Henry Miller and "Tropic of Cancer"

I finally read "Tropic of Cancer" last week. Great book. Very interesting in terms of style, that is, mixture of styles, unique blending of autobiography and fiction, and also his resultant influence on the next generation of writers.

Some of the book is very direct, stream-of-consciousness realism, including details of sex, pussies and dicks. Even v.d. (Funny, they worried about gonorrhea and syphilis back then, and had unprotected sex with hookers. It was a crap shoot.) At other times it is surreal and flowery stream-of-consciousness existentialist prose that evokes great imagery. I'm not doing it justice since there are other styles and influences interwoven into the work too. It's impossible to name them all and to do so would reduce Miller's work.

What I find really interesting is it was his first book, originally published in Europe 1934 when Miller was 43 years old. Rather old for a writer (I was 45!). He went to Paris in the late 1920s, the roaring 20s, and wrote the book when he was in his late 30s and early 40s. He didn't have much formal training in writing, he read a lot and was mostly self-taught. He got through by taking a succession of toiling jobs, including proofreader for the Chicago Tribune. He went to Paris with no money to become an artist in middle age. He had no money. Just a love of art. And he was a painter too! How cool is all that?

The book was finally published in the U.S. in 1961, which led to a series of obscenity trials. Crazy. They tried to make him out to be a commie.

When you read the book you can feel that there is something great in it, and it keeps you reading. But it doesn't follow any traditional form, or have any kind of traditional or expected plot development. It drove home what I was trying to say last summer when I did a book reading/signing in Berlin and got into a (labored) discussion of the state of literature today. I say just write, do it, and throw out conventions. Invent, create, push the limits, do something different, create new language. (Shakespeare create thousands of new words!) That's the only way anything new will ever develop. In Berlin, I got myself caught in a web of English majors, you know, those non-producing perfectionists who have memorized all the proper uses for the semicolon and all. But they've never written a book, or if they have, they've never published it. They have never put themselves out there to be devoured. So what, really, do they know?

I could see direct linkages from Henry Miller to Bukowski, although little has been made of it. It seems obvious to me. He was a GREAT influence. It starts with the frequent use of harsh words that shock, like "cunt" or "turd" and goes on to be autobiographical and very direct about drinking, sex, and men and women. Bukowski went farther, to the point where sometimes he was beyond disgusting, simply pornographic. But he makes me laugh! There's actually some delicacy or sensitivity in Miller's writing and Bukowski just throws that out the window.

Also, having read Burroughs' "Naked Lunch" and Kerouac's "On the Road" last summer, they are fresh in my mind and I found Miller to be the father for some of their (the Beats') writing, most especially Kerouac's autobiographical stream-of-consciousness style and the freaky surreal stuff that Burroughs gets in to, talking about protoplasm and all. Only Burroughs goes farther so as to sometimes be just plain crazy. I mean, he repeated himself in "Naked Lunch" several times and he jumped all over the place, which reminded me of those types of paintings that are so fucked up and nonsensical the artist has to explain what it is. And I prefer art that I can just look at and appreciate on an intuitive level, art that doesn't require that much thought to see its beauty or genius.

Henry Miller led this extraordinary life, after growing up in Brooklyn and spending time in New York, he lived in Paris and eventually moved out to the California coast in Big Sur and lived to be 88. George Orwell wrote of Miller, "Here in my opinion is the only imaginative prose-writer of the slightest value who has appeared among the English-speaking races for some years past. Even if that is objected to as an overstatement, it will probably be admitted that Miller is a writer out of the ordinary, worth more than a single glance; and after all, he is a completely negative, unconstructive, amoral writer, a mere Jonah, a passive acceptor of evil, a sort of Whitman among the corpses."

Tijuana City Nite

Here's a short clip of my world in TJ, winter 2010.

Malcolm Lowry's "Under the Volcano" --- Impressive, Depressing.....

After some joking back and forth by email about the importance of drinking in writing, which an editor friend called, "the grand texture," he suggested I read Brit Malcolm Lowry's "Under the Volcano," a book with an alcoholic character set in Cuernavaca, Mexico. I thought it was quite apt since I have been in Mexico drinking and writing for several years.

I ordered the book and mentioned it to a respected writer friend here who stated flatly, "Absolutely my favorite book ever." My anticipation and interest piqued, I pressed him for an explanation, especially since this man has read almost every notable book ever written. He said, "That book will do three things for you: make you fall in love with writing (again); make you fall in love with Mexico (again) ; and make you fall in love with alcohol (again). It is written so exquisitely so as to defy description. You will see."

When the book arrived I spent several days just holding and admiring it, like prize game I'd killed in the wild and couldn't wait to feast upon, but relished in the hunger before the meal.

It didn't disappoint. Then again, it did.

