You always close your greetings with “ma main amie.” I grasp that warm left hand you proffer and I wring it with joy, with gratitude, and with an everlasting benediction on my lips.
*Editions du Verseau, Lausanne, 1929.
†Italics mine.
‡See chapter 12, “Homer of the Trans-siberian,” Orient Express; Jonathan Cape & Harrison Smith, New York, 1922.
§Cendrars has also translated Al Capone’s autobiography.
‖Distributed in the United States by New Directions.
¶Title: Antarctic Fugue; Pushkin Press, London, 1948.
**Editions Denoël, Paris, 1949.
THE MAN HIMSELF—A COMMONPLACE
BOOK OF APHORISMS AND IDEAS
APHORISMS
Two of the books not mentioned previously in these commentaries have been quoted from in these pages: The World of Sex and The Time of the Assassins. The excerpts from the former have been taken from the revised edition, published two years ago by the Olympia Press, Paris. This book was first written in New York, almost immediately upon my return from Europe. (I wrote it to satisfy the curiosity of an unknown reader, strange as this may sound.) When this edition, which was privately printed, was exhausted and the publisher dead, I decided to give it to my Paris publisher, to be incorporated into his library of banned books—the “tropical” series. As I reread the book I began making corrections; it became a game which I could not resist playing to the end. Every page of the original version I went over in pen and ink, hatching and criss-crossing until it looked like a Chinese puzzle. In the new edition a few photographic copies of these corrected pages have been inserted; the reader may judge for himself what a task I gave myself.
As for The Time of the Assassins, that, as I believe I explained in the Preface to the book, began by being a translation of Rimbaud’s Season in Hell. It was begun, the translation, at Keith Evans’ cabin on Partington Ridge (Big Sur). When we moved to Anderson Creek, on the edge of the cliff where the sea otters nestle, I abandoned the idea of doing a translation and instead decided to write about Rimbaud, what he meant to me, what he had done for me. I intended at the time to build an addition to the work, devoted exclusively to Rimbaud’s uncanny mastery of the language, but realized in time that I was not equipped to undertake such a task.
Life moves on, whether we act as cowards or as heroes. Life has no other discipline to impose, if we would but realize it, than to accept life unquestioningly. Everything we shut our eyes to, everything we run away from, everything we deny, denigrate or despise, serves to defeat us in the end. What seems nasty, painful, evil, can become a source of beauty, joy and strength, if faced with open mind. Every moment is a golden one for him who has the vision to recognize it as such. Life is now, every moment, no matter if the world be full of death. Death triumphs only in the service of life.
—The World of Sex
However one civilization may differ from another, however the laws, customs, beliefs and worships of man may vary from one period to another, from one type or race of man to another, I perceive in the behavior of the great spiritual leaders a singular concordance, an exemplification of truth and wholeness which even a child can grasp.
Does it seem out of character for the author of Tropic of Cancer to voice such views? Not if one probes beneath the surface! Liberally larded with the sexual as was that work, the concern of its author was not with sex, nor with religion, but with the problem of self-liberation.
—Ibid
In that first year or two, in Paris, I was literally annihilated. There was nothing left of the writer I had hoped to be, only the writer I had to be. (In finding my way I found my voice.) The Tropic of Cancer is a blood-soaked testament revealing the ravages of my struggle in the womb of death. The strong odor of sex which it purveys is really the aroma of birth; it is disagreeable or repulsive only to those who fail to recognize its significance.
—Ibid
The real reason lies deeper. A new world is in the making, a new type of man is in the bud. The masses, destined now to suffer more cruelly than ever before, are paralyzed with dread and apprehension. They have withdrawn, like the shell-shocked, into their self-created tombs; they have lost all contact with reality except where their bodily needs are concerned. The body, of course, has long ceased to be the temple of the spirit. It is thus that man dies to the world—and to the Creator.
—Ibid
If we stopped to think about the ceaseless activity which informs the earth and the heavens about us, would we ever give ourselves up to thoughts of death? If we deeply realized that even in death this frenzied activity proceeds ceaselessly and remorselessly, would we withhold ourselves in any way? The gods of old came down to earth to mingle with human kind, to fornicate with animals and trees and with the elements themselves. Why are we so full of restraint? Why do we not give in all directions? Is it fear of losing ourselves? Until we do lose ourselves there can be no hope of finding ourselves.
—Ibid
It is my conviction that what we choose to call civilization did not begin at any of those points in time which our savants, with their limited knowledge and understanding, fix upon as dawns. I see no end and no beginning anywhere. I see life and death advancing simultaneously, like twins joined at the waist. I see that at no matter what stage of evolution or devolution, no matter what the conditions, the climate, the weather, no matter whether there be peace or war, ignorance or culture, idolatry or spirituality, there is only and always the struggle of the individual, his triumph or defeat, his emancipation or enslavement, his liberation or liquidation. This struggle, whose nature is cosmic, defies all analysis, whether scientific, metaphysical, religious or historical.
