Well, according to the blurb, the book is supposed to be a "beautiful introduction to Miller's other writings." Is that so? I'd say, yes or as Carl would probably put it: Yah, yah!
As you might have it expected, it is fraught with four-letter words and though I am no bluenose... Anyway, if you are in a mood to philosophize a bit, the novel provides the stock as you can ask yourself dozens of existential questions while following the thread of novel.

stwierdzam, że nie da się tego czytać

moja przygoda z tą książką kończy się na siódmej stronie, gdzie chłop myje swojego penisa a później zaczyna opisywać scenę erotyczną w bardzo dziwny sposób

dziękuję, że towarzyszyliście mi w tej pięknej przygodzie

цитата для закладки: коли хтось вдавав, що кохає її саме через родимки, – це робило її безнадійно беззахисною (с)
цікаво, втім, коли вже мірятись скандалами, то похмільна естетика буковскі мені ближча. міллер огортає сірим кольором – він красивий.

An interesting insight into Bohemian life in Paris during the 1930s. I suspect if this is semi autobiographical that the second story rings more true with less fantasy. Enjoyable read and I will be reading more of Henry Miller.

I may just come out and say that the book was quite a ride till the end. It is about the life of Henry Miller and his author friend, Alfred (Tagged as 'Carl' in the book) who resides in Clichy for a year and had multiple sexual partners and promiscuous adventures, giving them comfort and inspiration in their writing. Women were treated as a sex object in the entire book and may sound absolutely shocking to the prudes and puritans. But having never read another of his work, I enjoyed this novella for the warm fill of exhilarating writing and prosaic style in his words. I may give you an excerpt to linger over his words.

"When I think of this period, when we lived together in Clichy, it seems like a stretch in Paradise. There was only one real problem, and that was food. All other ills were imaginary. I used to tell him so now and then, when he complained about being a slave."

Nevertheless, I haven't stopped reeling under the shocking bold writing of Henry Miller and may continue to look at his work with a wary accusing eye.

Henry Miller arrived in Paris in 1930. The glory days of Anglophone writers in Paris had passed: Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and their buddies had all departed; the gaiety and license of the Roaring Twenties, emblemized by Josephine Baker and her dances, had died under the weight of the Depression. Miller depended on the support of wealthy patrons, notably the banker husband of Anais Nin, to pay for lodging and food. He used his time to write his two most famous books, Tropic of Cancer and Tropic of Capricorn. Then arrived another disaster: the rise of Nazi Germany, the failure of appeasement, and, in September 1939, the outbreak of war. Miller retreated home in June, by which time it must have been apparent that conflict was unavoidable.

Miller stayed first on his return to the US in New York City, where he wrote the first draft of Quiet Days in Clichy in May, 1940. He soon embarked on a cross-country journey, recorded in The Air-Conditioned Nightmare, his best non-fiction book after the brilliant and evocative Colossus of Maroussi. Miller settled in Big Sur, California, and set aside the draft of Quiet Days for 16 years, finally returning to it in 1956.

The point of all this history is its relevance to the character of the book. By the time Miller revised it, Paris was deep in his past. He'd also begun trying to rework his reputation, not repudiating the basic persona he presented in his two Tropics, but reshaping his self-presentation. You can see this in Quiet Days. He revisits the Parisian Miller, with all the sexual escapades, prostitutes, faux poverty, and misogyny his fans expected (I suppose), but the whole is underlain with an obvious melancholy. Moreover, his heart really doesn't seem to be in it. When he wanted to, Miller could write vivid, memorable sentences, and Quiet Days starts promising just that. For instance, his description of a coven of prostitutes hanging out in the Cafe Weber, a favorite watering-hole: "As they gradually distributed themselves among the clientele, the place became not only warm and rosy but fragrant. They fluttered about in the dimming light like perfumed fireflies" (p.10). But as soon as he comes to his first sex scene, the prose disintegrates into cliche, tired and dull. It never recovers.

One has the sense that Miller was tired of having this manuscript cluttering up his desk and finally decided to finish it. Miller wrote nine books between his return to the States and his return to Quiet Days, including Sexus and Nexus, the first two volumes of "The Rosy Crucifixion" trilogy, which was essentially an autobiographical exploration of his first and second marriages--no longer the Parisian Miller. Quiet Days sits uneasily with these companions.

Readers new to Miller might be tempted by Quiet Days as it is short, barely 100 pp. But it doesn't return much for the investment. Better by far, if you're looking for the randy Miller, to go for Tropic of Cancer.

One review, by Mark McKenna, references a photograph of Miller playing ping-pong in Big Sur. I found one such still on Google, framed with Miller’s adage, “No matter how important or glamorous an opponent may be I never let him or her distract me”. It captures well the simplicity of his purpose, celebrated in his compelling ‘voice’. It's presumably what has made Miller’s work so enduring (and certainly all I could think to celebrate after reading this novella), for the strength of Miller's underhand is also the undoing of the rest of his wanton game; he's only got one sordid shot. Joey's balls only spin on the page, and Miller is ultimately very tedious and boring to play with (against).

