On one hand, I find it unbecoming for someone born in the 1800s to write about pussy this much. On the other, I must have a grudging respect for any writer who gets so unbelievably horny that they forget to separate their novel into chapters.

ميللر ميللر ميللر الرذيلة حين تمشي على الأقلام و فوق الأوراق لا شيء هادئ في كليشي لا شيء بتاتا يمت للهدوء بصلة ليالي صاخبة حمراء و بكل ألوان النبيذ التي تعرفها فرنسا بين أحيائها السفلية و الخلفية ..هذا هو ميللر يجيد الحديث الجاد كما يجيد الكلام الملغم بالآثام..يتجرد من الحياء تجرده من الاستعارات ليوضح الأمور كما هي بدون تجميل ..المثير أن ميللر لا يدري أننا نتعامل مع كتبه نفس تعامله مع العاهرات نحبها في وقتها و نحتفظ بذكراها معنا لكننا نضعها في الرف و نتناول التالي...أيام هادئة في كليشي توقع الأخبث منها.

"Fiecare om are destinul sau; singura regula este sa-l accepte si sa-l urmeze oriunde l-ar duce."

update: Miller's Quiet Days In Clichy is given the once over in Verbivoracious Festschrift Volume Three: The Syllabus.

Quiet away away
from misogynay
said more to be sexist is he
but after all is done and said
he likes his women most in bed

Is there any more overrated author than Henry Miller, other than perhaps other writers in his inner literally (pun intended) incestuous circle? Or a more prototypical crustpunk/freegan patronizing pretentious self-absorbed dippy douchebag? Or a better example of an annoying shit who thinks just because he's in another country he's interesting?

The difference between Miller and generic porn is the fact that Miller isn't profoundly stupid. He's smart enough to know that just having sex and self-consciousness in a novel makes it interesting and literary to New Yorker subscribers, just as he's not smart enough to know just because he's "honest" and writes "honestly" about sex doesn't mean he's a genius. A satire about pretentious assholes done by pretentious assholes is still pretentious and full of assholes.

When he's not annoying me for being a smug snot-nosed shit, though, Miller is fun to read, and he does have some oh-so-French lines. He's essentially a writer of romance novels (fantasies) for writers, virginal librarians and others who yearn for the Good Old Days of Debauchery.

But nothing takes me out of a sex scene more than the word "boobies."

A lot of people seem to be under the impression that this and other Miller is written by an old man reminiscing about his young and carefree days. But by my estimation, if Miller was born in 1891, and these stories take place in the early 30's, he'd be a 40-year old banging 14-year old chicks, among other casually creepy and misogynistic things. So take it or leave it if that floats your boat, but stop picturing him in your head as a harmless naif or innocent freshman.

أيام هادئة في كليشي

لازلت أبحث عن هنري ميلر الذي يتحدث عنه الجميع، لم تعجبني طريقته ولا أسلوبه ولا موضوعاته، لا يبدو لي مجيداً سردياً، ولا حتى ايروتيكياً، هكذا كان كتابه هذا على قصره ثقيلاً علي، بدا لي صعلكة وجنس لا أكثر، بلا أي لمحة أدبية.

Луснула моя бульбашка "ідеальних книжкових чоловіків"

Henry Miller bracht als Amerikaan in de jaren dertig een aantal jaren in Parijs door. Hij was toen de veertig al gepasseerd., want hij was geboren in 1890. In de korte roman ‘ Rustige dagen in Clichy’ vormt deze Parijse periode het decor. De roman werd in 1956 uitgebracht en later werd deze door Gerrit Komrij vertaald. Het boek is uitgebracht als Salamanderpocket. In het boek maken we kennis met Joey, de ikfiguur en zijn vriend Carl. Hun activiteiten bestaan uit schrijven maar vooral uit drinken en vrouwen versieren. Het staat boordevol seksscènes die plastisch worden beschreven. Je zou hem als een wegbereider van de Jannen Cremer en Wolkers kunnen beschouwen, van de seksuele revolutie in de jaren zestig, maar dan wel een revolutie vanuit mannelijk perspectief, want de vele vrouwen worden toch vooral als object gezien van de mannelijke lust. Het enige dat het lezen verteerbaar maakt is de directe taal, die dankzij Komrij goed uit de verf komt. Het werk van Miller werd aanvankelijk in de VS verboden en later toegestaan.

Hmm surprised that it is still quite a popular book since it is utterly sexist. An "educative" read how patriarchal famous literature is. Still two stars for the good position against anti-Semitism and the descriptions of Paris districts and streets. And because it was entertaining how those two American writers have this overconfidence and think they would have great sex.

„Zile liniștite la Clichy”
Henry Miller
2/5

أقصوصتان في العربدة والمغامرات الرجالية خالية من الأدب كتبها هنري ميللر بأسلوب أيروتيكي، انتهيت منها بمشاعر محايدة لم استمتع ولم أندم على قراءتها

TW: rape, rape of a minor, sexism, extremely graphic language and descriptions of sex (basically porn), sexist slurs, racist slurs => all unchallenged bc Henry Miller is toxic af, so beware!