The sexual drama is a partial aspect of the greater drama perpetually enacted in the soul of man. As the individual becomes more integrated, more unified, the sex problem falls into its proper perspective. The genitals are impressed, so to speak, into the service of the whole being.
—Ibid
All that matters is that the miraculous become the norm.
—Ibid
Morally, spiritually, we are fettered. What have we achieved in mowing down mountain ranges, harnessing the energy of mighty rivers, or moving whole populations about like chess pieces, if we ourselves remain the same restless, miserable frustrated creatures we were before? To call such activity progress is utter delusion. We may succeed in altering the face of the earth until it is unrecognizable even to the Creator, but if we are unaffected wherein lies the meaning?
Meaningful acts require no stir. When things are going to rack and ruin the most purposeful act may be to sit still.
—Ibid
I can imagine a world—because it has always existed!—in which man and beast choose to live in peace and harmony, a world transformed each day through the magic of love, a world free of death. It is not a dream.
The dinosaur had his day and is gone forever. The cave man had his day and is no more. The ancestors of the present race still linger on, despised, neglected, but not yet buried. They are all reminders—of things that were and of things to come. They too had their dreams, dreams from which they never awakened.
—Ibid
Life is constantly providing us with new funds, new resources, even when we are reduced to immobility. In life’s ledger there is no such thing as frozen assets.
—Quiet Days in Clichy
Strange as it may seem today to say, the aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware. In this state of godlike awareness one sings; in this realm the world exists as poem. No why or wherefore, no direction, no goal, no striving, no evolving. Like the enigmatic Chinaman one is rapt by the ever-changing spectacle of passing phenomena. This is the sublime, the amoral state of the artist, he who lives only in the moment, the visionary moment of utter, far-seeing lucidity. Such clear, icy sanity that it seems like madness. By the force and power of the artist’s vision the static, synthetic whole which
is called the world is destroyed. The artist gives back to us a vital, singing universe, alive in all its parts.
—Creative Death: an essay
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 land 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.
—Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch
Vision is entirely a creative faculty: it uses the body and the mind as the navigator uses his instruments. Open and alert, it matters little whether one finds a supposed short cut to the Indies—or discovers a new world. Everything is begging to be discovered, not accidentally, but intuitively. Seeking intuitively, one’s destination is never in a beyond of time or space but always here and now. If we are always arriving and departing, it is also true that we are eternally anchored. One’s destination is never a place but rather a new way of looking at things. Which is to say that there are no limits to vision. Similarly, there are no limits to paradise. Any paradise worth the name can sustain all the flaws in creation and remain undiminished, untarnished.
—Ibid
Some will say they do not wish to dream their lives away. As if life itself were not a dream, a very real dream from which there is no awakening! We pass from one state of dream to another: from the dream of sleep to the dream of waking, from the dream of life to the dream of death. Whoever has enjoyed a good dream never complains of having wasted his time. On the contrary, he is delighted to have partaken of a reality which serves to heighten and enhance the reality of everyday.
—Ibid
The world does tend to become one, however much its component elements may resist. Indeed, the stronger the resistance the more certain is the outcome. We resist only what is inevitable.
—Ibid
On sober thought, my advice to Harvey (and to all who find themselves in Harvey’s boots) struck me as being sound and sensible. If you can’t give the is-ness of a thing give the not-ness of it! The main thing is to hook up, get the wheels turning, sound off. When your brakes jam, try going in reverse. It often works.
—Ibid
What few young writers realize, it seems to me, is that they must find—create, invent!—the way to reach their readers. It isn’t enough to write a good book, a beautiful book, or even a better book than most. It isn’t enough even to write an “original” book! One has to establish, or re-establish, a unity which has been broken and which is felt just as keenly by the reader, who is a potential artist, as by the writer, who believes himself to be an artist. The theme of separation and isolation—“atomization,” it’s now called—has as many facets to it as there are unique individuals. And we are all unique. The longing to be reunited, with a common purpose and an all-embracing significance, is now universal. The writer who wants to communicate with his fellow man, and thereby establish communion with him, has only to speak with sincerity and directness. He has not to think about literary standards—he will make them as he goes along—he has not to think about trends, vogues, markets, acceptable ideas or unacceptable ideas: he has only to deliver himself, naked and vulnerable. All that constricts and restricts him, to use the language of not-ness, his fellow-reader, even though he may not be an artist, feels with equal despair and bewilderment. The world presses down on all alike. Men are not suffering from the lack of good literature, good art, good theatre, good music, but from that which has made it impossible for these to become manifest. In short, they are suffering from the silent, shameful conspiracy (the more shameful since it is unacknowledged) which has bound them together as enemies of art and artist. They are suffering from the fact that art is not the primary moving force in their lives. They are suffering from the act, repeated daily, of keeping up the pretense that they can go their way, lead their lives, without art.
