"In every possible way that I can think of Greece presented itself to me as the very center of the universe, the ideal meeting place of man with man in the presence of God. . . . To those who think that Greece today is of no importance let me say that no greater error could be committed. To-day as of old Greece is of the utmost importance to every man who is seeking to find himself. My experience is not unique. And perhaps I should add that no people are as much in need of what Greece has to offer as the American people. Greece is not merely the antithesis of America, but more, the solution to the ills which plague us. Economically it may seem unimportant, but spiritually Greece is still the mother of nations, the fountain-head of wisdom and inspiration."

Henry Miller notes that he wrote this book for a Greek friend, Katsimbalis, a man who like Saint-Exupéry's Petit Prince gives great meaning to what pass as insignificant things to other people. To Katsimbalis, as with Le Petit Prince, a flower is not merely a flower; it is his flower, but it also contains all other flowers - the very essence of what it is to be a flower. Katsimbalis may not have grand adventures, but he has the gift of a child to see the world with eyes not glazed over with disillusion, to see it fresh, to describe it with the very zest of life, and to see himself in it (and in himself every thing).

For most, as with myself, the natural place to start an exploration of Miller's works is with Tropic of Cancer, Miller's first work, published in 1934 and controversial through much of the 20th century for its frank treatment of sexuality. But this is unfortunate, because although a work worth reading, I don't think it represents the best of Henry Miller's talents. Bitter, as often he was, in that early work Miller is more disillusioned than elsewhere. I remember once having a conversation with a small second-hand bookstore owner in Denver and we got on the topic of Miller. I said I didn't find anything remarkable in his style. "What have you read?" he asked, "Tropic of Cancer?" I answered, "Yeah" (maybe Tropic of Capricorn at that point as well, maybe not yet). He said, "It's such a shame that that's where people usually start with Miller. It's not his best work. You should check out The Colossus of Maroussi or Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch." It would take many years for me to come back to Miller, but I always remembered these suggestions. When I read Time of the Assassins, part self-exploration, part examination of the life and works of Arthur Rimbaud, I was blown away. Then came Big Sur and now The Colossus, and I can honestly say that Henry Miller is not just one of my favorite American writers, but one of my favorite writers. Interestingly, we recently had some friends over for brunch and the conversation I had about Miller some 12 years ago repeated itself almost verbatim with one of my well-read friends. "Are you reading anything interesting?" I asked. He told me what he was reading (Shirley Jackson), I told him what I was reading (The Colossus of Maroussi) and he remarked that he didn't really find anything great in Henry Miller. "What have you read," I asked, "Tropic of Cancer?" That was his initiation to Miller as well, and then we discussed at length the other works I mention above, Time of the Assassins, Big Sur and The Colossus. What I've learned is that I thought I knew Miller from Tropic of Cancer and Tropic of Capricorn, but I was terribly mistaken. Like Walt Whitman, Henry Miller is large, he contains multitudes.

Having left the cesspool of New York for Paris, a city dear to Miller, it wasn't until his arrival in Greece, at the bidding of his friend Lawrence Durrell, that he discovered something beautiful in humankind, something spiritual and primitive in himself. While he had a disdain for the Greeks who had lived in and admired America and the standardized, capitalistic American way of life, he found faith in the spirit and the character of the Greek people. A land of light that led to a rebirth of the spirit, a renewed faith, even as chaos was unfurling all around him, in the days leading up to a full out war on the European continent, when the threats posed by Hitler and Mussolini were serious, but could still (in 1939, 1940) be minimized. It was interesting reading this, given the historical backdrop, against where we are today, as Russia was at the time building up military troops along the Ukraine border, and as Putin can be seen either as a joke or a serious global menace depending on how one views the situation.

For those who have read the Tropic books and decided that Henry Miller is not for them, I plead give him another chance. Read this book, read Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch, read Time of the Assassins. Give Henry Miller another chance. It can be life changing. If you've read these and then declare Henry Miller is not for you, at least you've given him a fair shot.

“Henry Miller, Colosul din Maroussi, Polirom, Iași, 216 p.

Dezordine, întârziere, înșelăciuni, moleșeală, un timp ce pare etern… Uneori, ideea că cineva ar aprecia această La dolce vita balcanică poate părea paradoxală și totuși, Henry Miller și-a propus să ne convingă de contrariu. Refuzând America, plictisindu-se de Franța, autorul-personaj principal își introduce cititorii într-o lume fascinantă, unde regulile vieții normale par suspendate.