I have no idea what the fuck just happened. I picked up this German edition of Quiet Days in Clichy a couple of days ago. I found it in the free little library at my local gym and fell in love with its cover. Seriously, it's one of the best cover designs I've come across in a minute. I love the color choices and the unique font. I've wanted to read this little fragment of auto-fiction years ago, I toyed with the idea of picking up its Penguin Modern Classics edition, because I was (and still am) obsessed with Paris and I do love me a pretentious little read, but I never got around to it.

Looking back, I am actually glad that I didn't read it back in 2016, or whenever I first came across this story. I would've been appalled. I would've been too young to read and assess it for what it is. And, it's a nice bonus to now have a gorgeous hardback edition that I didn't have to pay a single dime for.

I personally think I read Quiet Days in Clichy at the perfect time in my life, without even knowing it. I am sick (yet again... this autumn/winter season is NOT treating me well) and I felt very down. October and November were some rough months for me and it showed in my reading as well. I barely read anything. And even though I discovered some gems I wasn't as enthralled or excited about my reads like I usually am. Feeling down and unproductive I picked up Quiet Days in Clichy yesterday evening. It was around 9 PM and I didn't think much of it. I thought I'd read 20 pages and get bored – something that frequently happened over the past months. But no! For some weird reason, Henry Miller had me in his grip from the first page. I read this 200-page book in two hours, in one single sitting... without even getting up. I quite literally flew through this book. Whenever I checked the page number I was shocked to see that I had read 20 or more pages.

Quiet Days in Clichy will be one of the more memorable reading experiences of 2022 with me. The book is scandalous and problematic af but it was so delicious reading it. The book is full of sex (and rape!, so beware of that!), porn, nudity, obscenity, and overall fucked up toxic shit, I knew it was A LOT but I didn't fathom it'd be that graphic. For the first time, I kinda understand why US-American publishers initially refused to publish it lmao. Had I run a publishing house this book would've stayed in the drafts, bitch, no fucking way would I have sent it to a printing press.

It's just sex, sex, rape, sex, sex. This fragment/novella is apparently based on Miller's own experiences as a Parisian expatriate in the early 1930s, when he and Alfred Perlès shared a small apartment in suburban Clichy as struggling writers. Imagine the power that men hold that they can basically confess to raping a 15-year-old girl on paper and facing ZERO legal consequences. It is absolutely wild.

Figures like Miller, in all their toxic masculine glory, can hold a lot of fascination for people. I am not exempt from that. I wanna look into his biography and watch some interviews with him, because damn, how fucked up can a person be??? Like, seriously. Was he ever in prison, or???

Quiet Days in Clichy follows Joey (= Miller), an American expatriate, in and around Place Clichy and is divided into two parts. In the first, "Quiet Days in Clichy", Joey and his equally destitute roommate Carl search for food and navigate "relationships" with various women. Chiefly, Joey with Nys, a prostitute he meets at the Café Wepler near Montmartre, and Carl with Colette, a fifteen-year-old runaway who moves in with them before eventually being retrieved by her parents.

To my "shame", I have to admit that I actually loved that first part. Had it not been for the "relationship" (aka RAPE) of the 15-year-old Colette I would've given it 5 stars. Simply because it is so brutally honest and gripping. I just couldn't stop reading about Miller's crude ways. He euphemises nothing in his relationships/transactions with prostitutes. He gives you the nitty-gritty of being poor and destitute in Paris, e.g. having to eat bread out of trash cans etc. His roommate's "relationship" with Colette is the only thing that constantly pulled me out of the story bc it's just so fucking disgusting and it makes me really uncomfortable and angry to think of how many grown ass men desire girls. It makes me sick to my stomach and I'll never "enjoy" reading about that.

The second part, "Mara-Marignon," describes Carl's volatile love affair with the married Eliane, and Joey's relationship with Mara, a prostitute he meets on the Champs-Élysées. Mara reminds Joey of a previous lover, the married Christine, whom he regrets not marrying himself. This leads to a recollection of an evening he and Carl spent at their home with an acrobat named Corinne and a Danish woman named Christine. The four of them have a spontaneous orgy, which upsets Christine, who then flees the apartment. (You can't make that shit up.)

Personally, that second half didn't do much for me. It was boring af and pretty repetitive when you have just read the first part. There are no new insights and the shock factor is lost because Miller already revealed it all. Overall, the book could've been easily improved by simply omitting the second story, it is completely unnecessary and the final orgy (lmao) was one of the most ridiculous things I've ever read.

All in all, Quiet Days in Clichy can be compared with stuffing yourself with candy. It feels great when you start. It's delicious and you start craving more. But once you do it for a while and especially when you look back on what you just did you cannot help but hate yourself. This is a book that I would never recommend to anyone. I am happy that I read it (Miller is one of those "classic" authors I want to have read) but I am equally happy it's over. Guess I'm too much of a prude to properly enjoy erotica, I was simply gasping left and right at the audacity of it all.