كتابي كه هم رمان است و هم زندگي نامه است اما در واقع نميتوان آن را در هيچ كدام از اين دو دسته به طور خاص قرار داد.
هنگام خواندن كتاب نبايد انتظار داستاني داشت كه دراماتيك باشد يا ساختار مشخصي داشته باشد.
همه چيز در هم و برهم است و هنري ميلر شخصيت هايي را ناگهان وارد داستان ميكند و ناگهان آن را محو مي كند و تا آخر داستان خبري از آن نيست.
همچنين كاري كه ميلر در اين رمان ميكند اين است كه تصويري از پاريس را ارائه مي كند كه متفاوت از هر اثري است كه تاكنون در مورد پاريس و روياهاي آن خوانده ام.
پاريسي درب و داغان با مهمانخانه هاي ارزان و مشروب هاي ارزان و غذاهاي ارزان و خيابان هاي كثيف .
ترجمه ي كتاب هم نسبتا خوب بود اما خواندن كتاب حوصله و تمركز بالايي را ميطلبد.

On the meridian of time, there is no injustice: there is only the poetry of motion creating the illusion of truth and drama.”



For a while as I read Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer I wondered why it had appealed to me in my early twenties. Maybe it was allure of living as an artist in Paris or Miller's blatant disregard for conventions and authority. However, in the first section, it seemed like Miller only discussed whores or what he could get out of a woman. If not sex, some of them were good for "pin money." To be fair, it doesn't feel like Miller has real friendships with either men or women.

At some point, Miller began to broaden the reflection on his time in Paris and his own writing. He still reflected on the lifestyle of the starving artist in Paris; however, you get a sense he's searching for deeper meanings. It's not all smooth prose, but there are fragments that make you stop in your tracks. Perhaps that's something that Miller recognized; one of the quotes below is about how we should seek out books even if they only contain one great page. While I'm not sure I'm ready to wholeheartedly endorse this book as I may have as a younger reader, but I'm happy to have read it again with a different perspective.

“Words are loneliness.”

“I believe that today more than ever a book should be sought after even if it has only one great page in it. We must search for fragments, splinters, toenails, anything that has ore in it, anything that is capable of resuscitating the body and the soul.”

“Do anything, but let it produce joy. Do anything, but let it yield ecstasy.”

“I have found God, but he is insufficient.”

"Alone, with a tremendous empty longing and dread. The whole room for my thoughts. Nothing but myself and what I think, what I fear. Could think the most fantastic thoughts, could dance, spit, grimace, curse, wail – nobody would ever know, nobody would ever hear. The thought of such absolute privacy is enough to drive me mad. It's like a clean birth. Everything cut away. Separate, naked, alone. Bliss and agony simultaneously. Time on your hands. Each second weighing on you like a mountain. You drown in it. Deserts, seas, lakes, oceans. Time beating away like a meat ax. Nothingness. The world. The me and the not-me. Oomaharumooma. Everything has to have a name. Everything has to be learned, tested, experienced. Faites comme chez vous, chéri."
*
The cancer of time is eating us away. Our heroes have killed themselves, or are killing themselves. The hero, then, is not Time, but Timelessness.
*
Words are loneliness. I left a couple of words for you on the tablecloth last night – you covered them with your elbows.
*
Somehow the realization that nothing was to be hoped for had a salutary effect upon me. For weeks and months, for years, in fact, all my life I had been looking forward to something happening, some intrinsic event that would alter my life, and now suddenly, inspired by the absolute hopelessness of everything, I felt relieved, felt as though a great burden had been lifted from my shoulders.
*
The fire is out. A silence so intense that it sounds like Niagara Falls in my ears.

Moments of brilliant writing, but mostly I didn't like it.

PROFANITY!

POETRY!

PARIS!

SEX!

MORE SEX!!

MORE PROFANITY!!

an astute, thoughtful, sensitive examination of the common man with candid observations of art, society, community, and psychology

MORE SEX!!!

TRAVEL FROM PARIS!

TRAVEL BACK TO PARIS!