Cum sunt legat sentimental de Dobrogea, niște strămoși greci, această atracție pare puțin amuzantă și paradoxală, căci - nu-i așa? - cu toții încercăm să scăpăm de balcanisme, chiar dacă nu-i prea clar ce înțelegem prin asta: violența, relațiile de clan, punerea în paranteză a regulilor, sau un alter-ego imaginar al Occidentului, nici Europa, nici Orient, cum argumenta Todorova[1]. Și totuși, poate greșim. Pe lângă faptul că nu-i așa de ușor de scăpat de cutumă, poate că există și ceva bun în acest mod de viață, atât de ușor de blamat.

Un “sudic” trăiește de pe azi pe mâine, nu planifică, cum nu are sens, se adaptează ușor, este cel puțin neîncrezător față de promisiuni. Prin contrapunct, la Miller, cele mai ridicole personaje sunt tocmai balcanicii care se văd deja americani, vorbind într-o engleză aproximativă, dar plini de ei, disprețuitori și încrezători că pot schimba orice de azi pe mâine, numai să le asculte cineva rețetele. Invitat în Grecia de Lawrence Durrell, autorul-personaj ne relatează trăirile și reflecțiile ale acestui adevărat șoc cultural.
În ciuda aparențelor, Miller este un autor complex. Planul aventurilor, al iubitelor, al erotismului și boemei, ceea ce în epoca sa șoca, dar acum, mai puțin, mai ales când trăim în vremea în care Fifty Shades of Greyeste un bestseller în curs de ecranizare, chiar dacă scriitura amintește pe cea a unui adolescent povestind în jurnal fanteziile sale. De altfel, o lectură sumară a fragmentelor traduse din Anaïs Nin ne sugerează că omul nu-i același lucru cu personajul și că literatura este în cele din urmă, o invenție, ficțiune, motivul pentru care ne și interesează. Apoi referințele culturale, care devin trăiri și căutare a unui sens: Nietzsche, Dostoievski, Petronius, Rabelais, imagini în oglindă ale autorului, într-un fel.
Al treilea plan este cel mai dificil de perceput, profetismul, aspirația spre altceva, sau misticismul, care le reunește pe celelalte două[2]. Și nu unul lipsit de umor, care face din Knossos centrul lumii și îi înfrățește pe Epaminondas și Louis Amstrong, pe minoici și incași sau care-l face pe autor să-l transforme pe scriitorul George Katsimbalis într-un fel de Homer modern, deși nu îl cunoștea prea bine pe cel antic[3]. Acea lume aparent periferică deținea încă, ascuns, secretul armoniei.

Stilul direct, refuzul convenționalismului, al acelui “choose life” din Welsh, trăirea profundă a vieții și a literaturii care pentru Miller sunt același lucru, îl recomandă ca pe unul dintre cei mai originali literați americani, deși poate el ar considera canonizarea o jignire. Narator al străzilor și admirator al clasicilor, optimist și declinist, critic și admirator al colegilor săi de breaslă, fiul rătăcitor al Americii și încarnare a simbolurilor sale, romancierul ne provoacă să vedem lucrurile și în alt fel, dincolo de clișee și cutume mentale. Căci, în ultimă instanță, viața este mai complicată decât formulele de manual, cum până și o cultură deseori blamată ca cea balcanică, are părțile sale bune.

Soarele a răsărit și Bregović zdrăngănește în fundal…
(MZ)

________________________________________
[1] Maria Todorova, Balcanii și balcanismul, Humanitas, Iași, 2000 și Andrei Miroiu, “Doing Good by Ricochet: Edward W. Said`s Orientalism”, (I) și (II), Centrul de Studii Est-Europene şi Asiatice, 2011,http://www.cseea.ro/publicatii/view/b....
[2] Erija Jong, în Henry Miller, Sexus, Polirom, Iași, 2010, coperta 4.
[3]Nanos Valaoritis, „Remembering the Poets: Translating Seferis with Durrell and Bernand Spencer”, în Ana Lillios, Lawrence Durrell and the Greek world, Susquehanna University Press, 2004, p. 47.

http://semnalesirecenzii.tumblr.com/p...”

Fine but the man blathers like no one else.

I always think that i will like travel books when i return from traveling, but that has never been the case, especially when they are written by self centered wankers like Henry Miller.