Talented and unabashedly debaucherous, Joey (a fictionalised Miller) and his roommate Carl mostly seem to spend their ‘quiet days in Clichy’ either writing or fucking. Every woman in these two stories exist entirely as sex objects for Joey and Carl, and almost all of them are ready and willing to spread their legs, for money or lust, and occasionally with utter indifference.

Normally, this would lead me to rip the story to shreds for its sexism, but I was completely swayed by Miller’s brilliant writing. There isn’t much of a plot here and there are no admirable (or perhaps even likeable) characters, but I devoured every word. It makes me feel like the parents of Colette, the 15-year old runaway waif who gets taken in by Carl and Joey and becomes their “Cinderella, concubine and cook”. When Colette’s parents eventually find her they naturally want a word with Carl about his illicit relationship with their daughter. But upon finding out that he and Joey are writers who study the likes of Proust and Goethe, they are instantly placated and decide not to press any charges. As Carl interprets it, “The French have a great respect for writers, you know that. A writer is never an ordinary criminal”.

In the same way, the artistry of Miller’s writing makes me forgive, and in fact, thoroughly enjoy the depravity of his content. Should I feel a bit guilty, or perhaps deceived about this? I don’t know, but oh, what a great read!

Read more reviews on my blog Violin in a Void

با اینکه سانسور شدیدی داشت و مشخص بود ک کتاب با این سانسور هزارتکه و پاره شده بود، ولی همچنان قلم هنری میلر درخشان و زیبا بود و از خوندنش لذت بردم، بخصوص اونجاهایی ک دوستش کارل رو توصیف میکرد، ولی اون نگاه پست و حقیرانه ای که به زنان داشت و اون ها رو به یک وسیله فقط در جهت لذت خودش و دیگر مردان تنزل میداد و اینکه در نگاهش همه زنان موجوداتی احمق و بدون قوه تعقل و تفکر و فقط ماشینی برای سکس و لذت هستند، با نگاه امروزی و فمنیستی من در تضاد بود و این باعث میشد کمی از خوندنش دلزده بشم

" كنت قد كتبت حوالي ثمانى او عشر صفحات من الهذر التام الذى لم يكن بوسع اكثر السرياليين وحشية ان يعرف رأس ماكتبت من ذيله "

وهذا هو ما عليه هذه الرواية صفحات من الهذر التام بلا راس ولا ديل ولا معنى ولا فكرة ولا اى شئ

إما أن تتقبل هنري ميللر كما هو فيروق لك و تجد نفسك من أنصاره الذين يهتفون بحماسة و دون حياء أو تبغضه إلى الأبد و تعاديه دونما هوادة و تصب اللعنات - كل اللعنات - على هذا الوغد . راقت لي بعض التعليقات في الموقع من بعض القراء الأجانب حيث كانت إحداهن منصفة إلى أبعد حد حين قالت أنه لا شك كاتبٌ رائع و إن بدا خنزيراً . هناك رأي آخر يتسائل لماذا لا يقلع الجميع عن قراءة هنري و هو الذي لا يتخلى عن البذاءات و سردها بكل الطرق البشعة و مع ذلك يلاقي نجاحاً مسعوراً - إن صح التعبير - و علل ذلك بصوته السردي البارع و العفوي جداً .

العنوان مضلل بالمناسبة أو أن ميللر يقصد الهدوء الذي لا بد أن يعقب الصخب ! ليس ثمة الكثير من الأحداث و هذه عادة لم يقلع عنها الكاتب أبداً و عشاق الحبكات الروائية على موعد مع خيبة كبيرة إن ترقبوا شيئاً من هذا القبيل . و الكتاب فيه كاتبان يقدسان حياة اللهو و الشراب فاليوم خمر و غد ٌ كذلك و ما بعد الغد و على مدار الأسبوع الأول و الثاني و الثالث و من الواضح أن امرؤ القيس كان سيصبح صديقهما المفضل . لا شيء سوى أصناف النبيذ و العاهرات ! تقريباً لا شي آخر . هذا يدعو للتقزز غير أن للحقيقة زوايا أخرى من الممكن أن تصنع فارقاً فاللغة هنا تصلح كل ما أفسده الكاتب عن عمد . و لعلني أقتبس ما يوضح الفكرة بشكل أكبر .

" إن كارل عبقري في التورط بالمشاكل . كانت المشكلة أو ربما الفضيلة أنه لا يستطيع أن يقول لا . إن معظم الناس يقولون على الفور لا ، بدافع غريزي أعمى أما هو فيقول نعم باستمرار . إنه يعيش حياته بدافع اللحظة و لا يتوقف عن مغازلة الخطر لا بدافع الشجاعة بل لأن ذلك يمنحه فرصة لشحذ ذكائه ! "

When I noticed this book in the used book store, I picked it up, randomly turned to page 35 and read:

"She bent down and gave me a kiss on both cheeks. As she did so her boobies fell out and brushed my face."

What grown man says "boobies?"

This is Arthur Miller for Christs Sakes!