The Henry Miller Reader

by Lawrence Durrell

  Up near the Observatoire it’s quiet as the grave. Near a broken wall a lone whore is standing listlessly, too discouraged even to make a sign. At her feet is a mass of litter—dead leaves, old newspapers, tin cans, brushwood, cigarette stubs. She looks as though she were ready to flop there, right in the dung heap, and call it a day.

  Walking along the Rue St. Jacques the whole thing gets confused in my mind. The Rue St. Jacques is just one long picturesque shit-house. In every wormy little shack a radio. It’s hallucinating to hear these crooning American voices coming out of the dark holes on either side of me. It’s like a combination of five-and-ten-cent store and Middle Ages. A war veteran is wheeling himself along in a wheel chair, his crutches at his side. Behind him a big limousine waiting for a clearance in order to go full speed ahead. From the radios, all hitched up to the same station, comes that sickening American air—“I believe in miracles!” Miracles! Miracles! Jesus, even Christ Almighty couldn’t perform a miracle here! Eat, drink, this is my body broken for thee! In the windows of the religious shops are inexpensive crosses to commemorate the event. A poor Jew nailed to a cross so that we might have life everlasting. And haven’t we got it though . . . cement and balloon tires and radios and loud-speakers and whores with wooden legs and commodities in such abundance that there’s no work for the starving . . . I’m afraid that I should be alone too much! On the sixth floor, when he enters his room, the sweat begins to roll down his face—as if he had a mask on! Nothing could make me cry, not even if you stuck a dagger in me—but now I cry for nothing! I cry and cry and I can’t stop myself. Do you think, Miller, I am going mad? Is he going mad? Jesus, Max, all I can tell you is that the whole world’s going mad. You’re mad, I’m mad, everybody’s mad. The whole world’s busting with pus and sorrow. Have you wound your watch up? Yes, I know you still carry one—I saw it sticking out of your vest pocket. No matter how bad it gets you want to know what time it is. I’ll tell you, Max, what time it is—to the split second. It’s just five minutes before the end. When it comes midnight on the dot that will be the end. Then you can go down into the street and throw your clothes away. Everybody will pop into the street new-born. That’s why they were putting up the awning this evening. They were getting ready for the miracle. And the young woman leaning out of the window, you remember? She was dreaming of the dawn, of how lovely she would look when she would come down amidst the throng and they would see her in the flesh.

  MIDNIGHT

  Nothing has happened.

  8:00 A. M. It’s raining. A day just like any other day.

  Noon. The postman arrives with a pneumatique. The scrawl looks familiar. I open it. It’s from Max, as I thought . . .

  “To My Dear friends Miller and Boris—I am writing to you these few lines having got up from bed and it is 3 o’clock in the morning. I cannot sleep, am very nervis, I am crying and cant stop, I hear music playing in my ears, but in reality I hear screaming in the street, I suppose a pimp must have beaten up his hur—it is a terrible noise, I cant stand it, the water tape is running in the sink, I cant do a wink of sleep I am reading your book Miller in order to quieten me, its amusing me but I haves no patience I am waiting for the morning I’ll get out in the street as soon as daylight breaks. A long night of suffering though I am not very hungary but I am afraid of something I don’t know what is the matter with me—I talk to myself I cant control myself. Miller, I don’t want you to help me any more. I want to talk to you, am I a child? I have no courage, am I losing my reason? Dear Miller really don’t think I need you for money, I want to talk to you and to Boris, no money, only moral help I need. I am afraid of my room I am afraid to sleep alone—is it the end of my carrier? It seems to me. I have played the last cart. I cant breed. I want morning to come to get out in the street. I am praying to God to help me to pass quigly this terrible night, yes it is a night of agony. I cant stand the heat, and the atmosphere of my room. I am not drunk believe me while I’m writing this—only I pass the time away and it seems to me that I’m speaking to you and so I am finding a little comfort but I am afraid to be alone—what is it, it is just raining outside and I’m looking out of the window, that does me good, the rain is talking to me but morning wont come—it seems to me that night will never end. I am afraid the french will do me away in case of sickness because being a forinner is that so? Miller, tell me is it true—I was told that if a forinner is sick and has nobody they do him away quigly instead of curing him even when there is a chance. I am afraid the french shouldn’t take me away, then I shall never see daylight. Oh no, I shall be brave and control myself but I don’t want to go out into the street now, the Police might take a false statement, else I should go out now of my Room out in the street, for I cant stay in my Room, but I’m much afraid every night, I’m afraid. Dear Miller, is it possible to see you? I want to talk to you a little. I don’t want no money, I’m going crazy. Sincerely yours, Max.”