A beautiful semi-poetical journey through Grecce. The story is written in a sort of autobiographical style (which Miller is infamously known for).
The story begins by Miller starting his trip from Paris. His following description of the characters he meets along the road are strikingly unique, which makes one desire to socialize with foreigners and experience a journey like Miller does. He expresses his great admiration for the culture and history of Grecce, yet he doesn't shy away from criticism towards western countries (as usual). In contrast to his famous novels, this one doesn't include sexual intercourse focousing on his philosophy of freedom in addition to his spiritual journey to peace. When wandering around in Knossos Miller wrote and I quote: "One senses that those people lived in order to live, that they were not plagued by thoughts of an afterlife, that they were not oppressed and inhibited by an exaggerated veneration of ancestors, that they were religious in the only way that befits man: to make the most of everything and to get the most out of every minute of existence." which I believe is a wonderful example of Millers love for the modest grace of the country.
Overall, I recommend "The Colossus of Maroussi" to everyone who enjoys surrealism, mythology and fearless honesty.

Δυστυχώς το βιβλίο διεπεται από ένα πνεύμα κουραστικης αρχαιολατρειας ενώ αποτολμα έναν διαρκη ρομαντικοποιημενο και αστηρικτο θαυμασμό για χαρακτηριστικά της Ελλάδας και του Έλληνα που είναι το λιγότερο γραφικα και ιδωμενα μέσα από τα γυαλια ένας αφελούς και παρωχημενου φιλελληνισμου που δεν έχει ξεκάθαρη πολιτιστικη πηγή και εντέλει καταλήγει μια ανώφελη φλυαρία που δεν θα ταίριαζε επιτυχημένα ούτε σε μια τουριστική καρτ ποστάλ.
Ίσως είναι μεμονωμένα ενδιαφέρουσα η αποτύπωση της ελληνικής ιντελιγκετσιας του μεσοπολέμου, όταν ποιητές όπως ο Σεφέρης βρίσκονταν ακόμα στα παραγωγικά τους χρόνια και υπό εξέλιξη, αλλά τα χωρία αυτά χάνονται στους ασφυκτικά χαώδεις μονολόγους του Μίλερ.
Η φιγούρα του Κατσιμπαλη, του επονομαζομενου Κολοσσου, που διέμενε στο Μαρούσι, σκιαγραφειται με εναν σχεδόν ερωτικό τρόπο που όμως επί της ουσίας αδυνατεί να μας μεταφέρει την πραγματική διάσταση της πνευματικοτητας που διατείνεται παρά μόνο να διασωσει ανεκδοτολογικες ανουσιοτητες που πιθανόν δεν έχουν καμία αντικειμενικη αλήθεια και αποτελούν μια παιδική από την πλευρά του Μίλερ μυθοποιηση μιας διανοητικης κλικας που δεν θα ήταν σε θέση να αξιολογήσει πράγματι την διαχρονικοτητα του πνεύματός της και που, εντέλει, ερχόταν σε αντιφατική ρήξη και με το ίδιο το έργο του Μίλερ.

"Съществуват хиляда начина да разговаряш и думите не помагат, ако липсва душа."

Един от авторите, които съм чела в захлас, вървейки, без да се страхувам дали ще се спъна и падна, е Хенри Милър. Той е способен така да те увлече в това, което е написал, че облаците да се слеят със земята и всичко да стане едно цяло. За мен той е писател с главно „П“, колкото и банално да звучи. Или казано по друг начин – той е писател до мозъка на костите си, дълбоко в сърцевината си…

"Всеки, който твърди, че жадува да прави нещо различно от това, което прави, или да бъде на място, различно от това, на което е, лъже сам себе си. Да жадуваш, не значи просто да ти се иска. Да жадуваш означава да станеш такъв, какъвто си дълбоко в сърцевината си."

„Колосът от Маруси“ (изд. „Colibri“) доказва, че думите за Милър са най-великото изразно средство, което той владее безупречно добре – небрежно, сякаш върти клечка за зъби между зъбите си, и същевременно виртуозно, сякаш е репетирал ден и нощ, за да превърне една магия в реалност. А всъщност при него нещата като че ли се получават от само себе си, без да се напряга, думите просто се появяват на белия лист и овършават всичко по пътя си.

Този път вълшебството, което Милър пресъздава, е свързано с Гърция. През 1939 г. той отива на пътешествие в страната по покана на английския писател Лорънс Даръл. Накратко, романът разказва за духовно пътуване.

Още от ревюто- тук: http://azcheta.com/kolosat-ot-marusi-...

Miller finally departs from his shock-therapy style of incorporating the obscene in order to leap from the earth, but in no way does this diminish his poise, as he frolicks for a year in Greece with Lawrence Durrell. This work is as fanciful and full of poppycock as any other great piece by the man whose work I love so dearly I had some of it tatooed on my belly... but here the often under-praised sooth-sayer concerns himself essentially with human happiness and the folly of self-imposed suffering of the modern west. Miller, I think, must have sounded dated sometimes even to his contemporaries, but he is rarely guilty of looking shallow in hindsight. His proclaimations in Colossus-- that we must endeavor ever-more-so to rid ourselves of our learned tendencies to mistake progress for happiness-- are as true today in the face of terrorism as they were when the work was concieved, at the onslaught of WWII.

