In the moment all is dear to me, dear that in this logic there is no redemption, the city itself being the highest form of madness and each and every part, organic or inorganic, an expression of this same madness. I feel absurdly and humbly great, not as megalomaniac, but as human spore, as the dead sponge of life swollen to saturation. I no longer look into the eyes of the woman I hold in my arms but I swim through, head and arms and legs, and I see that behind the sockets of the eyes there is a region unexplored, the world of futurity, and here there is no logic whatever, just the still germination of events unbroken by night and day, by yesterday and tomorrow. The eye, accustomed to concentration on points in space, now concentrates on points in time; the eye sees forward and backward at will. The eye which was the I of the self no longer exists; this selfless eye neither reveals nor illuminates. It travels along the line of the horizon, a ceaseless, uninformed voyager. Trying to retain the lost body I grew in logic as the city, a point digit in the anatomy of perfection. I grew beyond my own death, spiritually bright and hard. I was divided into endless yesterdays, endless tomorrows, resting only on the cusp of the event, a wall with many windows, but the house gone. I must shatter the walls and windows, the last shell of the lost body, if I am to rejoin the present. That is why I no longer look into the eyes or through the eyes, but by the legerdemain of will swim through the eyes, head and arms and legs to explore the curve of vision. I see around myself as the mother who bore me once saw round the comers of time. I have broken the wall created by birth and the line of voyage is round and unbroken, even as the navel. No form, no image, no architecture, only concentric flights of sheer madness. I am the arrow of the dream's substantiality. I verify by flight. I nullify by dropping to earth.
Henry MillerI am the gorilla who feels his wings growing, a giddy gorilla in the centre of a satin-like emptiness; the night too grows like an electrical plant, shooting white-hot buds into velvet black space. I am the black space of the night in which the buds break with anguish, a starfish swimming on the frozen dew of the moon. I am the germ of a new insanity, a freak dressed in intelligible language, a sob that is buried like a splinter in the quick of the soul. I am dancing the very sane and lovely dance of the angelic gorilla. These are my brothers and sisters who are insane and unangelic. We are dancing in the hollow of the cup of nothingness. We are of one flesh, but separated like stars.
Henry MillerWith the refinements that come with maturity the smells faded out, to be replaced by only one other distinctly memorable, distinctly pleasurable smell - the odour of cunt. More particularly the odour that lingers on the fingers after playing with a woman, for, if it has not been noticed before, this smell is even more enjoyable, perhaps because it already carried with it the perfume of the past tense, than the odour of the cunt itself. But this odour, which belongs to maturity, is but a faint odour compared with the odours attaching to childhood. It is an odour which evaporates, almost as quickly in the mind's imagination, as in reality. One can remember many things about the woman one has loved but it is hard to remember the smell of her cunt - with anything like certitude. The smell of wet hair, on the other hand, a woman's wet hair, is much more powerful and lasting - why, I don't know.
Henry MillerVivir sus deseos, agotarlos en la vida, es el destino de toda existencia.
Henry MillerLa mayor parte de la escritura se hace lejos de la máquina de escribir.
Henry MillerКаждый человек - его собственная цивилизованная пустыня, остров самого себя, на котором он терпит кораблекрушение: о счастье, относительном или абсолютном, не может быть и речи.
Henry MillerThat’s the first thing that strikes an
American woman about Europe – that it’s unsanitary. Impossible for
them to conceive of a paradise without modern plumbing. If they
find a bedbug they want to write a letter immediately to the
chamber of commerce.