MORE PROFANITY, SEX AND DRINKING! BUT WRITTEN IN POETIC PROSE!

I don't know what was more embarassing - reading this book in public and wondering if anyone knew how vile it was, or seeing how many passages my mother had underlined in college. Naughty! (In her defense, she said she had no choice . . . )

This was one of those titles I'd heard a handful of authors drop, and thought I needed to know why. I'm still not sure I completely understand the fascination (though I'll grant he HAS beefed up my quotes section), but at least I can say I've read Henry Miller, right? His Paris memoir kept reminding me of Herman Hesse's "Goldmund and Narcissus" and Jack Keroac's "Dharma Bums" - that tortured Bohemian lifestyle that artists subject themselves to for the sake of their craft, all in the name of life and art. It leaves a sort of empty, bitter feeling in the gut - not something I look for in a good piece of literature, but not without merit, either. I know, at least, that this is not the kind of artist I ever want to become - so disgusted with the world and its hypocrisy as to believe that truth and beauty can only be found in the darkest corners of the human experience - promiscuity, scatological discourse, vulgarity, masochism and misogyny. You're right, Mom. Henry Miller really was just a dirty old man. I had to learn that for myself, though.

There were a few pearls of wisdom I gleaned from Mr. Miller - I think his better moments were the ramblings, rather than his actual experience (see quotes). I didn't agree with a lot of his nihilist diatribe, and I rather felt that he really didn't, either. Maybe it was the hunger speaking. I appreciate his honesty and (however subtle) admittance that he's just as unenlightened as the rest of us.

2 stars because I didn't hate it, but I can't say I liked it either. Which might be just what he was going for.

“When into the womb of time everything is again withdrawn chaos will be restored and chaos is the score upon which reality is written.”

This is one of those amazing books that does violence to your system (think Lolita, Naked Lunch, Ulysses) but still leaves you gobsmacked by its brilliance. IT is the brazen, tortured soul of a man going through an existential crises in Paris. The novel is a cry in the dark; a delirious shout in the void. Miller's prose dances on the edge of the cracked mirror of Modernism. It is dazzling, sharp and extremely dangerous.

This is NOT a novel for the weak, the timid, the easily shocked or those that believe art exists without shadows. Miller lifts the sheets and describes the decay, the despair and the rot of humanity. If you are not prepared for the monstrous vision of Miller you won't be able to find the roses in the dung heap, and thus you will be unable to question your own desire for roses in the first place.

სიამოვნებით წავიკითხავდი ან დავწერდი მსგავს ზიზღით ავსებულ წიგნს თბილისზეც და მის რეალობაზეც.
წარმომიდგენია იმ დროისთვის რა სკანდალური იქნებოდა მსგავსი ტექსტი.

"პარიზი ნამდვილი მეძავივითაა. შორიდან გაცდუნებს, ერთი სული გაქვს როდის ჩაეხუტები, მაგრამ ზუსტად ხუთ წუთში საშინელ სიცარიელეს გრძნობ და საკუთარი თავი გეზიზღება."

"ხელოვნების არსიც ის არის, ყოველგვარი ეტიკეტი და ქცევის წესები ფეხებზე უნდა ეკიდოს. როცა საქმეს დასარტყამი ინსტრუმენტებით იწყებ, დინამიტით ან ტროტილით უნდა დაასრულო."

Che delirio. Tropico del Cancro è uno di quei libri degli abissi, dove la natura umana viene svelata nella sua essenza più malinconica ed animalesca, disperata e violenta. Il genere del testo è di per sé criptico: più che un romanzo, sembra una sorta di cronaca individuale, intervallata da spunti, riflessioni estremamente interessanti. Così come originalissimo è lo stile: Miller adopera un linguaggio non solo realistico come indicano i critici, ma un linguaggio anche poetico, ispirato, tale da fondersi in un'unica lingua geniale ed innovativa. Sfondo della vicenda è Parigi, la Parigi degli anni '30, patria internazionale di artisti e bohemiennes di ogni tipo, caratterizzati, così come in particolare il protagonista del testo, Miller stesso, da una vita di stenti, vizi e povertà assoluta, patria ideale per generare quell'insieme di avventure ed episodi che costituiscono il vero intreccio della narrazione. Ma Parigi è molto di più di un semplice sfondo: nella sua sempre più assoluta decadenza, nel suo sempre più affascinante declino, diventa il simbolo di un'intera umanità sempre più immersa nel buio, sempre più incancrenita (di qui il titolo) e sempre più disperata.

