by Henry Miller
In one of the letters—back in 1888!—he writes: Painting promises to become more subtle—more musical and less sculptural—enfin elle promet la cow-leur. He underlines the word color. How prophetic his insight! What is modern painting if not a hymn to color? Tantamount to revelation, the free, audacious use of color precipitated a liberation undreamed of. Centuries of painting are annihilated overnight. Unbelievable vistas open up.
In those wonderful letters in which Van Gogh relates his discoveries about the laws of color (most of which were formulated by Delacroix), he dwells at some length on the use of black and white. One should not eschew the use of black, he writes. There is black and there is black. Did not Rembrandt and Franz Hals employ black, he asks. And Velasquez too? Not just black either, but twenty-seven different kinds of black. It all depends what kind of black, and how one employs it. The same for white. (Soon Utrillo uses it to demonstrate the validity of Van Gogh’s apperceptions. Is not his white period still the best?)
I speak of black and white because it was inevitable that this revolutionary in the world of color should dwell on first and last things. In this he reminds us of those true sons of God who fear not evil or ugliness but embrace and incorporate them in their world of goodness and beauty.
When the nineteenth century crumbled on the field of Armageddon the old barriers were burst asunder. The demonic artists who dominated that century contributed as much to the undermining of the past as did the statesmen and militarists, the financiers and industrialists, the revolutionaries and the propagandists who had paved the way for the debacle. The war of 1914 seemed like the end of something; it was however only the culmination of something long overdue.
Actually, it opened up vast new horizons. Through its work of demolition it afforded outlet to vast new fields of energy. The period between the first and second World Wars is rich in artistic production. It is in this period, when the world is about to be shaken to its foundations a second time, that I was taking form. It was a difficult period primarily because one had to rely so exclusively upon himself, upon his own unique powers. Society, torn by all manner of dissension, offered the artist even less support and encouragement than in Van Gogh’s time. The very existence of the artist was challenged. But was not every one’s existence menaced?
Emerging from the second World War, there is a vague feeling that the earth itself is threatened with extinction. We have entered into another Apocalyptic era. The spirit of man is being convulsed as was the earth itself in ancient geologic periods. It is death we are shaking off—the rigidity of death. We deplore the spirit of violence which is prevalent, but to burst the bonds of death the spirit of man must be riven. The most dazzling possibilities enfold us. We are infused and invested with powers and energies heretofore undreamed of. We are about to live again as human beings, in the full majesty which the word human implies. The heroic work of our forerunners seems now like the work of sacrificial victims. It is not necessary for us to repeat their sacrifices. It is for us to enjoy the fruits. The past lies in ruins, the future yawns invitingly. Take this everyday world and embrace it! That is what the spirit urges. What better world can there be than this in which we have full responsibility, each and every one of us? Labor not for the men to come! Cease laboring altogether, and create! For creation is play, and play is divine.
That is the message I get whenever I read the life of Van Gogh. His final despair, ending in madness and suicide, could be interpreted as divine impatience.
The Kingdom of Heaven is here, he was shouting. Why do ye not enter?
We weep crocodile tears over his lamentable end, forgetting the burst of splendor which preceded it. Do we weep when the sun sinks into the ocean? The full magnificence of the sun is revealed to us only in the few moments preceding and following its disappearance. It will appear again at dawn, another magnificence, another sun perhaps. All during the day it nourishes and sustains us, but we scarcely give heed to it. We know it is there, we count on it, but we offer no thanks, no devotion. The great luminaries, like Nietzsche, like Rimbaud, like Van Gogh, are human suns which suffer the same fate as the celestial orb. It is only when they are sinking, or have sunk from sight, that we become aware of the glory that was theirs. In mourning their passing we blind our eyes to the existence of other new suns. We look backwards and forwards but never does our gaze pierce direct to the heart of reality. If we do occasionally worship the solar body which gives us warmth and light we reflect not on the suns which have been blazing since eternity. We accept unthinkingly the fact that all space is studded with suns.