  GOLDILOCKS

  (FROM PLEXUS)

  This I remember writing like a song. Neither the heat nor the flies nor the steady interruptions could destroy my mood. Undoubtedly this excursus was a reaction—a protest—to the abominable child’s books, child’s records, that I was obliged to put up with at this time. I don’t know how many hundred times I listened to the half-witted records which are made by morons for children to enjoy. And the atrocious books from which I read aloud to my children! In despair I would take my child to the woods, have her make me a make-believe breakfast, teach her a song, invent a tale for her, anything but listen to those asinine recordings. If the reader knows what I am talking about, perhaps he will take the hint and invent his own yarns for his five year old. He couldn’t do worse than our paid hacks.

  Everything has been proceeding smoothly. I feel at home with the kids. They keep on reminding me that I’ve promised to tell them the story of the three bears.

  “You’re in for it, Henry,” says MacGregor.

  Truth to tell, I haven’t the least desire now to reel off that bedtime story. I stretch the meal out as long as I can. I’m a bit groggy. I can’t remember how the damned story begins.

  Suddenly Trix says: “You must tell it now, Henry. It’s long past their bedtime.”

  “All right!” I groan. “Get me another black coffee and I’ll begin.”

  “I’ll start it for you,” says the boy.

  “You don’t do anything of the sort!” says Trix. “Henry is going to tell this story—from beginning to end. I want you to listen carefully. Now shut up!”

  I swallowed some black coffee, choked on it, sputtered and stuttered.

  “Once there was a big black bear . . .”

  “That’s not how it begins,” piped the little girl.

  “Well, how does it begin then?”

  “Once upon a time . . .”

  “Sure, sure . . . how could I forget? All right, are you listening? Here goes . . . Once upon a time there were three bears—a polar bear, a grizzly bear, and a Teddy bear . . .”

  (Laughter and derision from the two kids.)

  “The polar bear had a pelt of long white fur—to keep him warm, of course. The grizzly bear was . . .”

  “That’s not the way it goes, Mommy!” screamed the little girl.

  “He’s making it up,” said the boy.

  “Be quiet, you two!” cried Trix.

  “Listen, Henry,” said MacGregor, “don’t let them rattle you. Take your time. Remember, easy does it. Here, have another drop of cognac, it’ll oil your palate.”

  I lit a fat cigar, took another sip of cognac, and tried to work myself back into the groove. Suddenly it struck me that there was only one way to tell it and that was fast as lightning. If I stopped to think I’d be sunk.

  “Listen, folks,” I said, “I’m going to start all over again. No more interruptions, eh?” I winked at the little girl and threw the boy a bone which still had some meat on it.

  “For a man with your imagination you’re certainly having a hard time,”
said MacGregor. “This ought to be a hundred-dollar story, with all the preliminaries you’re going through. You’re sure you don’t want an aspirin?”

  “This is going to be a thousand-dollar story,” I replied, now in full possession of all my faculties. “But don’t interrupt me!”

  “Come on, come on, stop diddling! Once upon a time—that’s the way it begins,” bawled MacGregor.

  “O.K . . . Once upon a time . . . Yeah, that’s it. Once upon a time there were three bears: a polar bear, a grizzly bear, and a Teddy bear . . .”

  “You told us that before,” said the boy.

  “Be quiet, you!” cried Trix.

  “The polar bear was absolutely bare, with long white fur which reached to the ground. The grizzly bear was just as tough as a sirloin steak, and he had lots of fat between his toes. This Teddy bear was just right, neither too fat nor too lean, neither tough nor tender, neither hot nor cold . . .”

  Titters from the kids.

  “The polar bear ate nothing but ice, ice cold ice, fresh from the ice house. The grizzly bear thrived on artichokes, because artichokes are full of burrs and nettles . . .”