Tropic of Cancer, Henry Miller

Tropic of Cancer is a novel by Henry Miller, It was first published in 1934 by the Obelisk Press in Paris, France.

Miller gave the following explanation of why the book's title was Tropic of Cancer: "It was because to me cancer symbolizes the disease of civilization, the endpoint of the wrong path, the necessity to change course radically, to start completely over from scratch."

تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز بیست و پنجم ماه می سال 2016 میلادی

عنوان: مدار راس السرطان؛ هنری میلر؛ مترجم: سهیل سمی؛ تهران، ققنوس، 1394، در 391ص؛ شابک: 9789643117832؛ چاپ دوم 1395؛ شابک 9789643117831؛ موضوع: داستانهای نویسندگان امریکایی - سده 20م

هنری میلر، از نویسندگان نام آشنای سده ی بیستم میلادی است؛ کتاب نخستین بار در سال 1934میلادی در «پاریس» منتشر شد، و نخستین کتابی بود که «میلر»، پس از سفرشان به اروپا نوشتند؛ کتابیکه نخبگان و نویسندگان بسیاری آنرا ستوده اند؛ «هنری میلر» در این کتاب، زندگی خویش را دستمایه قرار می‌دهند، و داستان می‌نویسند؛ «میلر» در آمریکا، و در بلندای ناداری، دست به: گورکنی، کارگری، و خیابانگردی نیز میزنند و ...؛

تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 22/03/1399هجری خورشیدی ا. شربیانی

Епізод, де індус насрав у біде — одне з найсильніших моїх літературних вражень останнього часу

هذه رواية قد أتعبت من قرأها ومن كتبها ومن ترجمها!!
طالعنى اسم هنرى ميلر هنا على صفحات جودريدز وقد اختلط على الأمر فى البدء بينه وبين آرثر ميللر -بالطبع- ولما لم أجد "وفاة بائع متجول" وسط قائمة أعماله هرعت الى السيرة الذاتية لأكتشف خطأى بل وجهلى أيضاً .. عزائى الوحيد انه فى مقدمة المترجم ( التى لم أجدها فى طبعة دار المدى، بل فى طبعة أخرى إلكترونية) قد ذكر نفس هذا الخطأ الشائع !!

أولى قراءاتى لهنرى ميللر - وقد تكون الأخيرة- أسلوبه السردى غاية فى الإمتاع ، أما اللغة فشديدة الفحش والمحتوى الجنسى ليس فقط مزعجاً ولكنه بذىء أيضاً
اذا استطعت الحفاظ على تركيزك وسط كل هذه الكلمات البشعة لخرجت ببضع عبارات جيدة تدور حول رؤيته للعالم آنذاك .. مقاراناته بين أمريكا وأوروبا ، ثم عكسه لهذه المقارانات ، حياته مشرداً تعساً فى فرنسا .. إلخ
لا أستطيع الجزم أننى سأكرر هذه التجربة مرة أخرى .. على الأقل ليس الآن!
من أفضل ما قرأت فى هذه الرواية:
-------------------------------
"لعل الهلاك هو قَدرنا، وليس لدينا، لدى أىٍ منّا ، أى أمل ، ولكن إذا كان الأمر كذلك دعونا نطلق صرخة أخيرة معذبة، عواءً مريعاً، صرخة تحدٍّ ، صيحة حرب. كفانا عويلاً ! كفانا مراثىَ وترانيم جنائزية! كفانا سيراً ذاتية وتواريخ، ومكتبات ومتاحف! دعوا الموتى يأكلون الموتى. دعونا نحن معشر الأحياء نرقص حول حافة البركان، رقصة الرمق الأخير. ولكن ليكن رقصاً ! "