Henry Miller's reputation as a writer needs little verification from the likes of me. Nevertheless, it is a pleasure to be able to confirm the abilities of a truly great author. This example of his work is in some ways a peculiar one since it was written during a turning point in modern history, namely the Second World War, and was inevitably a turning point in Miller's own life as well.

Henry Miller has not always had kind things to say about his native U. S. A. Here, in "The Colossus of Maroussi," he uses the American state as a kind of false backdrop for his discoveries in Greece. For Greece is the central geographical landscape on which he builds. Far from being a travelogue, however, it is a story of that ancient land and some of its people; Miller uses the fabric of Greek life to weave a story of mankind.

His writing is distinctly dated today, but delightfully so. It is full of a poetic imagery that is almost entirely absent from the main stream of post-modern literature. As such, it is very complex writing which occasionally seems to be almost self-serving, as if the author was writing for no one but himself. In the main, it is a very accessible book that tries to reach out in pure, non-political terms to touch the essential core of what is man. At the present time, we could do well to review our own situation in life, and one way of doing so is by simply reviewing the literature on the subject. I recommend "The Colossus of Maroussi" as a place to start. Besides being the work of a truly formidable writer, it will take you to places you probably never dreamed existed.

The book was beautiful from the start, but the last couple of pages were exceptionally touching and still relevant.

I found much of this book unreadable. Occasional luminous passages and insights nestle between large swathes of nonsense in which Miller abuses the language. Self-centred, self-indulgent ramblings of a privileged white guy abroad. Gross.

I'm so disappointed. What a hunk of junk. I don't know what this book is supposed to be, but a travel book, it is not. This is more like some self-centered, old-fashioned guy's philosophical blathering about a trip to Greece he took ages ago -- except it's not even interesting, nor is it funny, and it doesn't make a lick of sense. He goes on and on for paragraphs and paragraphs with no seeming point, and doesn't have anything interesting to say. The best thing I can say about this book is that the cover is pretty. Ugh.

This book has made me fall in love with Miller... just sayin'

(My copy was actually longer than this edition by a good few pages.)

I finished this today, after not reading for a while for some reason, and can say that I overall really enjoyed the book. The only other work I've so far read by Henry Miller is Tropic of Cancer, which I thought to be a very entertaining and well written book. This one is all about Henry Miller deciding to visit Greece, staying with his writer friend Lawrence Durrell, at his home in Corfu, as a starting base for his adventures to come. He enjoys hanging out with his pal and at first he doesn't get up to that much, but eventually he decides to head to mainland Greece and go back to Athens, where he visited very fleetingly before he went to Corfu. Here he meets the irrepressible, garrulous, full of life character that is Katsimbalis, who entertains him and his friends with epic rambling tales, that he lets rip with after they've feasted and drank copious amounts of wine. This larger than life person crops up a few times in the book, and it's clear that Henry Miller is very impressed with him, almost to the point of idolising the chap...
His adventures from this point veer away from Lawrence Durrell, and it's not until later that he makes another appearance, as most of the book Miller is travelling with Katsimbalis, or on his own. They do meet up in the last part, however, for a few more adventures, as he seeks to cram a little more sight-seeing in before being forced to return to New York, much to his displeasure.
It's on paper a travel book, but if you are looking for some sort of in-depth, detailed account of Greece and it's history, then this will not be the book for you, as that's not really the kind of book it is. It is more a journey of self-discovery for Miller and revelation, and although he does talk about the places he visits and gives a good account of them in his own poetic way, it's more about how Greece makes him feel, than anything else. He clearly has quite a spiritual awakening while spending time there, and he writes in a very effusive way, seeming as if he's becoming almost ecstatically happy and joyous as he travels around; philosophising with rapturous delight half the time, unless he's caught in a downpour, or being bothered by the odd tedious individual, here and there...
I enjoyed this book and found it very interesting and entertaining for the most part, although it can go almost a little too random occasionally, when he really goes off on one, and you wonder what he's been imbibing that day, before he sat down at the type writer, but these bits are quite rare. I think a lot of people will read this book and not like it that much, and may find it too rambling and unfocused, as it is quite unstructured and free-flowing, but I really liked that about it. Best enjoyed when not seen as a travel book, but as a work of self-discovery and self-enlightenment...enter with an open mind, and you may enjoy it as much as I did.

A very opinionated man...often with a high opinion of himself, his friends and the idealized 'Greek'. Then a low opinion of his fellow Americans and the English. Obviously written before the word 'racism' was used..but surely he knew the word stereotype? If he had been 22 when he wrote then it would not have been so bad..but for a man in his forties!


He wanders about, preaching to poor people about the joys of poverty and then uses his money to upgrade to First Class as soon as life becomes uncomfortable. There are some useful reflections in parts but stuff he probably took from Alan Watts.

Having said that, there are some very fine passages. His observations on man's humanity are heartfelt yet controlled. They were written at the onset of the second world war and were just as valid today.

Overall, though, I was disappointed after the reviews it received.

