I suppose it is a difficult book. Not in terms of language but what Miller is trying to achieve through this novel. One has to pay attention. Else, one might dismiss it after a few pages. One must read it slowly before jumping to quick conclusions. I understand why this book got so much flak. Very often people condemn a book without reading it or not reading it properly. In fact, there are also moments where I too got annoyed by the author's 'in your face' style. But there is much in it that I liked as well. In fact, I understood his rage. At one point in the book, he describes himself as a lean and hungry Hyena who is all set to sink his teeth into life.

The book has no conventional story-line. In other words, the story begins where everything ends. His contempt for life, love, politics is so extreme that it almost borders on madness. I cannot believe that anyone can read this book without feeling a bit annoyed and disturbed. The book is not written to please anyone. It exposes what is rotten with his times, or probably at all times. The book has a remarkable contemporary feel. Some description of Paris of the time resonates with the contemporary destruction of Syria. While France and Syria might be very different places in terms of their respective aesthetics, the destruction, however, envelops that difference.

The book has been fiercely criticized for its explicit sexual content. I guess all his descriptions of sex, use of 'provocative' words such as erection, cunt, penis is quite mechanical. Sexual boldness reveals aggression against war. His descriptions reveal a sense of dissatisfaction, emptiness, ennui and some sort existential void. The sexual descriptions are mostly bizarre and bawdy but they are never porn-like; his words, for instance, do not excite imagination the way D. H Lawrence's text does. One does not look forward to those descriptions, nor does one lament or lose interest when sexually explicit scenes end. In other words, the book does not provide cheap thrills. I often hear that the author is a woman-hater. As far as I understood him, he just hates aspects of life over which he has no control such as war and ever-lurking presence of death. The sepulchral, dingy climate of the time, obsession with (fe)male genitals, and at times his hatred for everything alludes more to what is rotting in society, and not intended at women. He may have a strange approach to sex, but his take on life is even stranger and immensely provocative. And for good reasons.

Once Henry Miller remarked to her friend, Anais Nin, that he takes goodness in people for granted. He expects people to be decent. It is the abnormal, the cruel, the unusual that fascinates him.

How can one, then, write about the abnormal in a normal language! I guess his style is necessary to his content.

Αριστούργημα, καταπληκτικό βιβλίο, μερακλήδικη μετάφραση, δε μου άρεσε γιατί θέλω πλοκή .

Αλλά πρέπει να είμαι αντικειμενικός για αυτό 4 άστρα.

An den genauen Inhalt des Buches habe ich nur noch ungenaue Erinnerungen. Ich habe es ca. 1980 gelesen und war als junger Mann beeindruckt von der bis dahin mir unbekannten Symbiose aus Leben und Schreiben. "Irgendwann wird jede Literatur biographisch sein", so oder ähnlich sagt Miller irgendwo, und dieses Buch ist sein Beleg für die These.
Es geht um Sex, immer wieder, es geht um Armut, es geht um den Willen, das Leben zu gewinnen, und das in jedem Fall als Autor. Dafür verläßt Miller Amerika und geht nach Paris.
Ich habe mein erstes Miller-Buch geliebt, es mehrfach gelesen und immer wieder verliehen, und ich habe mir alle Bücher von Miller gekauft, die ich bekommen konnte. Ob es heute noch fünf Sterne bekäme, das bezweifele ich. Aber es hat, wie viele andere Bücher auch, meine Liebe zum Lesen weiter angefeuert, und heute schenke ich meinem Sohn meine alte deutsche Erstausgabe von 1962 und bin gespannt, ob er sie auch mögen wird.

Vulgar, narrow-minded and gratuitously graphic, I should hate TROPIC OF CANCER.

But I don't.