To explain: it is simply so well-written that it showed me the unknown heights that I have yet to scale; and then again, it was SO good, so detailed, so perfectly crafted that I felt like an ignorant idiot even trying to write anything ever again. What am I doing? Who do you think you are, you hack? Why even try, you fool!

As I marveled at the poetic and lavish phrases, the lyricism, the symbols and the weight of it all, I became more and more discouraged, since it seems that no one should ever write anything again. It has been done; perfectly.

It is a slow-moving story, as the entire book takes place in one day, the Day of the Dead, and much of the detail is in the main character's (the consul) head. The kind of crazy crystalline thoughts that pass through the drunken, aware mind, that kind of detail was so spot on and at times hilarious it kept me reading and reading and not wanting to finish this delicious meal.

I could never write that well if I studied and wrote for 100 years. Lowry was a true genius.

Then I wondered what the publishers and editors and agents of today would think of all of Lowry's sidetracking and tangents, his beautiful details that made the book so rich. Today's established publishing powers would say whole chunks of the book do not move the story along, that there is not enough action, and they would have hacked it to death until there was nothing left but a carcass of a story. It seems there is no "literary" in literature any longer. Everything has to open with a murder or kidnapping and then go-go-go fast-paced action and spectacular made-for-TV twists for a book to make to bookshelves today. Ugh.

Down, and near to the precipice of writer's despair, the next day I re-read a little of Bukowski's "Ham on Rye" and (laughing) I realized (again) that there is room for many different styles, different voices, and there always will be. Buk is so simple, so clean. Lowry is erudite and lyrical, Fitzgeraldian more than Fitzgerald, and "Volcano" is like reading poetry or hearing music, page after page, in prose form. Both styles have their place.

So I resolved (again) to keep writing my truth, my style, my way, and to keep growing and changing and learning from the masters.

Three cheers for Malcolm Lowry!

Running with the Bulls Will Scare the Sh*t Outta You!

Awake at 6AM in Pamplona, first day of the Running of the Bulls, San Fermin Fiesta; breakfast buffet: scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, ham, Swiss, croissant, tepid whole milk, hot coffee, juice. College girl shooting curious glances a few tables over. Shapely, glasses, wavy brown hair. I consider a bold move. Nope. Melons, peaches at the buffet taunting me. Decide to go. Steal a banana and yogurt. Back to room, try to sleep. Fantasize about lusty college girl. Can’t sleep. CNN, shower? No—don my wine-stained shirt, white pants, red sash and kerchief, out in the street.

“Agua! Agua!” Water crashes down from balcony buckets, corks pop and spray rooster tails of champagne into the crowd, sangria wine squirts from leather flasks, staining the delirious revelers. Dancing, music, food, beer and wine, the crowd is feverishly drunk by noon. Spend the day sipping beer and grabbing tapas between happenstance conversations and toasts with near strangers. Head back early since the bull run is in the morning.

6AM, phone rings, “This is your wake up call, sir.” I roll over to catch a few winks, then out of bed. Shower? Shave? No need to, really. Gonna get all soaked in spraying booze anyway. Throw on my San Fermin wine-stained shirt and rest of the white and red garb, tie my shoes and out the door. Coffee? No time.

Following the swelling throngs I make my way, pushing and shoving through the thickening crowd to the central plaza. Fence in front for spectators. No, gotta get closer. Loop around and jump the fence, melting into the crowd of mostly athletic young men, all wearing white with red neckerchiefs.

We mill nervously like animals being readied for slaughter. Some fear, a lot of nervousness, but mostly anticipation and chatter. A few teenage boys guzzle down liters of beer and hand the bottles to a policeman on the safe side of the fence. I'm thinking I’m glad I didn’t have coffee, don’t have to pee, this crowd is stuck tight and I'm penned in. No turning back.

Clang, clang, clang…the church bells ring eight as the crowd silently counts, then BOOOM!! A cannon blast announces the bulls are out, on the loose, starting their charge.

I look over a sea of white and red and bobbing heads. No bulls. Some men jump up and crane their necks for a better look. Some bend and stretch. The crowd mills forward, a little, then faster, like minnows after a bug...

A quick thunder and, “THEY’RE HERE!” The masculine mass breaks and scrambles and scatters and a crooked horn bounces near, I start to run and fumble for my camera but 15 tons of animal muscle and sharp horns rumbles up, frenetic and wild, panting, hooves pounding the street, scraping and slipping as they round the bend, I run, pumping knees and elbows, cut, push, elbow, shove through the chaos and screams; leap onto the wood fence and hang on with hope, the herd tramples and pounds by, surrounded by a blur of white and red.

Laughter, relief, shouting, …they’ve passed.

Suddenly a charging pack of steers roar upon us and another scatter-scramble, and then wild laughter, giggling and giddy; we collapse to the ground in joy.