اگرچه تندیس ماروسی واقعا به مناسبت سفر میلر به یونان نوشته شده است، اما تندیس ماروسی سفرنامه نیست. تندیس ماروسی داستان هم نیست. حتی شرح یونان و یونانیان هم نیست. گرچه میلر همه اینها را در تندیس ماروسی گنجانده، تندیس ماروسی از نظر من، خودِ میلر است. فقط و فقط خود میلر.
باید حوصله توصیفات او را داشته باشی و از خلال آنها باورهای میلر را بیابی. تندیس ماروسی برای شناخت بیشتر میلر عالی است، اگرچه برای کسی که نخستین بار است میلر می‌خواند شاید آنقدر جاذب نباشد.
توصیفات میلر و تلاشی که به خرج میدهد تا سرمایه ستیزی خود را این جا و آنجا به رخ بکشد، و اصراری که بر بیان تنفر اش از مظاهر سرمایه داری آمریکایی دارد، کتاب را پر کرده است. میلر از هر فرصتی استفاده میکن�� تا گوشزد ��ند آنچه به اسم آمریکا به خوردتان داده اند روتوش زیبایی بر واقعیتی بی اندازه زشت است. از نظر او فقط احمق ها آمریکا را دوست دارند و با وجود یونان اصلا چگونه کسی میتواند آمریکا را دوست داشته باشد. برای میلر فرانسه و پاریس جایی است که واقعا زندگی کرده است، جایی است که زندگی کردن را از آنجا آغاز کرده است. اما در مقابلِ خلوص زندگی در یونان، فرانسه هم هیچ است. این جا و آنجا گوشزد میکند که یونان دروازه شرق است و شرق جایی است که هنوز انسان هست. دائم میگوید شاید روزی به ایران، عربستان، هند، سمرقند یا چین برود. حتی انتظار دارد دوستان اش را آنجا ببیند و مطمئن است چنان ملاقاتی بین بهترین نسخه او و بهترین نسخه دوستان اش خواهد بود.
میلر به پیشنهاد زنی که در فرانسه با او هم خانه است در جستجوی انسان آنگونه که او میپسندد به یونان می رود و اتفاقا آنچه را میجوید، به کمال میابد. در کنار همه کسانی که در یونان او را مسحور خود میکنند کاتسیم بالیس همان مسیحای میلر است. شاید این تندیس (ماروسی شهری در آتیک) که نه فقط معرف آتیکا (منطقه تاریخی اطراف آتن)، بلکه نمادی از یونان است خود کاتسیم بالیس باشد. شاید اصلا او نماد انسان است. و این مجسمه چیزی است که از انسان باقیمانده است. یا بهتر بگویم، این تندیس ثابت میکند انسان هنوز باقی مانده است.

"I wondered vaguely what I might do myself to make men realize what great happiness lies in store for all of us. I sent out a benediction in every direction- to old and young, to the neglected savages in the forgotten parts of the earth, to wild as well as domesticated animals, to the birds of the air, to creeping things, to trees and plants and flowers, to rocks and lakes and mountains. This is the first day of my life, said I to myself, that I have included everybody and everything on this earth in one thought. I bless the world, every inch of it, every living atom, and it is all alive, breathing like myself, and conscious through and through."

This is a wonderful travelogue detailing Miller’s experiences in Maroussi and other parts of Greece. The book explores her history, beauty, and people. It was surreal to read about the places I too had been too; a following of footsteps. Maybe we had sat at the same corner drinking our coffee as we glanced at her beauty. Filled with spiritual and philosophical reflections, as you read, you witness Miller’s personal growth and transformation through his experiences there.

Greece has a way of doing that; she caresses you to euphoria, and every time you leave, you take a little part of her with you. All she asks is that you leave a little piece of yourself too.

...the last parts of the mosaic:

"We say erroneously that the Greeks humanized the gods. It is just the contrary. The gods humanized the Greeks. There was a Moment when it seemed as if the real significance of life had been grasped, a breathless Moment when the destiny of the whole human race was in jeopardy. The Moment was lost in the blaze of power which engulfed the intoxicated Greeks. They made mythology of a reality which was too great for their human comprehension. We Forget, in our enchantment with the myth, that it is Born of reality and is fundamentally no different from any other form of creation, except that it has to do with the very quick of life. We too are creating myths, though we are perhaps not Aware of it. But in our myths there is no place for the gods. We are Building an Abstract, dehumanized world out of the ashes of an illusory materialism. We are proving to ourselves that the universe is empty, a Task which is justified by our own empty logic. We are determined to conquer and conquer we shall, but the conquest is death."

"Fu un viaggio nella luce. La terra era illuminata dalla propria luce interna. A Micene ho camminato sui morti incandescenti; a Epidauro ho sentito un silenzio così intenso che per una frazione di secondo ho udito battere il grande cuore del mondo e ho compreso il significato del dolore e della sofferenza; a Tirinto sono rimasto nell'ombra dell'uomo ciclopico e ho sentito la vampa dell'occhio interiore che ora è diventato una ghiandola malaticcia; ad Argo tutta la pianura era una nebbia infuocata in cui ho visto i fantasmi dei nostri indiani d'America e li ho salutati in silenzio. Mi aggiravo in modo distaccato, coi piedi inondati dal bagliore terrestre. Sono a Corinto in una luce rosa, il sole combatte con la luna, la terra gira lentamente con le sue grasse rovine, roteando nella luce come una noria riflessa in un immobile stagno. Sono ad Aràchova quando l'aquila si innalza dal nido e si libra sopra la caldaia bollente della terra, stordita dalla brillante trama di colori che veste l'abisso palpitante. Sono a Leonidio al tramonto e dietro la spessa coltre di vapori paludosi si profila la porta scura dell'inferno dove le ombre di pipistrelli e serpenti e lucertole vengono a riposare, e forse pregare. In ogni luogo apro una nuova vena d'esperienza, minatore che scava addentro nella terra, avvicinandosi al cuore della stella che non è ancora spenta. La luce non è più solare o lunare; è luce stellante del pianeta a cui l'uomo ha dato vita. La terra è viva fino alle sue profondità recondite; al centro è un sole in forma d'uomo crocefisso. Il sole sanguina sulla sua croce nelle profondità nascoste. Il sole è l'uomo che lotta per emergere verso un'altra luce. Da luce a luce, da calvario a calvario. Il canto della terra..."