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Sexus The Rosy Crucifixion I Henry Miller 9780802151803 Books

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Sexus The Rosy Crucifixion I Henry Miller 9780802151803 Books

Miller is a profoundly enjoyable writer. True, true, he does talk more than a lot of authors do about sex. But he talks less about sex than I think about it (which perhaps isn't saying very much), and nonetheless, I'm no pervert. Don't listen to the people who blast him as a writer of "smut" or "cheap pornography". Truly, all of Miller's sex sequences all have some kind of exterior function: that is to say, the sexuality always references something OUTSIDE of sexuality.

In fact, this (exterior referentiality) quality is quite likely what makes Miller so enjoyable. You never get the idea that he's preaching. And even when he (or one of his characters) IS in fact, preaching, there is always something that puts it in context. It's likely that my favorite sextion of the whole book is one in which the Miller and a group of his Bohemian-Literati buddies go to a rural area for a "day out" and are pleasantly surprised by a redneck who stands up in a bar to give a speech about how much he loves his female companion. This man's speech is probably one of the most beautiful, sincere things I have ever encountered in literature. Miller is obviously moved by this profound expression of passion (which is all the more intensified by its pastoral context), but he nonetheless returns to his ruff'n'tumble life afterwards.

For Miller, no sequence points towards any kind of conclusion. It's all about the glory and horror of the process. He's a prime example of Martin Heidegger's criticism of the divorce of "being" and "becoming". For Miller, the process is centralized, in the sense that there is always movement, but not towards a static ideal. The movement itself has its own kind of being, and each and every part of it exists in its own right, whether it's sex, a mental breakdown, going to work, falling in love, going to trial, or talking to a friend.

Although a lot of the people I know enjoy the writings of Charles Bukowski for his "raw honesty", I think that ultimately, Bukowski, along with 99% of fiction writers, has an agenda. He's definitely trying to TELL the reader something. Miller, on the other hand does not want to tell the reader anything. He instead throws the reader right into whatever situation it is.

The only criticism I have for this exquisite book is that it's almost TOO enjoyable. I get so that I'd be almost certain that Miller could talk about the smell of dust in a tantalizing way. This is certainly a strength of Miller as an author in many ways, but in the end, I tend to think that it has a certain "gregarious", "life of the party" quality that authors like Beckett, Roussell, Kafka, or even Joyce don't have. He comes off as a guy that's always having a good time, even when he's miserable, whereas especially in Beckett, miserable characters mean miserable writing. In Beckett, the reader is forced to "put up" with the protagonist's lack of elegance. But Miller never loses his "mojo". Perhaps it's an American thing. All that said, Miller's still the best American writer of the 20th century in my humble opinion, though he still pales in comparison to Beckett (who I'd say is the greatest writer I've ever encountered in any period).

Oh, and don't worry about "Plexus" and "Nexus". They pale in comparison to "Sexus". Sexus is a rollicking, DIY, virulent ride. Plexus and Nexus are the stories of Miller slowly, but surely adapting to late-capitalist nihilism.


Tags : Sexus: The Rosy Crucifixion I [Henry Miller] on Amazon.com. *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. <div>The first book of a trilogy of novels known collectively as The Rosy Crucifixion . It is autobiographical and tells the story of Miller's first tempestuous marriage and his relentless sexual exploits in New York. The other books are Plexus and Nexus .</div>,Henry Miller,Sexus: The Rosy Crucifixion I,Grove Press,0802151809,Literary,Authors,Autobiographical fiction,Christianity,FICTION General,FICTION Literary,Fiction,General,Literature - Classics Criticism

Sexus The Rosy Crucifixion I Henry Miller 9780802151803 Books Reviews

Miller gives us a rollicking, graphic, unexpurgated, brilliant Everyman Odyssey. At the beginning he actually has a responsible steady job; he’s thirty-three years old, part of bottom tier management in a gigantic monopoly (Western Union). He’s married, has a kid, but so what? Everyone chafes under such a Sisyphean burden, but Miller throws it off. He’s nothing more (and nothing less) than one poor schmuck ferociously determined to live freely in a world enslaved by a lunatic machine civilization, in which people have been engineered and programmed to pretend black is white and white is black. To him, black is black and white is a fantasy. His people are not merely sly or manipulative or obsessed with sex; they are brutal and loutish and homicidal and deranged by sex.

