Illegal Foreign Object

I was just shy of 3 years old when Henry Miller ascended, descended, chose to float around purgatory, morphed into an oversexed whale shark, or wandered around the cosmos in search of new adventures (and undiscovered crotch, if we’re being honest). “Circulatory disorders” are attributed to his cause of death, but I’d wager the real reason had more to do with him having enough of this place. He’d done all he wanted to do here because, make no mistake about it, gentle reader, Henry Miller lived the fuck out of his life. The man left few stones unturned and even fewer beds unfrequented. That isn’t to say that galavanting is the be-all and end-all, but more to convey Miller’s hard-charging indifference to conventional thoughts and actions. Think it, do it. See it, do it. Feel it, fuckin’ do it. I’m rambling, but let’s blame the panic-quelling pill I popped about 20 minutes ago, shall we? Sometimes, the meditation and breathing exercises need a pharmaceutical chaser.

Fourteen years after his death, Henry Rollins told me that Black Spring was his favorite book. Back then, Rollins was a barking, scowling, menacing human animal who wore his emotions on his sleeve (and I dug it). I bought a copy immediately. I still own it — I’ve read it four or five times over the years. It is one of my most prized possessions. It turned me on to a whole new world, a whole new style of writing and expression. I’ll never be able to write like Miller, but I appreciate the hell out of his prose.

Black Spring is a collection of short stories written between 1932-33 while Miller lived in Clichy, a suburb outside of Paris. The first of the stories, The Fourteenth Ward, recounts his childhood in Brooklyn, New York. Though surrounded by darkness and pain, it is “home”. He plays in the streets and tussles with friends — it is all as normal as can be. When it’s all you know, it’s all you know — ya know? It resonated with me deeply. All the therapy in the world and the story still resonates with me. I’ve spent most of my life figuring out why I’m most comfortable in the darkest times. What a gas!

Look, Henry Miller was an unrelenting horndog, but man, was he a great read. When I read a book, listen to music, or enjoy a good film, my last concern is whether the person who created the art was/is a decent human being. At that moment, I want to be entertained, moved, and made to feel something. It’s escapism, and it’s necessary. Besides, if the art is worth a fuck, the odds are good a piece of shit created it.

I don’t know what the people in Henry Miller’s life thought of him — I don’t care. I just know that the son of a bitch could really turn a phrase. He was a literary innovator — remembered as one of a kind. When you’re dead and gone, it doesn’t get any better than that.