Miller hoped that with the completion of this book he would no longer need to be a writer, that he would have passed through his art into a higher form of life. This hoped for transformation did not occur, and Miller went into a depression. The book contains his poignant farewell to the promise of America that was never fulfilled for him. Miller considered Nexus to be the most sublime of all his books, and passages in it seem written by a man in state of ecstasy.

لم أستمتع بحياتي قط عند قراءة كتاب يحوي على كم هائل من الأفكار و الاراء مغلفة في رواية كما استمتعت عند قراءتي لهنري ميلر
هذا الكاتب له قدرة هائلة على جمع السيرة الذاتية و حبكة الرواية إضافة إلى عرض اراؤه الشخصية عن اي شيء في الحياة
و بقدر ما استمتعت بقدر ما تغيرت في بعض الأشياء تلقائيا و بدون معاناة العودة إلى العادة القديمة .. لدرجة اني لم اكن أصدق ذلك بنفسي إلا بعد فترة من الزمن ... أكان لهذا الكاتب حقا كل هذا الأثر في ؟! .. لقد ترك هنري في نفسي عميق أثر ربما بشكل و من الأشكال سوف تغير حياتي
أن تقرأ كل معاناته من أجل الوصول إلى قمة هدفه "أن يكون كاتب" يلهمك بعض الأشياء حقا التي لا تخطر على بال ، يجعلك تخاطر بما تملكه حقا " أو هكذا نظن" لتحصل على شيء أن أصلا لا تعرف ماهيته ... لتجازف بحياتك بشكل طبيعي ، هذا ما سيحصل لك عندما تقرأ ثلاثية الصلب الوردي

ES la cosa mas rara pero , desde que empece a leer literatura con sexo explicito (empezando con DH Lawrence a los catorce años) , siempre mi idolo fue Henry MIller .

--Siempre me gusto mas Miller que Anais -

ESto es mucho mas que su reputacion ; no es solo erotismo explicito , va mas alla de su fama .

I've reached that point a couple of chapters off of the end, where I've slowed. Now the time passes thickly, Henry's hours turning into my days, as I am reluctant to finish. It is the prolonging of climax, desire for the end fading into a need to cling to the moment and not let it pass. I think this is the last of his books that I have not yet read, but I am not ready to accept that there will be no more.

"Woof! Woof woof!"

The final volume of Henry Miller's Rosy Crucifixion trilogy picks up where the first one left off, with Miller barking like a dog, feeling like the neglected pet of his wife, Mona, who has taken on a lesbian companion who lives with them. "Sexus" had ended with that fast-forward to the situation Miller was to find himself in, but the succeeding book, "Plexus," had stepped back to chronicle Miller's struggles to become the writer (he's looking back on his pre-"Tropic of Cancer" days throughout the trilogy; a reference in "Nexus" to Lindbergh's trans-Atlantic flight sets part of the action in 1927) everyone had said he could be. "Plexus" was a rambler — though a good one — at 640 pages. "Nexus," much shorter, cuts Miller's prose down to the bone that he seems to be begging his wife for.

Miller goes from despair to grudging acceptance of this menage a trois. Interestingly, Miller, this most sexually explicit of major writers — "Sexus" has more sex than you can shake a dick at — doesn't describe Mona's and Stasia's relationship in sexual detail; there are hints that it isn't even sexual. Either way, Henry's in a situation. As in the middle volume of this fictionalized memoir, Miller has shaved off nearly all the sex scenes, as though deciding "Sexus" had more than enough to spread around, or he had moved from the body to the mind, to ideas, for the last two books.

Henry and Mona and Stasia hope to move from New York to France, but the women leave Henry in the lurch by going to France themselves. The couple eventually reunite, sans Stasia, and plan a visit to France for the two of them, financed by Miller writing a book one of Mona's admirers says he'll get published, though he thinks Mona is writing it. So Miller, still not having found his voice, becomes a ghostwriter for his wife.

This book is leaner, but also sharper in many ways than what came before it. Dialogue crackles better, and Miller's tangents are more focused. In a cover blurb of my edition, there's a Norman Mailer quote: "There is nothing like Henry Miller when he gets rolling." True, and it's quite a 75-page roll to the end he goes on, much of it about his sharpening writer's chops, having gotten the bland potboiler out of his system. And his clarion voice from the gut and from the gutter is coming: "The generals of literature sleep soundly in their cozy bunks. We, the hairy ones, do the fighting. From the trench which must be taken there is no returning. Get thee behind us, ye laureates of Satan! If it be cleavers we must fight with, let us use them to full advantage."