TROPIC OF CANCER was Miller's first book. In it, he seems to have invented modern urban poetry, including the rant. In his hands, the rant is eloquent, unrestrained, shocking, beautiful and ironic. When he is at his most antisemitic, misogynistic or racist, my experience in reading him has the opposite effect. I become less so. His writing makes me less judgmental. I become more open and accepting. And I feel liberated from conventional thinking. He invites me to entertain radical thoughts.

This was a re-read for me after decades. I am happy that TROPIC still has the power for me that it had when I was in my 20s. I want to think about it a bit now. I may have more to say later.

مدار السرطان
سيرة ذاتية روائية
ترجمة: أسامة منزلجي
طبعة دار المدي
الطبعة الأولي 2012

مدار السرطان هو أولي أعمال هنري ميللر الابداعية. تبعها بـ (ربيع أسود) و(مدار الجدي). وباريس هي المكان الذي نما فيه مدار هنري السرطاني. لقد جاءها لسبب لم يعرفه بعد، كما يذكر. إن المتعة العظيمة التي نجنيها من وراء كتاب كهذا، هي أننا نتابع، حياة حية، صادقة، بكل تناقضاتها، وأوجاعها، بكل عريها وبؤسها وعهرها، بكل جنونها وصخبها.

يحكي لنا هنري عن مغامراته الداعرة التي عاشها، وعن أصدقائه من الفنانين المهمشين، الذي كان يسكن معهم، وعن الوظائف التي تحصل عليها، عن تجواله بلا هدف في الشوارع التي يعتبرها ملجأ له، وعن كتابه هذا الذي نقرأه.

إن أكبر مشكلة كانت تواجه هنري، هي الحصول علي وجبة طعام. دائما دماغه مشغول بتدبيرها. إنها أعظم سخرية من الحياة. أن يكون شغلك الشاغل، قطعة خبز. قال إمرسن: "تتألف الحياة ما يفكر الانسان فيه طوال يومه". إذا كان هذا صحيحا فحياتي ليست غير أمعاء ضخمة. إنني لا أكتفي بالتفكير في الطعام طوال النهار، بل وأحلم به ليلا.

يحكي لنا هنري، عن حصوله علي وظيفة (بكوفر) الذي سقط من هوة مصعد، فمات. حيث عمل مصححا، بإحدي الصحف. ونتيجة للفواجع التي يصححها للطباعة، يوميا، يصل لحالة من المناعة التامة. يقول: "لا شيء يؤثر بي، لا الزلازل ولا حركات الشغب ولا المصادمات ولا الحروب ولا الثورات. إنني ملقح ضد كل مرض، كل فاجعة، كل حسرة وبؤس. إنه أوج حياة الثبات والجلد. في كوتي الصغيرة تكمن كل السموم التي ينفثها العالم كل يوم بين يدي. لا تتلوث من قلامة ظفر. أنا منيع مناعة مطلقة. بل إنني أفضل حالا من مساعد في مخبر، إذ ليست هناك روائح كريهة هنا، لا تفوح إلا رائحة رصاص يحترق". والفاجعة العظمي بالنسبة إلي مصحح المطبوعات هي التهديد بفقدان عمله. يقول: وحين نجتمع وقت الاستراحة يكون السؤال الذي يشيع القشعريرة في ظهورنا هو: ماذا ستفعل إذا فقدت عملك؟ فبالنسبة إلي رجل يعمل كناسا للروث في إسطبل ترويض الخيول، الرعب الأعظم هو وجود عالم بلا خيول. ومن البلاهة بمكان أن تقول له إنه من المثير أن يقضي المرء حياته يجرف الروث الساخن. ففي وسع الانسان أن يحب الخراء إذا كان رزقه يعتمد عليه، وسعادته مرهونة به.

ومع (فيلمور) أقام هنري فترة، كان خلالها مشغولا بالكتابة. وكان فيلمور هذا يوفر له كل سبل الراحة: طعام. خمر. حفلات رقص. وردا للجميل، استطاع هنري بطريقة مجنونة، تخليص فيلمور، من عاهرة فرنسية، وقع في حبائلها. وهي حكاية طريفة، تتكشف فيها كل خبايا شخصية هنري، وكل جنونه..