—Ibid
One cannot have a definite, positive view concerning the meaning and purpose of life without its affecting one’s behavior, which in turn affects those about one. And, sad as the truth may be, it usually affects people unpleasantly. The great majority, that is. As for the few, the disciples so-called, all too often their behavior lends itself to caricature. The innovator is always alone, always subject to ridicule, idolatry and betrayal.
—Ibid
When people ask me if I have a definite audience in mind when I sit down to write I tell them no, I have no one in mind but, the truth is that I have before me the image of a great crowd, an anonymous crowd, in which perhaps I recognize here and there a friendly face: in that crowd I see accumulating the slow, burning warmth which was once a single image: I see it spread, take fire, rise into a great conflagration. (The only time a writer receives his due reward is when some one comes to him burning with this flame which he fanned in a moment of solitude. Honest criticism means nothing: what one wants is unrestrained passion, fire for fire.)
When one is trying to do something beyond his known powers it is useless to seek the approval of friends. Friends are at their best in moments of defeat—at least that is my experience. Then they either fail you utterly or they surpass themselves. Sorrow is the great link—sorrow and misfortune. But when you are testing your powers, when you are trying to do something new, the best friend is apt to prove a traitor. The very way he wishes you luck, when you broach your chimerical ideas, is enough to dishearten you. He believes in you only in so far as he knows you; the possibility that you are greater than you seem is disturbing, for friendship is founded on mutuality.
—Sexus
The great joy of the artist is to become aware of a higher order of things, to recognize by the compulsive and spontaneous manipulation of his own impulses the resemblance between human creation and what is called “divine” creation. In works of fantasy the existence of law manifesting itself through order is even more apparent than in other works of art. Nothing is less mad, less chaotic, than a work of fantasy. Such a creation, which is nothing less than pure invention, pervades all levels, creating, like water, its own level. The endless interpretations which are offered up contribute nothing, except to heighten the significance of what is seemingly unintelligible. This unintelligibility somehow makes profound sense.
—Ibid
The world has not to be put in order: the world is order incarnate. It is for us to put ourselves in unison with this order, to know what is the world order in contradistinction to the wishful-thinking orders which we seek to impose on one another. The power which we long to possess, in order to establish the good, the true and the beautiful, would prove to be, if we could have it, but the means of destroying one another. It is fortunate that we are powerless. We have first to acquire vision, then discipline and forbearance. Until we have the humility to acknowledge the existence of a vision beyond our own, until we have faith and trust in superior powers, the blind must lead the blind. The men who believe that work and brains will accomplish everything must ever be deceived by the quixotic and unforeseen turn of events. They are the ones who are perpetually disappointed; no longer able to blame the gods, or God, they turn on their fellow men and vent their impotent rage by crying “Treason! Stupidity!” and other hollow terms.
—Ibid
The act of writing puts a stop to one kind of activity in order to release another. When a monk, prayerfully meditating, walks slowly and silently down the hall of a temple, and thus walking sets in motion one prayerwheel after
another, he gives a living illustration of the act of sitting down to write. The mind of the writer, no longer preoccupied with observing and knowing, wanders meditatively amidst a world of forms which are set spinning by a mere brush of his wings. No tyrant, this, wreaking his will upon the subjugated minions of his ill-gotten kingdom. An explorer, rather, calling to life the slumbering entities of his dream. The act of dreaming, like a draft of fresh air in an abandoned house, situates the furniture of the mind in a new ambiance. The chairs and tables collaborate; an effluvia is given off, a game is begun.
—Ibid
We are all guilty of crime, the great crime of not living life to the full. But we are all potentially free. We can stop thinking of what we have failed to do and do whatever lies within our power. What these powers that are in us may be no one has truly dared to imagine. That they are infinite we will realize the day we admit to ourselves that imagination is everything. Imagination is the voice of daring. If there is anything God-like about God it is that. He dared to imagine everything.
—Ibid
“What do you mean,” said Ned, “is sex dirt? How about that, Henry, is sex dirt?”
“Sex is one of the nine reasons for reincarnation,” I answered. “The other eight are unimportant. If we were all angels we wouldn’t have any sex—we’d have wings. An aeroplane has no sex; neither has God. Sex provides for reproduction and reproduction leads to failure. The sexiest people in the world, so they say, are the insane. They live in Paradise, but they’ve lost their innocence.”
The Henry Miller Reader Page 39