Yes, the world is a filthy place. Confined places breed like with like until they mutate into new diseases that masquerade as "happy masks of everybody is doing it so why shouldn't I?" This new disease was the emergence of Narcissistic Personality Disorder but Henry has this AND comorbid sex addiction blended alongside a dominant feature of soft (lol) nihilism.


After investing two precious hours of mine reading this (coincidentally while I battled a stomach bug and made a few trips to vacate my internal poisons), and really trying to find something worthy, "It was (still) something to make me puke."

This is a book of a dark and nasty, noxious, contagious airborne cancerous spray.


Whereas women blend the sex and death instincts to breathe life and beauty back into their core being, perhaps men battle this impulse differently and they herald ugliness? Does this idea bear possible future development? This was my silver lining takeaway - do or have women experience(d) life like this? Maybe men's version of death driven chaos is cancerous whereas women's version of death driven chaos is the void?

This book celebrates singleminded indulgence on a world stage. This reminds me of an unattractive man I saw stroking his cock while behind the wheel of his car and lasciviously looking at me while saying to me, "Come closer." His self-love was seductive but I balked because his cock was a barely controlled separate viral animal - a thing to be released like an itchy boil - THAT'S ONE ITCH YOU DON'T WANT TO SCRATCH - as it spreads, the itch worsens.

I don't wish to approach any closer than what I can objectively keep at a distance.

My antibodies scream at me, "Stay away from that shit on air imbued confined space; that stink you smell roiling out the door really is a dangerously vile virus."

Don't turn the fan on. Just close the door and let this die a solitary confinement/quarantine death. Alone as it gloried and hallowed and desired and wanted to be.

Kill it with the mercy of what it wanted and exactly how it wanted its life snuffed.

Fulfill its "Living Will," then abandon this life forsaken ship.

Jesus, was this a difficult book to finish. I love Henry Miller, but at times I thought Tropic of Capricorn was a dud. For a long stretch he speaks of his experience in such a way as to make himself sound like a sociopath, bereft of feeling or care. But he is as ever full of contradictions, and as much as he has no feeling he has all the feeling in the world.

It's all over the place, but I don't know if that's a bad thing or if it just made it difficult for me. Even if it is imperfect (and Henry Miller is by definition imperfect, by his own admission a Dadaist, was never going to write anything that completely made sense), it contains massive portions that far exceed what any other writer, even his beloved Dostoevsky, ever achieved.

He was an amoral saint, which is what I aspire to be, and what I want from the writers I read, but hardly ever get. The morality tale is defunct, once and for all, and those that remain are mere parodies of a time long gone.

Henry Miller is my favorite author of all time. It's hard to say what his best book is, because each thing he did was really different in terms of setting, attitudes, and stylistically. It's all good stuff, but I pick this as the fave, maybe just because of the personal time frame in which I consumed it. He just makes sense, even when he comes off as a chauvinist or an asshole. Most people make the mistake of remembering Miller for the sexual content in some of his novels. But this was merely one piece of the much bigger pie: Miller sought to liberate the human race in all facets of life, not just in terms of sexuality. Above all, Miller wanted to elevate consciousness and open up a world of possibilities to the reader previously untapped...truly one of the great thinkers of all time. There's nothing like it when Miller gets on a hot streak; to me this book contains some of his best frantic scribblings and rants.

Henryho Millera bych nechtěl mít za kamaráda. Určitě by se mi totiž snažil vojet holku a tomu moc nefandím. Ale tomu, že vojižděl jinejm chlapům skoro před sto lety holky, fandím dost. O tom je totiž Obratník kozoroha.

V roce 2013, kdy jsem čet Obratnik raka, jsem byl ještě mladej a měl vlasy a tudíž nepsal vysoce inteligentní recenze na knížky a tak vůbec netuším o čem to bylo. Ale dal sem tomu 4*. Tenhle Obratník hodnotím obdobně. Je to Millerova prasácká zpověď - o jeho vyrůstání v New Yorku, o jeho rodině, o práci, ale hlavně o prncasení. To je panečku sloveso!

Henry hodně a často kombajnoval ženy. V knize si například stěžuje, že byl nadějný klavírista, ale nikam to nedotáhl, protože "as soon as I was able to play a song the cunts were around me like flies".

Nejen epizoda s chlupatou učitelkou na klavír mi opět ve vlaku dávala zabrat a knihy způsobující erekce mají u mého penisu vždy dveře otevřené. Jelikož je můj penis můj velkej kámoš, tak i já byl spokojen a hodnotim knihu i přes nudné pasáže kladně. A to jsem dlouho nebyl na Kladně.