I just finished the book Sexus by Henry Miller, the first of his autobiographical trilogy covering his years with Mona/June. This is the first of his books I’ve ever been able to finish, (I own Tropic of Cancer, never made it more than halfway through. ) and I already regret it. I don’t think it’s the language; yes, every description of a woman has gross comparisons to animals or organ meats. The effect is anesthetizing. I stuck it out just kind of bewildered at how feeling and unfeeling Henry is, all at once profane and tender. His writing is soaked in a very male alienation, but I resonated it with it all the same. And now I’m mildly terrified that all men are Henrys, disfiguring me in their thoughts.
Does all Miller have this aftertaste?
by warmdarksky