead Sea scrolls, I feel certain the good man would have made the same reply.

  Voilà un chic type!

  Money—and how it gets that way! During the first months on Partington Ridge I toyed with the idea of going to Mexico to finish The Air-conditioned Nightmare. I drew up an “appeal for funds”—sufficient to last me a year, I specified—and begged Frances Steloff, of the Gotham Book Mart, N. Y., to post it on her bulletin board. I had little expectation of getting results from this appeal. It was worded rather flippantly, I thought, probably because in the bottom of my heart I really did not want to go to Mexico. All I wanted, truly, was a little hard cash.

  A few weeks later there came a letter, postmarked New York, containing a cashier’s check for $250.00. The sender, who gave his name as Harry Koverr, gave me to understand that he wished to keep his identity secret. He promised to send me a like sum every month, for a year. He added that he had read everything of mine he could get hold of and wished me to know that he was a warm admirer. It was rather a strange letter, couched in perfect English but with a foreign tinge to it which aroused my curiosity. I made no effort, however, to discover who the man was. (Never look a gift horse in the mouth!)

  The instalments came regularly, as he had promised. In the meantime, a young woman with whom I had been corresponding for some time came to stay with me. She was a dancer and she made it a habit to go through her routine every day, rain or shine. Now and then, strolling through the forest, I would come upon her clad in leotards and swinging from limb to limb like a chimpanzee. All part of her training….

  One day as we were trudging up the hill, loaded with mail and supplies, a car pulled up behind us and the driver leaned out to ask if I might be Henry Miller.

  “I’m Harry Koverr,” he said.

  I looked at him blankly, failing to make the proper association.

  “I’m the man who sends you those checks. Don’t you recognize a friend?”

  For a moment I was too embarrassed to make reply. I blushed crimson. And then it clicked.

  “Haricot Vert!” I shouted. “So that’s it?”

  Only then had it dawned on me that he had been using as an alias the French for “string bean.”

  “So you’re French?”

  “Not really,” he replied. “I’m Swiss. Or rather, I was born in Switzerland.” He then gave me his real name.

  When we got to the cabin and unloaded the food and wines he had brought along, I asked as discreetly as I could what had brought him all the way to Big Sur.

  His reply amused me. “I wanted to see how you were getting along.” He then proceeded to give the cabin (which belonged to Keith Evans) a hasty inspection, pressed his nose against the big plate-glass window facing the sea, took a step or two outdoors to glance at the hills which were all gold, and, heaving a genuine sigh, exclaimed: “I see now why you didn’t go to Mexico. This is the next thing to Heaven.”

  We sampled the Pernod he had brought and soon began exchanging confidences. I was surprised to learn that he was not a rich man, though he was making a comfortable living as an insurance agent. The son of wealthy parents, who had encouraged him to live the life of a playboy, he had spent most of his bohemian life abroad, in France for the most part.

  “I couldn’t resist helping you,” he said, “because I’ve always hankered to be a writer myself.” He added quickly: “But I lack your guts. To starve is not in my line.”

  As he continued to fill out the story of his life I discovered that his present position was anything but rosy. He had made a bad marriage, was living beyond his means, and hadn’t the slightest interest in the racket he had chosen for
a livelihood. I began to suspect that he had come to tell me that he would not be able to continue helping me much longer. But I was wrong.

  “What I’d really like to do,” he suddenly remarked, “is trade places with you.”

  I was utterly unprepared for such a statement. I must have jibbed a bit.

  “I mean,” he continued, “that you’re one man who seems to know how fortunate he is. As for me, I’m all mixed up.”

  The visit lasted only a few hours. We parted the best of friends.

  As for the payments, they lasted another few months and then a dead silence. A prolonged silence. I thought possibly he had committed suicide. (He was the type to do it.) When I finally heard from him again a year or more had passed. It was a pathetic, desperate letter I received. He, the reckless benefactor, begged me to send him a substantial sum—and the balance just as soon as I possibly could.

  For once I kept my promise. I immediately sent him a good round sum and, in the space of a few weeks, cleaned up the balance.

  On receipt of the last payment he wrote me a long and fervent letter, a letter which unnerved me somewhat. The gist of it was to the effect that he could hardly believe what had happened. He confessed that he had never expectd me to come through—and definitely not with such dispatch. Not very flattering, thought I to myself, and, picking the letter up, I began rereading it. I stumbled on a passage which made me sit up. It was where he was explaining that only since he had lost everything had he begun to see the other fellow’s point of view. In searching for help he had naturally turned to his friends, especially to those he had succored when in need. And they had failed him, every one of them. It was in sheer desperation that he had finally written me. And I had come across! He couldn’t get over it. He thanked me again—and threw in a blessing.