Verily, the universe swims in. light. Everything is alive and alight. Man too is the recipient of inexhaustible radiant energy. Strange, only in the mind of man is there darkness and paralysis.
A little too much light, a little too much energy (here on earth), and one is rendered unfit for human society. The reward of the visionary is the mad-house or the cross. A gray, neutral world is our natural habitat, it would seem. It has been so for a long time now. But that world, that condition of things, is passing. Like it or not, with blinkers-and-blinders or without, we stand on the threshold of a new world. We shall be forced to understand and accept—because the great luminaries whom we cast out of our midst have convulsed our vision. We shall be witness to splendors and horrors, alternately and simultaneously. We shall see with a thousand eyes, likes the goddess Indra. The stars are moving in on us, even the most distant ones.
With our instruments we now detect worlds of whose existence ancient man had not the slightest inkling. We are able to plot realms of worlds beyond our present ken, because our minds are already receptive to the light which emanates from them. At the same time we are also able to visualize our own wholesale destruction. But are we frozen in our tracks? No. Our faith is greater than were dare admit. We sense the magnificence of that life eternal which is man’s and which we have ever denied. Despite all our pride and vanity, we behave as if we knew nothing of our true heritage. We protest that we are only human, all-too-human. But if we were truly human we would be capable of all things, ready for all exigencies, know all conditions of being. We ought to remind ourselves daily, repeat it like a litany, that in our being lies concealed the whole gamut of existence. We should cease worshiping and inspire worship. Above all, we should cease postponing the act of becoming what in fact and essence we are.
I prefer, wrote Van Gogh, to paint men’s eyes than to paint cathedrals, because there is something in men’s eyes which is not in cathedrals, however majestic and imposing the latter may be…
3
It is only for a few brief months that this heavenly period lasts. Soon it will be nothing but trouble, nothing but want, nothing but frustration. Until I get to Paris only three short scripts will ever be published—the first in a magazine dedicated to the advancement of the colored people, the second in a magazine sponsored by a friend and which has but one issue, and the third in a magazine revived by good old Frank Harris.
Thereafter everything I submit for publication will bear my wife’s signature. (Only one freakish exception, of which more later.) It is agreed that I can do nothing on my own. I am simply to write and leave the rest to Mona. Her job at the theatre has already petered out. The rent has been long overdue. My visits to Maude have become less and less regular and the alimony is paid only now and then, when we make a haul. Soon Mona’s wardrobe gives out, and I, like a dolt, make vain efforts to beg a dress or a suit of my old sweethearts. When it gets bitter cold she wears my overcoat.
Mona is for taking a job in a cabaret, but I refuse to hear of it. With each mail I look forward to a letter of acceptance accompanied by a check. I must have between twenty and thirty manuscripts floating about; they come and go like trained carrier pigeons.
It is getting to be a problem to raise the money for the postage. Everything is becoming a problem.
In the midst of this first set-back we are rescued for a brief spell by the arrival of my old friend O’Mara who, after
quitting the Cosmodemonic Telegraph Company, had gone on a long cruise with some fishermen in the Caribbean. The adventure had earned him some money.
We had hardly embraced one another when, in characteristic fashion, O’Mara emptied his. pockets, placing the money in a heap on the table. The kitty, he called it. It was to be for our common use. A few hundred dollars in all, enough either to pay our debts or to live on for a month or two.
Have you anything to drink around here? No? Let me run out and get something.
He came back with a few bottles and a bag full of food. Where’s the kitchen here? I don’t seem to see it.
There is no kitchen; we’re not supposed to cook.
What? he yelled. No kitchen? What do you pay for this joint?
When we told him he said we were crazy, plumb crazy. Mona didn’t relish that in the least.
How the hell do you manage, then? he asked, scratching his head.
To be frank, I said, we don’t.
Mona was almost in tears now.
Neither of you working? he continued.
Val’s working, was Mona’s prompt reply.
You mean writing, I suppose, said O’Mara, implying that that was just a pastime.
Certainly, said Mona with asperity, what would you want him to do?
I? I don’t want him to do anything. I was just wondering how you lived … you know, where you got the dough?
