Another tried and proven book I brought upon the journey to Maine to reread is Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller. To be honest, I found it somewhat disappointing, but in all fairness, Miller’s words have not changed, I have.

When I first read it as a young writer back in the early 1970s, it was just what I needed to break me out of the rut of bland tradition in which I was ensconced. It is exuberant, raunchy, joyful, and iconoclastic. It showed me that a writer could be defiant, bold, and wholly original. The occasional fits of surrealism dazzled me, and the plunges into vulgarity didn’t bother me in the slightest. It awakened in me the desire to find my own voice as a writer. After finishing Tropic of Cancer I sought out other works by Miller such as Tropic of Capricorn, Black Spring, The Rosy Crucifixion, The Colossus of Maroussi, and Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch. I liked his mix of pseudo-autobiography and stream of consciousness.

When I say that I am disappointed after my recent rereading of Tropic of Cancer, I am not criticizing the value of Miller’s work. I still like the pseudo-autobiography, the surrealism, and the stream of consciousness. However, in this reading of the book, I find it harder to put aside the fact that Miller takes delight in presenting himself as somewhat of a selfish, freeloading, vain, woman-chasing asshole. I get it: exaggeration is the name of his game; it’s what makes the narrative work. And it is marketed as a novel, not as a straight autobiography. It’s just that, well, I’ve been as poor as Miller claims to have been in his book; I have lived in poverty in foreign lands, sometimes even begging to survive. But I have never seen the need to compromise my ethics or my feelings of empathy for the fellow humans with whom I became acquainted; it never occurred to me to describe them with the snide, cynical attitude that Miller assumes in Tropic of Cancer. Most often, they were my fellows in distress; when they assisted me in my need I was sincerely grateful.

To balance the appraisal, I have also read a few biographies of Henry Miller, and by all accounts he was not the self-centered, predatory scoundrel that he comes across as in print. In reality, he was kind, open-minded, and generous, although somewhat impractical in matters of money. He had loyal friends. And in 1964 no less an entity than the United States Supreme Court overruled obscenity rulings by multiple state courts and declared Tropic of Cancer to be a work of art.

I have no issue with the obscenity in the book. What I object to is not the protagonist’s sexual depravity, such as it is, but rather his extreme egocentricity and resultant callousness toward others. It is this trait that irritated me during this most recent reading. If you have never read it though, I would still recommend the book, if you can stomach the vulgarity and the narrator’s insulting attitude. He takes verbal aim at everyone, with no exceptions, and he does it with unparalleled eloquence. That’s what kept me reading this time despite everything: the eloquence. Miller is a literary master when it comes to esoteric vocabulary, unusual turns of phrase, originality of expression, and unexpected flights of surrealistic fantasy.