Man has sex. Other things happen also

The life of a lunatic/hedonist/epicurist as he meets his new love-of-his-life. A semi-autobiographical work by Henry Miller. He masters narrative in a way that I have rarely seen, creating a story that is fantastic without breaking the limits of possibility.

هذا العمل هو خليط من السيرة الذاتية والفلسفة والرواية وهو عمل صادم لاقصى حد حيث الجنس الصريح غالب فى النص الادبى فميللر كاتب صريح لايخفى شيئا من افكاره او علاقاته الغريبة بزوجته ثم طليقته او حبيبته مونا او حتى زوجات اصدقائه المقربين وهو يمثل الجزء الاول من ثلاثية طويلة عرفت باسم" ثلاثية الصلب الوردى"..

الرواية يصعب تصنيفها فهى تبعد عن الايروسية والايروتيكية بل تصل الى البورنوغرافيا مع الترجمة الامينة والتى اختارت الالفاظ المستخدمة عند اغلب الفئات الشعبية فى وصف العملية الجنسية فلم تستخدم الفاظ مخففة مثل (مضاجعة او نكاح او كلمات مثل فرج او كهف ) وطبعا مع العرف المجتمعى الذى تربينا عليه كان احساسى بالاثم وعدم الراحة متزايد ..

فى الرواية سنجد كراهية ميللر للحياة الالية وشعور بالعبث وجدواها وان المجتمع الامريكى هو مجتمع مزيف واغلبه من الاغبياء وهى تيمة ملحوظة فى الادب الامريكى وكتب عنها بقوة سالنجر فى تحفته الروائية "الحارس فى حقل الشوفان".. ربما لان المجتمع الامركيى قائم على قيم التنافسية والراسمالية التى تعظم من قيمة الفرد وتحقيق طموحاته اكثر من المجموع ارض الفرص كما يطلق عليها فكيف ننظر نحن لمجتمعاتنا ياترى ؟..

السرد الطويل والحديث مع النفس هو الحبكة والطريقة التى انتهجها ميللر لكتابة الرواية وتظهر فيها صراعاته مع المجتمع رؤيته للجنسيات المختلفة التى تقطن الولايات المتحدة ونظرته للادباء الاخرين والفنانين ورجال الدين..

اغلب الشخصيات عند ميللر ترى الحقيقة الوحيدة فى الجنس والحرية الجنسية فلا يوجد تعقيد فى العلاقات او محاولات لكسر الجليد او التعرف على الاخر فالحياة البوهيمية هى المسيطرة عليه ورفاقه فان كنت لاتحب الادب الاباحى او القول الفاحش فهذه الرواية لاتناسبك اما انا فأمامي مهمة طويلة مع تلك الملحمة الرائعة..

Minus pasajele erotice, care să fim serioși, sunt de-a dreptul penibile (sau cel puțin pentru mine), cartea ar fi putut fi bună. Sau, mai degrabă, dacă pasajele erotice n-ar fi fost atât de jenante, cartea ar fi fost mai bună. Povestea este dominată de haos, dezmățare, modernism și crize de existențialism rudimentar. Evident, “viața” răzbate prin toți porii cărții. De la sărăcie la insatisfacții și divagații spiritualo-erotico-artistice. Obositoare au fost însă trecerile subite de la pasajele meditative la cele erotice fără niciun preambul, câteodată, chiar înspre final, nu mai puteam lua în serios nimic. Evident, sunt conștientă de (r)evoluția stârnită de apariția cărții la momentul ei, dar pentru mine, una, nu constituie nimic mai mult decât o bălmăjeală a unui Miller pentru care sexul și boemia constituie polii vieții care-i permit să fie un mitocan de clasă intelectuală, ceea ce îi dă și dreptul la aroganță. Poate că dacă ar fi accelerat pedala erotismului (!) până la capăt n-ar fi fost atât de jenant. 2 steluțe jumate.

“Locul este întotdeauna aici și acum, în propria noastră persoană și în raport cu propria noastră fantezie. Lumea este exact ceea ce îți închipui tu că este, permanent, clipă de clipă. E cu neputință să schimbi decorul și să pretinzi că ai dori un alt spectacol. Scenografia e mereu aceeași, se schimbă doar odată cu mintea și cu inima și nu conform directivelor unui regizor invizibil. Tu ești autorul, regizorul și actorul, toți laolaltă: drama care se joacă va fi întotdeauna propria ta viață, și nu a altuia. O dramă frumoasă, teribilă, ineluctabilă, ca un costum croit din propria ta piele. L-ai dori altfel? Ai putea inventa o dramă mai interesantă?”

It is one of those rare books reading which transformed me.

Henry Miller’s capacity to offer raw phenomenology of experience is fascinating. He doesn’t attempt to portray himself as some sort of saint or a superhero. He basically describes social life in its nuanced ornaments, not loaded with superegoic impositions (meaning, you will find no puritanity in this book).