نلاحظ في غير موضع، نقمة هنري ميللر علي الحضارة الغربية،.يقول: إن أوروبا مشبعة بالفن، وتربتها مفعمة بعظام الموتي، ومتاحفها تضيق بكنوز مسلوبة، أما ما تفتقده أوروبا فهي روح حرة، سليمة الصحة، يمكنك أن تسميها إنسان. ويري ميللر أن المستقبل هو للآلة، للبشر الآليين. ولتعرف مايعنيه يجب أن تكون في بلد غريب كفرنسا، تسير علي الخط الفاصل بين نصفي كرة الحياة والموت، لتعرف أي آفاق مستقبلية لا تحصي مفتوحة أمامك. السبكة الكهربائية! الروح الديموقراطية! طغيان الفيضان! يا أم الرب المقدسة، ماذا يعني هذا الهراء؟ الأرض محمصة ومشققة. يحتشد الرجال والنساء معا كأفراخ الصقور علي جثة عفنة، ليتزاوجوا ثم يتفرقون من جديد. صقور تسقط من السماء كحجارة ثقيلة. مخالب ومنقار، هذا نحن! جهاز معوي هائل لا نشتهي إلا اللحم الميت. إلي الأمام! إلي الأمام بلا رحمة، بلا شفقة، بلا حب، بلا مغفرة. لا تطلب ربع دولار، ولا تعط شيئا! مزيدا من السفن الحربية، مزيدا من الغازات السامة، مزيدا من المتفجرات العالية الإنفجار! مزيدا من جراثيم داء السيلان! مزيدا من المكورات العقدية! مزيدا من قاذفات القنابل! مزيدا ومزيدا منها – وإلي أن تنفجر جميع المعامل اللعينة إلي ذرات صغيرة، ومعها الأرض..
ويقول: لعل الهلاك هو قدرنا، وليس لدينا، لدي أي منا، أي أمل، ولكن إذا كان الأمر كذلك دعونا نطلق صرخة أخيرة معذبة؛ عواء مريعا، صرخة تحد، صيحة حرب. كفانا عويلا! كفانا مراثي وترانيم جنائزية! كفانا سيرا ذاتية وتواريخ، ومكتبات ومتاحف! دعو الموتي يأكلون الموتي. دعونا نحن معاشر الأحياء نرقص حول حافة فوهة البركان، رقصة الرمق الأخير. ولكن ليكن رقصا!

مقتبسات:
- العالم من حولي يتحلل، تاركا هنا وهناك بقعا من الزمن. العالم سرطان ينهش نفسه حتي الهلاك.
- هناك أمر واحد ووحيد يثير اهتماماتي بحيوية، وهو أن أسجل كل ما حذفته الكتب.
- أفضل أفكاري تأتيني دائما وأنا بعيد عن الآلة الكاتبة

“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.”

The obscenity and salaciousness of Tropic of Cancer are not what offend its readers, it’s the suggestion that we enjoy and find pleasure in destruction and decadence. Especially with this idea being proposed by Miller, who presents himself as a hero of moral and social decline. I don’t think that the cathartic dimension of the novel is deniable; the critique of norms and the traditional view of success is rigorously written beyond satisfaction even for the more conservative reader, naturally assuming the reader isn’t intellectually square. But even more cathartic, for us who are a little bit prudent, is the satiric tone of Miller’s destruction which is in turn constructive, as the destitution and emptiness that accompanies absolute hedonism make most of his ramblings.

Miller’s nonlinear narration of his thoughts forms one of the most unique voices of the novels which employ the stream-of-consciousness technique, which he himself called a spiral form. The narrative structure repeatedly surprises us, we read obscenities, and right after we get exquisite lyricism.

