Probably the best book of the Rosy Crucifixion trilogy as Miller almost manages to stick to a narrative thread and his alter ego reaches a moment of self-awareness when he admits he is incapable of loving a real human being. The tedious ruminations on life, love, the universe and everything are mainly confined to the first and last few chapters. In between we have the usual mixture of hilarious anecdote, boring trivia, acute observation, embarrassing naivety, harsh realism, saccharine sentimentality, exhilarating zest for life, moral cowardice, brutal honesty and flagrant self-deception. There’s no pornography here, but Miller gives full reign to his adolescent delight in shocking right-thinking readers with obscenities, casual misogyny, homophobia and every racist slur under the sun. At his best Miller can be a real pleasure to read, but always a guilty one.

There is an element of the exotic and the animalistic in Miller, but at his core, he is a typical and rebellious American. He is equally at home comparing himself to a dog or to Jesus, and through these images, he traces his evolution from Wastrel to Want-Not Prophet, from his dingy childhood to idyllic Paris. On the surface, it is easy to see oneself in Miller's desperate attempts to sort out love, work, money, and art. ...and really, Miller is so likable in this last installment of The Rosy Crucifixion precisely because he is exactly like most other Americans: cursing our day jobs and fantasizing about the adventures we will have when we are fortunate enough to retire. I may be exaggerating a bit, but Miller manages--at least in part--to relish life and his role in it, regardless of both its glories and its flaws. He learns to let go, pick up, embrace everything, value nothing...this book almost reads like Miller's Enlightenment/Gnosis/Reincarnation/Resurrection...and that is the idea.

Read the full review at BookWormWood (My Book Blog).

No me ha gustado

Secondo me risulta la parte centrale un po' lenta, però gli ultimi due capitoli sono splendidi!

جميل جدا. هنا قصف مدوي من السرد الممتع. من الحكايات الخالصة الجميلة. هنا هنري يودع حياة الموظف المتشرد الصعلوك وينتقل إلى حياة الكاتب المتشرد الصعلوك أيضا. هنا تنتهي ثلاثية الصلب الوردي. .

The best of his trilogy. He definitely left the best for last

مجنون

Oh, Henry, you wiley saint. Nexus surprised me, because for once in this series, there was more Crucifixion than Roses. Henry Miller is the eternal optimist. He drinks from the essense of life. He just wants to live, with all that entails. He has an almost manic dedication to it.
But in Nexus, that optimism comes under strain. Mona is cheating on him with her friend Stasia. She is still whoring herself out to make a living, while insisting he stay home and focus on his writing rather than getting a job. Problem is, he's approaching forty and hasn't published a thing. He writes in his head, but his thoughts move too fast for his hands. Also, he can be incapacitated by self-doubt. A word from a frenemy or a belligerent elevator operator can derail him. Expectations of genius from Mona, his landlady, people who meet him along the way, etc. can be as constraining.
Until Nexus, the Rosy Crucifixion was a tough read. It was worth every second, every difficult word or phrase or stream of consciousness. Nexus was far more straightforward in the story it told. This does not make it better or worse. It did mean that I read this within a week, whereas the other two books took months.
I love Henry Miller. I wish he was alive today. I wish I could reach his heights. He is an inspiration as a writer and as a human being. It was hard to watch his crucifixion, but he made it all incredibly worthwhile.

cumming of ‘old’ age

Quietly, this is probably Miller's best book. Probably.

I first read this book several decades ago, and this must be the third or fourth time. Miller was a favourite author of mine for a long time, but I moved on to other writers. My recent read exceeded expectations. Though in theory I find the theme of a writer writing about being a writer irritating, Miller pulls it off with his exuberance and erudition. It appears part fiction, part autobiography and part philosophical discourse. The actual story line is pretty minimal, and again the theme of an American writer planning a move to Paris is rather hackneyed now.
There are certainly depictions of racist and sexist language and ideas which would be dubious in a current writer. For the most part Miller doesn't embody such ideas himself - he describes a society in which racial stereotypes abounded, and objectifying women in various ways was commonplace. Occasionally he - or his fictional character - embodies such a trait, and I can see why he was disliked by some feminists.
Despite these reservations, I find Miller a wonderfully exuberant and spontaneous writer, excessive and chaotic, but with great energy and full of mostly interesting digressions on multiple topics. With more self discipline he could perhaps have been an even greater writer.
'Nexus' starts well as a narrative of a rather hellish menage de trois, then mixes up more realist narrative with flights of reverie and imagination...and ends relatively flatly as the narrator prepares to leave a despised America for an idealised Europe.
This has faults, but some great passages, which certainly surpass most modern authors, and it holds up to a return after several decades, unlike some early favourites.

أوه، ياله من كتاب ( الثُلاثية ) - كتاب الوحلِ والسماء ؛ إن صحَّ القول !

بديعٌ هذا الميللر : البذئ، البرئ، الجرئ، الجامح .. بديعٌ ومُريعٌ بتعرّيهِ - هُوَذا عارياً تماماً، ويرقصُ وسطَ غابٍ من حديد عشبُهُ الدولار - أميركا! - مُغنياً بالكلماتِ الأشدّ حِدةً وفتكاً ؛ هُوَذا في الكتاب الطويلِ الطويلِ، يعوي، يبكي، يكوي نفسَه، ينادي، ينبذُ، يئنُّ أنينَ كلبةٍ عُضت، يرنُّ رنينَ وتر، يحنُّ إلى الأقدمينَ، يُجنُّ شبقاً وعِشقاً ... وعوداً على بدءٍ يعوي هاجياً أميركا والموتى السائرون !