In the book Miller offers some of the most touching and vivid (and realistic, in my opinion) phenomenologies of contemporary sexual life. His philosophical insights are a gem too.

Loved the book!

Struggling to find a gift for that friend or partner who enjoys graphic sex scenes? Well, struggle no more, because this book has one on every page (almost). It’s written with great energy, has some fantastic lines (“she was as innocent as an insane otter”) and will no doubt disgust right-thinking people everywhere. But some judicious editing wouldn’t have gone amiss.

'Me and my mates' writing at its best. Autobiographical notes of a sociopath. Miller's objectification of EVERYBODY leads to some remarkably insightful observations on human interaction, as well as some highly graphic yet convincing and frequently arousing sex scenes. Miler does not exclude himself in his clinical dissection of flaws, insecurities and delusions, making his writing peculiarly compelling. Ironically it is the sections (thankfully few) where Miller moves away from specifics in favour of universals that he reveals his greatest weaknesses, both as writer and human being. The strained use of metaphorical and symbolic language in these stream of consciousness passages is sometimes painfully monotonous. The content, reeking of the orientalist pre-occupations and sexual/racial prejudices of his time and milieu appear at best dated and at worst offensive to a 21st century sensibility. Ultimately it is the intimate specifics of Miller's writing, particularly the physicality of sex and the pretensions revealed in social interaction that endure.

Sex is dirt.
Right?

“A great work of art, if it accomplishes anything, serves to remind us, or let us say to set us dreaming, of all that is fluid and intangible. Which is to say, the universe. It cannot be understood; it can only be accepted or rejected. If accepted we are revitalized; if rejected we are diminished.”

“Suddenly now and then someone comes awake, comes undone, as it were, from the meaningless glue in which we are stuck—the rigmarole which we call the everyday life and which is not life but a trancelike suspension above the great stream of life—and this person who, because he no longer subscribes to the general pattern, seems to us quite mad finds himself invested with strange and almost terrifying powers, finds that he can wean countless thousands from the fold, cut them loose from their moorings, stand them on their heads, fill them with joy, or madness, make them forsake their own kith and kin, renounce their calling, change their character, their physiognomy, their very soul. (…) In their efforts to communicate the secret they become a nuisance to us, true. We shun them because we feel that they look upon us condescendingly; we can’t bear to think that we are not the equal of anyone, however superior he may seem to be. But we are not equals; we are mostly inferior, vastly inferior, inferior particularly to those who are quiet and contained, who are simple in their ways, and unshakable in their beliefs. We resent what is steady and anchored, what is impervious to our blandishments, our logic, our collectivized cud of principles, our antiquated forms of allegiance.”

“I’m just a commercial illustrator, but I do know enough about it to say that I envy the man who has the courage to be an artist—I envy him because I know that he’s infinitely richer than any other kind of human being. He’s richer because he spends himself, because he gives himself all the time, and not just labor or money or gifts. You couldn’t possibly be an artist, in the first place, because you lack faith. You couldn’t possibly have beautiful ideas because you kill them off in advance. You deny what it takes to make beauty, which is love, love of life itself, love of life for its own sake.”

O país ideal para se ler este livro é aquele em que senhoras de meia idade compartilham publicações nas redes sociais dizendo que o artista é um grande vagabundo e um inútil.

É também aquele em que os auto-intitulados “restauradores da alta cultura” criticam obras de arte que eles próprios jamais seriam capazes de tocar e acolher, por possuírem a sensibilidade de uma capivara.

Este livro é uma defesa apaixonada do artista. É, portanto, o anti-Brasil 2019.

I tried to finish reading Sexus this weekend, but I just can’t. I wish I could erase it, that I could go back and get the time I spent back. I first took it to read four or five years ago and gave up. I decided to try again thinking maybe I was not ready to read a Miller’s book. I was wrong. I don’t know what category I can put this book. It tries to be a philosophical book like Brothers Karamazov, but all the caracter has to make philosophy is his sexual adventures or lack of good life.

I don’t know if my christian thinking and way to see life made me a wrong reader of this book or if it is really that bad, but the fact is that Sexus sucks!

It is difficult to follow the line of thought and the sequences at Miller’s life. I could never tell who he is with and why he keeps changing women for he is definitely incapable of love and being faithful. He treats women like things at Sexus and keep going thinking he is some kind of great man.

I got boring trying to keep up my mind with the dirty book. I gave up again. I know now this is definitely a book I will never finish reading. And all that I want to read was Nexus because I thought it would be a mix of literature and philosophy. I gave up ever trying to read it too.

http://wordsideas.blog.com/2012/07/09...

I was hesitant to pick this one up and now cannot believe I once felt that way. Raw, unflinching, gross and horny. (No one writes sex like Miller) Meanders (in the good way) through dirty streets and between the legs of women, monologues on morality, and a narrative masterpiece. Proof that any story can be compelling with the write voice

anaïs should have kicked henry in the fucking shin when she got the chance