  “What’s burrs, Mommy?” piped the little girl.

  “Hush!” said Trix.

  “As for the Teddy bear, why he drank only skimmed milk. He was a grower, you see, and didn’t need vitamins. One day the grizzly bear was out gathering wood for the fire. He had nothing on but his bearskin and the flies were driving him mad. So he began to run and run and run. Soon he was deep in the forest. After a while he sat down by a stream and fell asleep . . .”

  “I don’t like the way he tells it,” said the boy, “he’s all mixed up.”

  “If you don’t keep quiet, I’ll put you to bed!”

  “Suddenly little Goldilocks entered the forest. She had a lunch basket with her and it was filled with all sorts of good things, including a bottle of Blue Label Ketchup. She was looking for the little house with the green shutters. Suddenly she heard someone snoring, and between snores a big booming voice was shouting: ‘Acorn pie for me! Acorn pie for me!’ Goldilocks looked first to the right and then to the left. She saw no one. So she got out her compass and, facing due west, she followed her nose. In about an hour, or perhaps it was an hour and a quarter, she came to a clearing in the woods. And there was the little house with the olive drab shutters.”

  “Green shutters!” cried the boy.

  “With the green shutters, right! And then what do you think happened? A great big lion came dashing out of the woods, followed by a little man with a bow and arrow. The lion was very shy and playful. What did he do but jump on the roof and wrap himself around the chimney. The little man with the dunce cap began crawling on all fours—until he got to the doorway. Then he got up, danced a merry jig, and ran inside . . .”

  “I don’t believe it,” said the little girl. “It ain’t true.”

  “It is, too,” I said, “and if you’re not careful I’ll box your ears.” Here I took a deep breath, wondering what next. The cigar was out, the glass was empty. I decided to make haste.

  “From here on it goes still faster,” I said, resuming the narrative.

  “Don’t go too fast,” said the boy, “I don’t want to miss anything.”

  “O.K. . . . Now then, once inside, Goldilocks found everything in apple-pie order: the dishes were all washed and stacked, the clothes mended, the pictures neatly framed. On the table there was an atlas and an unabridged dictionary, in two volumes. Somebody had been moving the chess pieces around in Teddy bear’s absence. Too bad, because he would have mated in eight more moves. Goldilocks, however, was too fascinated by all the toys and gadgets, especially the new can opener, to worry about chess problems. She had been doing trigonometry all morning and her little brain was too weary to puzzle out gambits and that sort of thing. She was dying to ring the cow bell which hung over the kitchen sink. To get at it she had to use a stool. The first stool was too low; the second one was too high; but the third stool was just right. She rang the bell so loud that the dishes fell out of the racks. Goldilocks was frightened at first, but then she thought it was funny, so she rang the bell again. This time the lion unwound himself and slid off the roof, his tail twisted into forty knots. Goldilocks thought this was even funnier, so she rang the bell a third time. The little man with the dunce cap came running out of the bedroom, all a-quiver, and without a word, he began turning somersaults. He flipped and flopped, just like an old cart wheel, and then he disappeared into the woods . . .”

  “You’re not losing the thread, I hope?” said MacGregor.

  “Don’t interrupt!” shouted Trix.

  “Mommy, I want to go to bed,” said the little girl.

  “Be quiet!” said the boy, “I’m getting interested.”

  “And now,” I continued, having caught my breath, “it suddenly began to thunder and lightning. The rain came down in buckets. Little Goldilocks was really frightened. She fell head over heels off the stool, twisting her ankle and spraining her wrist. She wanted to hide somewhere until it was all over. ‘Nothing easier,’ came a tiny little voice from the far corner of the room, where the Winged Victory stood. And with that the closet door opened of itself. I’ll run in there, thought Goldilocks, and she made a dash for the closet. Now it so happened that in the closet were bottles and jars, heaps and heaps of bottles, and heaps and heaps of jars. Goldilocks opened a tiny little bottle and dabbed her ankle with arnica. Then she reached for another bottle, and what do you suppose was in it? Sloan’s Liniment! ‘Goodness Gracious!’ she said, and suiting word to action, she applied the liniment to her wrist. Then she found a little iodine, and drinking it straight, she began to sing. It was a merry little tune—about Frère Jacques. She sang in French because her mother had taught her never to sing in any other language. After the twenty-seventh verse she got bored and decided to explore the closet. The strange thing about this closet is that it was bigger than the house itself. There were seven rooms on the ground floor, and five above, with a toilet and bath in each room, to say nothing of a fireplace and a pier glass decked with chintz. Goldilocks forgot all about the thunder and lightning, the rain, the hail, the snails and the frogs; she forgot all about the lion and the little man with the bow and arrow, whose name, by the way, was Pinocchio. All she could think of was how wonderful it was to live in a closet like this . . .”