It is too easy to dismiss Miller as pornographic. He is more than pornographic; he’s subversive, devastating on the subject of money. He is the Anti-Capitalist. When he needs money he grabs it from anyone handy; when he has money he disburses it like confetti. The portraits he paints are incredible; his eye for detail is matchless. Yes, he skewers women, is mercilessly racist, homophobic, misogynistic. But he is equally contemptuous of his own kind white men, German-Americans. He knows where all the warts are, where every body is buried. He understands every scam, every swindle, every con; he anticipates every loathsome human impulse. Yet his generosity can appear unexpectedly, as with Melanie, the dimwitted relation of Maude, or Ghopal, the syphilitic Indian servant.

I have not laughed so hard in a lifetime spent reading everything I could lay my hands on. Those of you grinding your teeth about books such as this, let yourselves go a little. Besides, there are no books like this. Forget about Melville, Fitzgerald, Hemmingway, Faulkner. Forget about everyone, even Gaddis, my personal favorite. This is the real Great American Novel.
Miller is raw, genuine, and direct. I can understand why Anais Nin was so passionate about him. If you're a prude, please don't order the book and write bad reviews about it. This is who he is.
Miller is a profoundly enjoyable writer. True, true, he does talk more than a lot of authors do about sex. But he talks less about sex than I think about it (which perhaps isn't saying very much), and nonetheless, I'm no pervert. Don't listen to the people who blast him as a writer of "smut" or "cheap pornography". Truly, all of Miller's sex sequences all have some kind of exterior function that is to say, the sexuality always references something OUTSIDE of sexuality.

In fact, this (exterior referentiality) quality is quite likely what makes Miller so enjoyable. You never get the idea that he's preaching. And even when he (or one of his characters) IS in fact, preaching, there is always something that puts it in context. It's likely that my favorite sextion of the whole book is one in which the Miller and a group of his Bohemian-Literati buddies go to a rural area for a "day out" and are pleasantly surprised by a redneck who stands up in a bar to give a speech about how much he loves his female companion. This man's speech is probably one of the most beautiful, sincere things I have ever encountered in literature. Miller is obviously moved by this profound expression of passion (which is all the more intensified by its pastoral context), but he nonetheless returns to his ruff'n'tumble life afterwards.

For Miller, no sequence points towards any kind of conclusion. It's all about the glory and horror of the process. He's a prime example of Martin Heidegger's criticism of the divorce of "being" and "becoming". For Miller, the process is centralized, in the sense that there is always movement, but not towards a static ideal. The movement itself has its own kind of being, and each and every part of it exists in its own right, whether it's sex, a mental breakdown, going to work, falling in love, going to trial, or talking to a friend.

Although a lot of the people I know enjoy the writings of Charles Bukowski for his "raw honesty", I think that ultimately, Bukowski, along with 99% of fiction writers, has an agenda. He's definitely trying to TELL the reader something. Miller, on the other hand does not want to tell the reader anything. He instead throws the reader right into whatever situation it is.

The only criticism I have for this exquisite book is that it's almost TOO enjoyable. I get so that I'd be almost certain that Miller could talk about the smell of dust in a tantalizing way. This is certainly a strength of Miller as an author in many ways, but in the end, I tend to think that it has a certain "gregarious", "life of the party" quality that authors like Beckett, Roussell, Kafka, or even Joyce don't have. He comes off as a guy that's always having a good time, even when he's miserable, whereas especially in Beckett, miserable characters mean miserable writing. In Beckett, the reader is forced to "put up" with the protagonist's lack of elegance. But Miller never loses his "mojo". Perhaps it's an American thing. All that said, Miller's still the best American writer of the 20th century in my humble opinion, though he still pales in comparison to Beckett (who I'd say is the greatest writer I've ever encountered in any period).

Oh, and don't worry about "Plexus" and "Nexus". They pale in comparison to "Sexus". Sexus is a rollicking, DIY, virulent ride. Plexus and Nexus are the stories of Miller slowly, but surely adapting to late-capitalist nihilism.