Some people have called this Miller's best work, but I won't say so, even if it is deliciously rhapsodic and delivers his best soliloqouy on the value of mirth and light in life. It is probably his most accessible work, and would appeal to the broadest of audiences, but when has that ever constituted "best" in the mind possessed of its own unique songs?

Книгата – напоително откровение; божествена
(дано никога досега да не съм използвала тази дума).
Писателят – омайник.
Хенри Милър – идеалист, проповядващ против идеалите.

50 звезди!

Изкуших се да копирам наготово на английски от интернет, вместо да преписвам до безкрайност от безупречното българско издание.
(Стефан Стефанов не е преводач. Той е едно с Хенри Милър.)


„I would set out in the morning and look for new coves and inlets in which to swim. There was never a soul about. I was like Robinson Crusoe on the island of Tobago. For hours at a stretch I would lie in the sun doing nothing, thinking of nothing. To keep the mind, empty is a feat, a very healthful feat too. To be silent the whole day long, see no newspaper, hear no radio, listen to no gossip, be thoroughly and completely lazy, thoroughly and completely indifferent to the fate of the world is the finest medicine a man can give himself. The book-learning gradually dribbles away; problems melt and dissolve ties are gently severed; thinking, when you deign to indulge in it, becomes very primitive; the body becomes a new and wonderful instrument; you look at plants or stones or fish with different eyes; you wonder what people are struggling to accomplish by their frenzied activities; you know there is a war on but you haven't the faintest idea what it's about or why people should enjoy killing one another; you look at a place like Albania—it was constantly staring me in the eyes—and you say to yourself, yesterday it was Greek, today it's Italian, tomorrow it may be German or Japanese, and you let it be anything it chooses to be. When you're right with yourself it doesn't matter what flag is flying over your head or who owns what or whether you speak English or Monongahela. The absence of newspapers, the absence of news about what men are doing in different parts of the world to make life more livable or unlivable is the greatest single boon. If we could just eliminate newspapers a great advance would be made, I am sure of it. Newspapers engender lies, hatred, greed, envy, suspicion, fear, malice. We don't need the truth as it is dished up to us in the daily papers. We need peace and solitude and idleness. If we could all go on strike and honestly disavow all interest in what our neighbor is doing we might get a new lease of life. We might learn to do without telephones and radios and newspapers, without machines of any kind, without factories, without mills, without mines, without explosives, without battleships, without politicians, without lawyers, without canned goods, without gadgets, without razor blades -even or cellophane or cigarettes or money. This is a pipe dream, I know. People only go on strike for better working conditions, better wages, better opportunities to become something other than they are.“

“But there is something colossal about any human figure when that individual becomes truly and thoroughly human. A more human individual than Katsimbalis I have never met. Walking with him through the streets of Amaroussion I had the feeling that I was walking the earth in a totally new way. The earth became more intimate, more alive, more promising. He spoke frequently of the past, it is true, not as something dead and forgotten however, but rather as something which we carry within us, something which fructifies the present and makes the future inviting. He spoke of little things and of great with equal reverence; he was never too busy to pause and dwell on the things which moved him; he had endless time on his hands, which in itself is the mark of a great soul. How can I ever forget that last impression he made upon me when we said farewell at the bus station in the heart of Athens? There are men who are so full, so rich, who give themselves so completely that each time you take leave of them you feel that it is absolutely of no consequence whether the parting is for a day, or forever. They come to you brimming over and they fill you to overflowing. They ask nothing of you except that you participate in their superabundant joy of living. They never inquire which side of fence you are on because the world they inhabit has no fences. They make themselves invulnerable by habitually exposing themselves to every danger. They grow more heroic in the measure that they reveal their weaknesses. Certainly in those endless and seemingly fabulous stories which Katsimbalis was in the habit of recounting there must have been a good element of fancy and distortion, yet even if truth was occasionally sacrificed to reality the man behind the story only succeeded thereby in revealing more faithfully and thoroughly his human image.”

يصف هذا الكتاب رحلة هنري ميللر في اليونان، واليونان بلد مُلهم لكبار الكتاب عبر التاريخ،
لكن لا يكتفي ميللر بوصف اليونان ، بل يتحدث -كالعادة - عن كل شيء...
عندما تقرأ لهنري ميللر لاتعرف من أين يبدأ ولا أين ينتهي، لأنه دائماً يحاول أن يؤكد قوله:
(أفضل القصص التي سمعتها هي بلا نهاية،
وأفضل الكتب هي التي لا أذكر عقدتها أبداً،
وأفضل الاشخاص هم من لا أصل معهم إلى أي نتيجة....)

