Best of the trilogy and that says a lot. 5/5

I reread "Nexus" recently; I first read it in my teens. It's one of Miller's less salacious books and my first exposure to him, a quiet moody rap on his wan last days in NYC before sailing off for the City of Light to hopefully find himself as a writer. Like fellow New Yorker Salinger, his style is conversational, albeit less arch, blunter. Although he doesn't share Lou Reed's ambivalence toward New York (he mostly hates it) he perceives it, like Reed, as hectic and insane. His comment on a stale burlesque house "nothing new in the way of jokes or ass" sounds like Reed to me./ Miller writes too much about writing in most of his books and "Nexus" is no exception. He too often self-consciously raps about his inability to put his flights-of-ideas down on paper and it can get tedious. His raps on his favorite writers hold more interest: I discovered Knut Hamsun through Miller. And his take on Rimbaud, and occasional channeling of Rimbaud's ethereal prose-poem style, certainly beats Patti Smith's Rimbaud tee shirt. / There is, fortunately, very little porn here, though there is much analysis about Miller's (deliberately?) tortured marriage to "Mona". He comes off both pathetically masochistic and kinda cool as he throws a cheesecake against the wall ("Fuck you!") after reading her surprise farewell note, a scene redolent of Celine, one of his models. It's a rambling one-sided conversation here, but one cohered by grand style and cogency.

Not my favorite of the Rosy Crucifixion Series, but still enjoy Miller's writing.

اسلوب الكاتب في وصف الاشياء اللامادية و المشاعر و الاحاسيس و لحظات الالهام رائع جدا بل خارق للعادة ولم اشاهد مثله من قبل، يكتب بأسلوب أدبي روحاني جميل و يتحدث عن معضلة الكاتب و المشاكل التي يمر بها لأجل ان يكتب روايته منتظراً لحظات الالهام التي لا تأتي الا بشكل نادر ليدخل بعدها في صراع مع عقله ومع الورقة البيضاء والآلة الكاتبة .. لكن ما يعيب الرواية هو كثرة الصفحات الخالية من اي معنى، تجد الكاتب يسترسل في الوصف و الكلام لصفحات و صفحات بلا اي هدف او فائدة وهذا ما جعلني اترك الرواية لعدة أشهر ثم قررت ان اعود إليها لأن الاعمال الناقصة و الغير منتهيه تزعجني جداً بالاضافة الى ان الكاتب يستحق أن أُنهي روايته بسبب جمال اسلوبه و جنونه و قوته في السرد بغض النظر عن السلبيات التي ذكرتها في الاعلى.

This is the most contemplative novel in Miller's infamous trilogy. Becoming a writer was truly a dirty business for him. Beyond enjoying the writing, the lasting effect it left on me was the addition of Elie Faure and Spengler to my library.

Trilogia “Răstignirea trandafirie” se încheie fericit în “Nexus” cu mult așteptata plecare spre Europa. Finanțată cu bani obținuți din scrierea primului roman semnat cu numele...soției!
Pentru mine, “experiența Miller” a fost epuizantă. Abia pe parcursul acestei trilogii, care coincide cu perioada maturizării autorului, dar și cu primele scrieri literare, am reușit să-i îndrăgesc stilul și să simt nerăbdarea de a-i citi paginile. Romanele milleriene au nevoie, deci, de timp, răbdare și o minte deschisă pentru bizarerii, erotism și nou.

The beginning was just okay but I'm giving it 5 stars to show how much I LOVED the rest of it.

Za razliku od Sexusa, ovo je bilo loše

Culminar la trilogía con la sensación de ¿y ahora qué?
Pregunta que lleva a buscar la historia de Miller y continuar con los trópicos.
Mona sigue siendo un personaje que de destaca y genera curiosidad.

The best of the three in the Rosy Crucifixion series, after an interminable 100 pages or so of hemming and hawing abut how he was coping with his domestic situation (his wife was more in love with her girlfriend than with him) the book really gets rolling; some of Miller's best flights of fancy ever. He actually starts his life as a writer, and you get some feeling of forward motion.

Miller is my hero, clearly.

“The battle is endless. It had no beginning, nor will it know an end. We who babble and froth at the mouth have been at it since eternity. Spare us further instruction! Are we to make green lawns as we advance from trench to trench? Are we landscape artists as well as butchers? Must we storm to victory perfumed like whores? For whom are we mopping up?”

“Why create a world of one’s own if it must also make sense to every Tom, Dick and Harry? Have not the others this world of everyday, which they profess to despise yet cling to like drowning rats? Is it not strange how they who refuse, or are too lazy, to create a world of their own insist on invading ours? Who is it tramples the flower beds at night? Who is it leaves cigarette stubs in the birdbath? Who is it pees on the blushing violets and wilts their bloom? We know how you ravage the pages of literature in search of what pleases you. We discover the footprints of your blundering spirit everywhere. It is you who kill genius, you who cripple the giants. You, you, whether through love and adoration or through envy, spite and hatred. Who writes for you writes his own death warrant.”