Stichwörter: humor life paradise europe
منذ أكثر من مائة عام، والعالم، عالمنا، يموت. وخلال هذه المائة عام أو نحوها لم يظهر رجل واحد يكون من الجنون ما يجعله بحشر قنبلة في طيز الخليقة وينسفها. العالم يتعفّن، يموت على مهل. لكنه يحتاج إلى Coup de grase الضربة القاضية، يحتاج إلى أن يُنسَف شذر مذر. ليس بيننا واحد سليم، ومع ذلك نحمل داخلنا كل القارات والبحار التي تفصل بينها وطيور الجو. سندوّنه -أقصد تطور العالم الذي مات ولم يُدفن بعد. نحن نسبح على سطح الزمن وكل ما عدانا غرق، أو يغرق، أو سيغرق. سيكون الكتاب هائلاً. ستكون هناك محيطات من الفراغ نتجوّل فيها، نجتاز المسافات، نغني، نرقص، نتسلق، نستحم، نتشقلب، ننتحب، نغتصب، نقتل. سيكون كاتدرائية، كاتدرائية حقيقية، داخل بنائها يساعد الجميع كل من فقد ذاته. ستكون قداديس تٌقام على أرواح الأموات، وصلوات، واعترافات، وتراتيل، أنين وثرثرة، نوع من اللامبالاة الإجرامية، ستكون هناك نوافذ وردية وغارغويلات وقندلفتات وحاملو بساط الرحمة. وبإمكانك أن تُدخِل أحصنتك وتخبّ بها متجولاً بين الأجنحة. بإمكانك أن تنطح رأسك الجدران -فلن تتهدّم. بإمكانك أن تصلي بأية لغة تختارها، أو أن تلتف حول نفسك وتستغرق في النوم. هذه الكاتدرائية ستخلد ألف عام، على الأقل، ولن تكون هناك نسخة مطابقة لها، فسيكون البناؤون قد ماتوا كذا التصمامي. وسنطبع بطاقات بريدية وننظم جولات سياحية. وسنبني بلدة حولها وننشئ كوميونا حرًا. لا حاجة لنا إلى العبقرية -فالعبقرية قد فنيت. نحن بحاجة إلى أيد قوية، إلى أنس يتخلّون عن الروح ليستبدلوها باللحم.
Henry MillerOnce you have given up the ghost, everything follows with dead certainty, even in the midst of chaos. From the beginning it was never anything but chaos: it was a fluid which enveloped me, which I breathed in through the gills. In the substrata, where the moon shone steady and opaque, it was smooth and fecundating; above it was a jangle and a discord. In everything I quickly saw the opposite, the contradiction, and between the real and the unreal the irony, the paradox. I was my own worst enemy. There was nothing I wished to do which I could just as well not do. Even as a child, when I lacked for nothing, I wanted to die: I wanted to surrender because I saw no sense in struggling. I felt that nothing would be proved, substantiated, added or subtracted by continuing an existence which I had not asked for. Everybody around me was a failure, or if not a failure, ridiculous. Especially the successful ones. The successful ones bored me to tears. I was sympathetic to a fault, but it was not sympathy that made me so. It was purely negative quality, a weakness which blossomed at the mere sight of human misery. I never helped anyone expecting that it would do me any good; I helped because I was helpless to do otherwise. To want to change the condition of affairs seemed futile to me; nothing would be altered, I was convinced, except by a change of heart, and who could change the hearts of men? Now and then a friend was converted: it was something to make me puke. I had no more need of God than He had of me, and if there were one, I often said to myself, I would meet Him calmly and spit in His face.
Henry MillerI suppose it was the worst book any man has ever written. It was a colossal tome and faulty from start to finish. But it was my first book and I was in love with it. If I had had the money, as Gide had, I would have published it at my own expense. If I had had the courage that Whitman had, I would have peddled it from door to door. Everybody I showed it to said it was terrible. I was urged to give up the idea of writing. I had to learn, as Balzac did, that one must write volumes before signing one's own name. I had to learn, as I soon did, that one must give up everything and not do anything else but write, that one must write and write and write, even if everybody in the world advises you against it, even if nobody believes in you. Perhaps one does it just because nobody believes; perhaps the real secret lies in making people believe. That the book was inadequate, faulty, bad, terrible, as they said, was only natural.
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