من عشية الحرب العالمية الثانية يقدم لنا هنري ميللر، يقول:
(الكل يسير في الاتجاه الخاطئ.... هذه واحدة من أسوأ لحظات تاريخ الجنس البشري،
لا بارقة أمل في الأفق، العام كله متورط في الخداع، العالم يأخذ حمامه من الدم)

ثم يدعو للعلاج: ( لا يمكن لاي انسان أن يدعي معرفة الفرح إلى أن يمارس السلام...
ولن يحل السلام إلى ان نلغي الجريمة من القلب والعقل)

لا يوجد كاتب يكتب بهذه الطريقة من الاتقاد، كما يفعل هنري ميللر:
(لا يزال أمامنا بعد الكثير من الاشياء الاعظم لنقولها، أشياء تعصى على اللفظ،
أشياء لا حد لها ولا تصدق، أشياء لاية خدعة لغوية ان تحيط بها)

Paris Henri'yi Bozmuş
Bu kitap olmamış Henri. Heyy, sana diyorum Henri, olmamış bu kitap. Adamımsın tamam ama duygusallığı bir tarafa bırakalım. Şu an yüzüm kıpkırmızı, utanıyorum senden!
Yunan öyle, Fransız şöyle, Türkler böyle.
Yazarlığın kitabında genelleme yapmak var mı Henri? Bu yetmezmiş gibi bir de kıyaslama yapıyorsun.
Yunanlılar öl desen ölecek kadar dost canlısı, Fransızların bırak dostluğunu, daha lügatlarında arkadaşlık yok diyorsun; Yunanlılar evlerinin anahtarını verecek kadar cömert, Fransızların ceplerinde akrep var diyorsun ve bunun gibi daha bir sürü kıymetsiz şeyler yazıp durmuşsun.
Bütün kitap Yunanistan güzellemesi.
Paris’te istatistikçilik mi yapıyordun, Henri? Ben seni New York’ta ve Paris’teki ilk yıllarında bırakmıştım.
Yazarın genellemeyle işi olmaz, Henri. Bu işi şirketler yapar. Çan eğrisi vardır. Sinirden aklıma geldi. Gıcık olurdum bu eğriye. Sahi çan eğrisini bilir misin Henri?
 
Bilmez misinki bütün halklar aynı psikodinamiği çalıştırır, haliyle bütün halklar aynıdır.  Ve bilmez misinki coğrafya kaderdir, iklim şartlarına göre duygu düşünceler değişir; cayır cayır sıcakla yaşayan Yunanlılar tabii ki kapı pencere açık yaşayacaklar ve bu yaşantıya göre duygu düşünceler oluşacak ama bütün bu farklılıklar halkları birbirinden üstün kılmaz. Hayır hayır, sen naptın, uçtun sen. İnsanı kımıldatmayan leş gibi iklim şartlarında yaşayan Hintliyi incir ağacının altında oturuyor diye bunlar tembelim teki mi diyeceksin.
Kıyaslamalarla birlikte genellemeleri dostlar arasında yaparsın; Trabzonlular öyle, Fatsalılar şöyle, Samsunlular da böyle. Biz buna geyik deriz.
Geyik nedir bilir misin, Henri? Boş konuşuk. Vakit geçirme konuşuğu. Gerekli olduğu zamanları vardır geyiğin. Ama yazar asla geyik yapamaz.
Sen beni anlıyorsun Henri, duygularımı sakladığımı biliyorsun. Türklere ilişkin yazdıkların var. Görmezden geldim. Sürekli sataştın. Hazmedemedim. Kitabı bıraktım. Okuduklarım doğru mu diye kitaba bakacak gücüm yok. Kaçtığım, korktuğum çok kitap oldu. Bu çok  farklı.
Paris seni bozmuş, Henri.
Artık adamım değilsin Henri. Hiçbir şey olmamış gibi davranamam. Kitaplarını da arşivden çıkarıyorum. Henry Miller diye biri yok.

Miller bu anlatısına 'en iyi metnim' demiş yaşayıp da yazdıkları kuşkusuz doğruluyor bu söylemi, yerinde olup Katsimbalis'in gerçekle kurmacayı harmanladığı hikâyelerini, Seferis'in caz plaklarını dinlemeyi Durrell'la adaların ücra köşelerine yolculuk etmeyi çok isterdim.

"Bütün insanlığa barış ve daha dolu bir hayat dilerim."
(s. 210)