  “This is going to be about Cinderella,” said the little girl.

  “It is not!” snapped the boy. “It’s about the seven dwarfs.”

  “Quiet, you two!”

  “Go on, Henry,” said MacGregor, “I’m curious to see how you get out of this trap.”

  “And so Goldilocks wandered from room to room, never dreaming that the three bears had come home and were sitting down to dinner. In the alcove on the parlor floor she found a library filled with strange books. They were all about sex and the resurrection of the dead . . .”

  “What’s sex?” asked the boy.

  “It’s not for you,” said the little girl.

  “Goldilocks sat down and began reading aloud from a great big book. It was by Wilhelm Reich, author of The Golden Flower or The Mystery of the Hormones. The book was so heavy that Goldilocks couldn’t hold it in her lap. So she placed it on the floor and knelt beside it. Every page was illustrated in gorgeous colors. Though Goldilocks was familiar with rare and limited editions, she had to admit to herself that never before had she seen such beautiful illustrations. Some were by a man named Picasso, some by Matisse, some by Ghirlandajo, but all without exception were beautiful and shocking to behold . . .”

  “That’s a funny word—behold!” cried the little boy.

  “You said it! And now just take a back seat for a while, will you? Because now it’s getting really interesting . . . As I say, Goldilocks was reading aloud to herself. She was reading about the Savior and how he died on the Cross—for us—so that our sins would be washed away. Goldilocks was just a little girl, after all, and so she did
n’t know what it was to sin. But she wanted very very much to know. She read and read until her eyes ached, without ever discovering what it was, exactly, to sin. ‘I’ll run downstairs,’ she said to herself, ‘and see what it says in the dictionary. It’s an unabridged dictionary, so it must have sin in it.’ Her ankle was all healed by this time, her wrist too, mirabile dictu. She went skipping down the stairs like a seven-day goat. When she got to the closet door, which was still ajar, she did a double somersault, just like the little fellow with the dunce cap had done . . .”

  “Pinocchio!” cried the boy.

  “And then what do you think happened? She landed right in the grizzly bear’s lap!”

  The youngsters howled with delight.

  “‘All the better to eat you up!’ growled the big grizzly bear, smacking his rubbery lips. ‘Just the right size!’ said the polar bear, all white from the rain and hail, and he tossed her up to the ceiling. ‘She’s mine!’ cried the Teddy bear, giving her a hug which cracked little Goldilocks’ ribs. The three bears got busy at once; they undressed little Goldilocks and put her on the platter, ready to carve. While Goldilocks shivered and whimpered, the big grizzly bear sharpened his axe on the grindstone; the polar bear unsheathed his hunting knife, which he carried in a leather scabbard attached to his belt. As for Teddy bear, he just clapped his hands and danced with glee. ‘She’s just right!’ he shouted. ‘Just right!’ Over and over they turned her, to see which part was the tenderest. Goldilocks began to scream with terror. ‘Be quiet,’ commanded the polar bear, ‘or you won’t get anything to eat.’ ‘Please, Mr. Polar Bear, don’t eat me!’ begged Goldilocks. ‘Shut your trap!’ yelled the grizzly bear. ‘We’ll eat first, and you’ll eat afterwards.’ ‘But I don’t want to eat,’ cried Goldilocks, the tears streaming down her face. ‘You’re not going to eat,’ screamed the Teddy bear, and with that he grabbed her leg and put it in his mouth. ‘Oh, oh!’ screamed Goldilocks. ‘Don’t eat me yet, I beg you. I’m not cooked.’”