He was silent a moment, then he said: By the way, that chap who let me in, was he the landlord? Looked like a swell guy.
He is, too, I said. He’s a Virginian. Never pesters us for the rent. A real gentleman, I’ll say.
You ought to treat him right, said O’Mara. Listen, why don’t we let him have something on account?
No, said Mona quickly, don’t do that, please. He won’t mind waiting a little longer. Besides, I expect to have some money soon.
You do? said I, ever suspicious of these rash statements.
Well, the hell with that, said O’Mara, pouring out the Sherry. Let’s sit down and have a drink. I brought some ham and eggs, and some good cheese. Too bad we have to throw it away.
What do you mean, throw it away? said Mona. We have a little two-burner gas stove in the bathroom.
Is that where you cook? Christ!
No, we just keep it there, out of sight.
But they must smell the cooking upstairs, don’t they? By they O’Mara meant the landlord and his wife.
Of course they do, I said, but they’re discreet. They pretend that they smell nothing.
Wonderful people, said O’Mara. He meant by this that only Southerners could display such tact.
The next moment he was suggesting that we look for a cheaper place, with conveniences. That money’s going to vanish in no time the way you people live. I’ll look around for a job, of course, but you know me. Anyway, I’d like to take it easy for a while.
I smiled. Don’t worry, I said, everything will be hunky dory. Just having you around will make things easier.
But where will he sleep? asked Mona, not too pleased with this idea.
We can buy a cot, can’t we? I pointed to the money lying on the table. But the landlord?
We won’t tell him right away. Besides, we’re privileged to have a guest, aren’t we? He doesn’t need to know that Ted is a boarder.
I can sleep just as well on the floor, said O’Mara.
I wouldn’t dream of it! We’ll go out after lunch and get a second-hand cot. We’ll sneak it in after dark, eh?
I saw that it was time to say something to Mona. She hadn’t taken so well to O’Mara, that was obvious. He was a little too blunt and forthright.
Listen, Mona, I began, you’re going to like Ted when you get to know him. We’ve known each other since we were kids, isn’t that right, Ted?
But I have nothing against him, said Mona. I don’t want him telling us what we should do, that’s all.
She’s right, Ted, I said, you are a bit forward, you know that. A lot of things have happened since I last saw you. We’re in a different world now. It’s been wonderful until just recently. All due to Mona. Listen, if you two don’t get to like one another it’s going to be too bad.
I’ll clear out any time you give the sign, said O’Mara.
I’m sorry, said Mona, if I gave the wrong impression. If Val says you’re a friend there must be something to you…
What’s this Val business? said O’Mara, interrupting her.
Oh, she prefers Val to Henry, that’s all. You’ll get used to it.
The hell I will. You’re Henry to me.
I can see we’re going to get along swell, I chuckled. I got up to inspect the food. Do you suppose we could have lunch soon? I asked.
It’s only eleven o’clock, said Mona.
I know, but I’m getting hungry. Ham-and-eggs sounds enticing. Besides, we haven’t had too much to eat lately. Let’s make up for lost time.
O’Mara couldn’t restrain himself. As long as I’m around you’re going to eat well. If we only had a regular kitchen! I could dish up some swell meals.
Mona knows how to cook, I said. We have wonderful meals—when we eat.
You mean to say you don’t eat every day?
He exaggerates, said Mona. If he misses one meal he thinks he’s starving.
That’s true, I said, pouring out another glass of Sherry. I’m thinking of the future all the time. Something tells me it’s going to be a long, hard grind.
Haven’t you sold anything yet? asked O’Mara.
I shook my head.
That’s really tough, he said. Listen, (an afterthought) let me look at your stuff later, will you? Maybe I can peddle it for you—if it’s any good.
If it’s any good? Mona blazed. What do you mean?
O’Mara burst out laughing. Oh, I know he’s a genius. That’s what’s wrong, perhaps. You can’t give it to ‘em straight, you know. It’s got to be watered down. I know Henry.