I stagger to my feet, giddy, goofy, laughing, laugh-crying, my insides electrified. Felt like I’d just jumped out of a plane.

“Are there any more?! Is that it?”

“I don’t know!”

“I don’t see any!

“That was a riot, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah, that was something!”

Ambling deliriously through the crowd, a man in a neck brace is carried on a stretcher, blood trickling from his ear; I search for a beer stand and guzzle one to calm my nerves.

Wow. That was a lot of fun!

Hemingway Was A Marketing Genius

It was my birthday last month so I went to Paris and took the train to Pamplona for the Running of the Bulls (San Fermin Fiesta). It was something I'd always wanted to do and it was my big 5-0, so I went for it.

Quiche Lorraine and a croissant in the Paris summer morning, a cup of espresso, then hopped the train through the plains of France, past Bordeaux, then the mountains of Spain, the salty sea air near Biarritz, then San Sebastian and you're there. I went straight to the hotel and out into the buzzing streets, popping in and out of bars for tapas and beer, and bought a scalped ticket for the bull fight.

I had a good seat, maybe 7-8 rows up, and on the shady side of the ring. Perfect. The first bull went as expected, but the second bull charged the matador and got too low and stuck his horns in the dirt, then flipped over completely and "poof" a blast of dust as he flopped to the ground. Some gasps and laughter, then a few boos among the cheers. The bull steadied himself and took another charge--and again stuck his horns and flipped over completely, rolling down his backbone and plopping to the ground. More boos, some cheers, but the matador turned and left the ring, and the picadors too. The bull was out there alone, tail twitching, confused, looking to charge. Then a pack of steers was let out, they milled around and surrounded the bull, and the whole group trotted out the gate. His life had been spared since he just wasn't athletic enough to put on a good fight. The only other time I'd seen that was in Mexico, but that bull put up such a good fight that they spared him, although he was covered in blood and panting.

After another bull or two and I left and returned to the teeming Pamplona bars for more tapas and beers.

The next day I flipped on the Spanish newscast and among the rapid Spanish gibberish one name came through clearly, over and over, "Ernest Hemingway."

And throughout the week, his name was bandied about. A writer friend of mine even had several dinners with Hemingway's grandson.

The next day was a big party and the following morning I actually ran with the bulls, (I'll detail that later) but then it was off to Barcelona and Prague for a book signing, and what was the first bar I saw when I climbed out of the subway? A Cuban bar with live salsa and a "Hemingway Salon."

So Hemingway created an image, such an enduring image, that it has been spread and exploited throughout the world -- 50 years after he blew his head off.

Now that's PR!

The Thrill of Writing

While planning and packing for my European trip, I'm energized with the thought of writing along the way. You never know where inspired writing might take you -- those scrawled entries may never see the light of day -- but there is always the thrill of thinking about a possible new book.

Writing new stuff is always more exciting than editing the old stuff!

When Science Takes Over the Art of Writing

Tom Robbins said his big knock on MFA programs, and academics teaching writing in general, is that the approach reduces the art of writing to a specified set of rules, and according to Robbins, "In fiction, there are no rules. Whatever works, works."

This scientific quantification of writing is what the current bestselling authors do. There's no art in the art of writing anymore. These charlatans know the plot needs a certain number of characters, that there are certain tricks and techniques to creating suspense, like a ticking time-bomb, and that at a certain point the plot must have a climax and then resolution. Writing like this takes the magic out if, and reduces it to a technical trade. There's no inspiration, no invention, no art.

The typists who "write" like this aren't the ones who are hit with an idea while watching a hummingbird hover, or while walking through the woods, or watching the waves of the ocean roll in. They aren't madly possessed and enthralled with a new idea, and they will never feel the thrill that comes with finding just the right word to "make a sentence sing," as Robbins puts it. No, these types are merely thinking of the bigger new house they can buy, the social ascendancy that wealth brings, the fraudulent fame that they will have.

But then again, no one will be reading them in 100 years. They are a flash in the modern media pan, and although they have sucked all the air out of the literary space, surely their rewards will be temporary and short-lived.

Some apt quotes by writers on writing:

"A writer is working when he's staring out of the window." Burton Rascoe

"Use the right word and not its second cousin. The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug." Mark Twain

"Real writers are those who want to write, need to write, have to write." Robert Penn Warren

"Planning to write is not writing. Outlining…researching…talking to people about what you're doing, none of that is writing. Writing is writing." E.L. Doctorow

"…therein is in writing the constant joy of sudden discovery, of happy accident." H.L. Mencken

"Take away the art of writing from this world, and you will probably take away its glory." Chateaubriand

"You must write for yourself, above all. That is [your] only hope of creating something beautiful." Gustave Flaubert

"To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about, but the inner music the words make." Truman Capote