Perfection.

First in the "Rosy Crucifixion" trilogy ~ I can't help but love Henry Miller. He's so full of life. His books get a lot of attention for the sexual content but they are also balanced for love of life's other treats as well. Love of people, love of food, love of life itself ~ although he seems to have a strong hate for the "everyday man's" work and a love-hate relationship with New York ~ I plan on reading as much Miller as I can.

It is an ode to Mara-Mona, the author's second wife, June, whom he celebrates many times in his work.
The first chapter opens in the dance hall where, the day before, the narrator has just met a hostess who sells his dances and company to men alone. From there, Miller leads his reader in a round of characters that he has already made us admire individual samples. I will mention only one name - that does not need comment: the ineffable Kronski.
But Sexus is mainly an opportunity for Miller to refine his hyper-manly character, satisfying all women—or almost. That he is with Mara, who, at a precise moment, asks Kronski "humbly" if "she is worthy of Henry" (!!!), does not prevent him from fornicating on the right and on the left and even with his lawful wife while both of them start their divorce proceedings. The reader immediately notes that it is almost Maude who asks him.
I believe in the American author's too much intelligence and subtlety for not having painted such an unflattering portrait of himself in vain. Because he is deeply involved in his life story, the fact that he embellishes many details or arranges them in a more theatrical perspective does not detract from this depth. Miller knows he can not back down: this time, he will not be able to content himself with touching the Miller gigolo, the Miller macho, the cowardly coward, and running away that he was too. Therefore, with social skills and talent that can not be challenging, the writer reveals everything that shocks and scandalizes him as the language he loves never grows.
The most extraordinary is that, throughout these almost 500 pages (pocket edition), we do not think for a moment to plant there, Henry. His sex, his gonorrhea, his women, his scams to the money, his blackmail to feelings, his cooking, and the unlikely friends he drags in his wake. Sometimes, it's true. We stop and wonder: let's see, this exhibitionist tightrope who, completely drunk, makes us sneaky up there on this rope with the edge of a razor blade, is it the great Henry Miller? Unbelievable! Despite all that we already knew about his sexual frenzy, his emotional complications, and the man's life he maintained, for example, with Anais Nin, we would never have thought of him.
And yet, despite everything, we keep him (the author) in a tiny place deep in our hearts. No one is perfect, they say to themselves, and at least we can not tax hypocrisy in this writer who perseveres in painting in such colors.
That's an ultimate wink addressed to the reader by the text itself: the anecdote that Miller reports on Knut Hansum, one of the authors he loved. I'll let you discover it. It resembles the part of Miller's shadow: annoying, pitiful, cunning, arrogant, and yet so naive that we can not help smiling as we would before the escapades of a poor kid but brilliant. ; O)

The greatest.