"Nexus" isn't as audacious as "Sexus" and perhaps not, ultimately, as good because of that. Perhaps. But it's prime Miller. Yes, here he comes, the beast has slipped the leash; hear the ruckus in the dog-howl dark.

Wasn't my favorite of the 3. I have to say, the second book of the Rosy Cruxifiction was for me the best. I still don't get Miller completely - at times he's awful and other times he's just genius. I know this is how he writes - everything thrown in together and the button 'crazy spin' hit, and it has its own appeal but one thing I know it definitely is - demanding and exhausting!

OK I love Henry Miller, I got it

Amazing end to a perfect trilogy. Takes me straight back to Tropic of Cancer...
And definitely makes me want to experiment a bit more with my own writing.

"Writing is like the caca that you make in your sleep. Delicious caca, to be sure, but first comes life, then the caca. Life is change, movement, quest… a going forward to meet the unknown, the unexpected. Only a very few men can say of themselves – ‘I have lived!’ That’s why we have books – so that men may live vicariously. But when the author also lives vicariously!”

الجزء الثالث من الرواية ، مليئة بالتفاصيل والآارء ..

تتلخص الثلاثية بالاقتباس منها :

" سأستبدل قارئي الوحيد في وقت لاحق بالقارئ المثالي ، ذلك النذل الحميمي ، الشقي المحبوب الذي قد اتكلم اليه كما لو لم يكن لشي أية قيمة إلا له .."
"أننا نعرف كم كنت تعصف بصفحات الأدب بحثا عن شي يسرك، تكشف اثار روحك المخطئة في كل مكان ، أنت من يشل العمالقة ، أنت أنت سواء من خلال الحب أو الاعجاب أو الحسد والنكاية والكراهية، من يكتب لك يكتب حكم إعدامه "

Finalizada a triologia, ocorre-me pouco que mereça ser dito que já não tenha sido repetido inúmeras vezes nas incontáveis críticas feitas ao autor, mas deixo aqui o meu punhado de ideias.

1º Ficarmo-nos pelo Sexus (o primeiro e inconfundivelmente mais controverso dos três) teria sido um erro. Só com os outros dois é que me parece ser possível vislumbrar a profundidade abismal deste homem.

2º Como ser apaixonado por palavras que ele é, abusa da sua empregabilidade, tornando muitas vezes o texto longo e ilegível. Por outro lado, sob certas condições, estas deambulações literárias parecem por vezes embutidas de um certo poder hipnótico. Aqui o leitor parece experienciar, não tanto a compreensão de uma ideia passível de ser explicada a outros, mas algo mais subtil, fluído, intrínseco, caótico mas não sem alguma ordem.
Continuando a esgaravatar e somos igualmente capazes de descobrir diálogos caleidoscópicos incapazes de passar despercebidos ao mais dessensibilizado sapiossexual.

3º Ler esta triologia pareceu-me uma porta de acesso direto à mente do que vulgarmente apelidamos de génio. Aqueles que surgem um a cada geração. Dotados de uma intuição inconcebível para a maioria de nós. Intuição essa que, apesar de parecer provir doutro mundo e portanto tão dificilmente descrito pelas nossas ferramentas linguísticas, o autor ainda sim nos dá de mão beijada.

love a book that requires a dictionary handy. i like to think of myself as part of the optimum generation for rediscovering Miller.

Emergency!! Emergency!! Animal control we have a wild penis on loose!! Help!!!!

Woof!Woof! Ladies hold on to your knickers (as if that matters...hahaha!) I'm back in town darlings!! The horny uncouth bastard, so save your vanities and say hello to Mr. Henry Miller!

Sexual claustrophobia and unrestrained gusto for life made me churn out vulgar visceral depiction of what is christened as ,"Ménage à trois gone down the drain". Mona’s (a.k.a Mara) romps with her eccentric fuckaree lover- Stasia drove me over the edge. Those Machiavellian bitches did not value the supremacy of my penis whilst indulging me like a kid. Arghhh!! I’m loveless...blah blah....sex-starved..blah...on the verge of purging a bohemian inchoate calling...blah..blah...

Alas! I won’t be here for long as I see the boat pulling out for my extensive cruise to Paris. Adieu suckers! Ici que je viens chiennes français!!Bonne chasse. (Here I come you French bitches! Good hunting!)