Sex in the Tropic of Cancer is subversion, but not because it’s written in its depraved and misogynistic aspect, but because it is put forward as is. And we can disapprove of him, but Miller as a man depicts sexuality even when it is coarse, detached, and humiliating with psychological objectivity. There is an undertone of criticism of the male characters; some of the misogynistic libidinal escapades are somewhat caricatural, but as Anaïs Nin wrote: “The gross caricatures are perhaps more vital, 'more true to life,' than the full portraits of the conventional novel.”

I will admit that Tropic is confusing to our (mine) moral values, it’s hard to keep your head out of the social nihilism Miller puts forward. While reading, I actively try to turn the experience into one of moral elevation, yet I only find utter enjoyment.

“The world around me is dissolving, leaving here and there spots of time. The world is a cancer eating itself away.”

أحب هنري ميللر، بدأت قصتي معه في معرض الكتاب في عمان 2014، كنت قد كومت كتبا كثيرة، واستمر بحثي عن المزيد في إحدى دور النشر، رأيت كتا��ا اسمه (الكتب في حياتي) وصورة الكاتب بالأبيض والأسود تحت العنوان، لم أكن قد سمعت بميللر من قبل لكني لم أتنازل عن الكتاب، وأنا غالبا ما أشتري الكتب دون تصفح! أحببته منذ ذلك الحين وهذا كتابه الثالث الذي أنهيه.
لا أدري ماذا يفيدنا أن نقول بأيروسية هذه الرواية؟ لقد تغير معنى الأيروسية من وقت نشرها إلى اليوم تغيرا كبيرا، ولكن الأهم هذه الرواية كالأغنية الشعبية في وقت الحرب، لا تتحرج من أي شيء ويستسيغها طيف كبير من الناس، ولا يرفضها إلا من يرغب في تغيير جلده.
لم أشعر بفجاجة الألفاظ والأوصاف (على الرغم من أنها الأعنف والأكثر صراحة) لأنني أعرف ميللر من قبل ولا أنتظر منه أن يقف إلى جانب الكتاب الرصينين لالتقاط صورة تذكارية، إن كنت لم تشاهد أيًا من مقابلاته على اليوتيوب أو لم تقرأ شيئا من مذكراته، فلا يفضل أن تشرع بقراءة هذا العمل، ولا يحق عليك أن تحكم عليه.
اللحظات السريالية في الرواية عالية الأهمية، أتى بها ليوازن بين الأرضي والعلوي وهذان الجانبان متلازمان في شخصيته أيضا، يعرفهما كل من يطلع على قائمته بأفضل مئة كتاب.
أحب هنري ميللر لأنه التجلي الخارق لبشريتنا ولأنه لا يريد من الكلمات أن تصبح مساحيق تجميلية ولا من المواضيع أن تدور في الفم كاللبان، الجوع هو الحالة المسيطرة الجوع الطفولي الفطري الذي يملك الحق في الاستمرار، الذي يعطي الحياة حقها في الاستمرار.
ويبقى الكثير ليقال... فأنا أحب هنري ميللر

Seems the contemporary catch phrase to label Miller by is "Misogynist." Whatever... he wrote from his perspective and never swayed from his own vantage point to impress anyone. He is a true artist. How else would he have attracted the love interest of such an intelligent, beautiful woman as Anaiis Nin? Tropic of Cancer, to me, borders on spiritual enlightenment by way of pure honesty. I also enjoyed reading Nin's diary showing her side of their mutual lust affair. She was as much of a lost soul as he was, as well as his intellectual equal. They both survived off other people for the most part: Anaiis was married to a wealthy man and slept with him and his contemporaries as well as Miller; Miller was married to whoever would take him in and feed him (some food, but most often intellectual conversation) and slept with his friend's friend's friends, as well as a plethora of prostitutes. The bottom line is that he and Anaiis both explored their depravities through the medium of writing, creating literary works of art in the process.