With every crack he made O’Mara put his foot in deeper. I had a presentiment things were not going to work out at all. However, as long as the money held out we would enjoy a respite. After that he’d probably get a job and fend for himself.
Ever since I knew O’Mara he had been making these sorties and coming back with a little jack which he always divvied up with me. There never had been a period when he had found me in good straits. Our friendship dated from the time we were seventeen or eighteen. We met for the first time in the dark at a railway station in New Jersey. Bill Woodruff and I were spending a vacation on the shores of a beautiful lake. Alec Walker, their boss, who had come to visit us, had brought O’Mara along as a surprise. It was a long drive from the station to the farm house where we were boarding. (We were travelling by horse and carriage.) About midnight we got back to the farm house. No one felt like going to bed immediately. O’Mara wanted to see the lake we had talked so much about. We got into a row-boat and headed toward the center of the lake, which was about three miles across. It was black as pitch. On an impulse O’Mara peeled off his clothes. Said he wanted to have a swim. In a jiffy he had dived overboard. It seemed an endless time before he came up to the surface; we couldn’t see him, we could only hear his voice. He was panting and puffing like a walrus. What happened? we asked. I got stuck in the bulrushes, he said. He turned over on his back and floated a while to get his breath. Then he started swimming, with strong, vigorous strokes. We followed in his wake, calling to him from time to time, begging him to get back in the boat before he got cold and exhausted.
That was how we met. His performance made a deep impression on me. His manliness and fearlessness won my admiration. During the week we spent together at the farm house we got to know one another inside out. Woodruff seemed more than ever a sissy to me now. He was not only full of qualms and misgivings but he was mercenary too. O’Mara, on the other hand, always gave recklessly. He was a born adventurer. At ten he had run away from the orphan asylum. Somewhere in the South, while working in a carnival, he had ru
n across Alec Walker who immediately took a fancy to him and brought him North to work for him. Later Woodruff was also taken into the office. We were to see and hear a lot of Alec Walker soon. He was to become the sponsor of our club, our patron saint virtually. But I am getting ahead of myself … What I wanted to say was that it was impossible for me to ever refuse O’Mara anything. He gave all and he expected all. Among friends this was the natural, spontaneous way to behave, he believed. As for morals, be had no moral sense whatever. If he were hard up for a woman he would ask you if he couldn’t sleep with your wife—that is, until he found himself a piece of tail. If he lacked the money to help you out in a pinch he would do a little thieving on the side or he would forge a check. He had no scruples, no compunctions whatever. He liked to eat well and sleep long. He hated work but when he undertook something he went at it whole-heartedly. He always wanted to make money quickly. Make a haul and clear out, that was the way he put it. He was fond of all the sports and loved to hunt and fish. When it came to cards he was a shark: he played a mean game, entirely out of keeping with his character. His excuse was that he never played for the fun of it. He played to win, to make a killing. He was not above cheating either, if he felt he could get away with it. He had formed a romantic notion of himself as a clever gambler.
Best of all was his talk. To me, at least. Most of my friends found him tiresome. But I could listen to O’Mara without ever desiring to open my own trap. All I did was to ply him with questions. I suppose the reason his talk was so stimulating to me was because it dealt with worlds I had never entered. He had been over a good part of the globe, had lived a number of years in the Orient, particularly China, Japan and the Philippines. I liked the picture he drew of Oriental women. He always spoke of them with tenderness and reverence. I liked too the way he spoke about fish, big fish, the monsters of the deep. Or about snakes, which he handled like pets. Trees and flowers also figured heavily in his talks: he knew every variety, it seemed to me, and he could dwell on their particularities endlessly. Then too he had been a soldier, even before the war broke out. A top sergeant, no less. He could talk about the qualities of a top sergeant in a way that would make one believe this little tyrant to be far more important than a colonel or a general. Officers he always spoke of with contempt and derision, or else with bitter hatred. They tried to push me up the ladder, he said once, but I wouldn’t hear of it. As top sergeant I was king, and I knew it. Any horse’s ass can become a lieutenant. You have to be good to be top sergeant.