Considering I often found this virtually unreadable I'm amazed I got to the end, reading every word. First published in 1934 when undoubtedly it would have been shocking with its relentless lexicon of crude language including every racial slur out there and its insistence on referring to just about every woman as a c**t. It's a book in which men relentlessly revel in degrading women. Miller deploys an Emerson quote in his foreword, the gist of which is that new novels ought to take the form of autobiography and record experience truthfully. But if this is an unfiltered expose of the male psyche then the male psyche is one ugly place. I actually didn't buy the honesty ticket at all. A lot of the time it felt like Miller was posturing. He failed to get his early novels published and his bitterness and anger seems at virtually all times his source material. In fact I found it's only when he isn't feeding his bitterness and cynicism that his writing excels - there were some beautiful descriptions of Paris and I especially loved his appraisal of Matisse. The rest of the time it often felt like the work of a brilliant mind moored to the emotions of an adolescent boy.

I recently read one of Anais Nin's journals. She was a good friend of Miller's and I found lots of similarities between the two of them - first and foremost, the posturing, the desperation to be taken seriously as artists, as if, underneath, they were riddled with insecurities. Like Miller, Nin could be brilliant when she came out from behind her pose but ultimately I can't help thinking they were both essentially poseurs. But what do I know? This made it into the Guardian's top 100 novels. I can only imagine the majority of voters were men.

I got through the first 150 pages before I decided that life is too short to waste time reading books you hate. Maybe I'm not smart enough or deep enough to appreciate a book like Tropic of Cancer, but for me each page was a tedious struggle. The author of the book's introduction boldy asserts that Henry Miller is "the greatest living author" (obviously, the edition I read was published prior to Miller's death in 1980), but I found Miller's frenetic, meandering style tiresome.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not one to carelessly fling aside any book that doesn't capture my attention in the first 100 pages. Once I start a book, it's difficult for me to give it up, mostly because it makes me feel like a quitter; but I found myself getting angry as I grudgingly plodded through this one. I kept thinking, "Henry, for chrissakes, give me something, ANYTHING to latch onto here!" That's when I decided it was time to give up. Some semblance of a plot might have helped keep my interest piqued, but I don't think that storytelling was the author's aim. The long and short of it is - these kinds of books are not my cup of tea.

So, I was glancing through some of the reviews here and noticed that someone has totally disparaged this book because its “hero” is immoral. It always bewilders me when people judge a book according to the moral judgment that they pass on its characters. Like when I was looking at the reviews of John Updike’s Run, Rabbit and saw a woman saying that she hated the book because Angstrom left his wife twice in the book. I was like, don’t take it personally, lady; he’s not your husband. A lot of people do it. They ignore the book and get too tangled up in how likeable the characters are. I really don’t get this. Someone should explain it to me. Is Lolita a bad book because it’s about a pedophile? Should writers feel like their characters will be competing in a popularity contest in the minds of the readers? Should we then only read books about angels floating happily in Heaven, doing good things? Aren’t evil and immorality – whatever they mean – facts of life that should be dissected and explained by literature?

I didn’t bother with the morality of the hero. I don’t care if he slept with a whore and then stole her money and ran away. Who cares? Look at all that delicious writing instead, all the ranting and raving of a tormented and brilliant mind, and the brutal honesty of it.

I don’t know why publishers still insist on marketing this book for its “explicit language and breaking of sexual taboos in literature.” That’s just so passé in an age when even pornography makes us yawn. The beauty of this book lies somewhere else.

Henry Miller is driven by sheer lunacy and it's an absolute joy. This is not Orwell's Paris, this isn't anywhere near Hemingway's Parisian poverty - this is something beyond that scope entirely. Whenever you get daunted while reading this book he'll write the most brilliant sentence that forces you to keep going until you're out of breath. I don't know how he wrote this, I'm always envious of his style, I can't understand how his brain must have ticked, but it somehow feels like writing was the most sensible thing he could do.