Review from a Transgressive Fiction Fan
This is what happens when you finally “start” reading Henry Miller: you lose friends, you lose lovers, you lose yourself, you lose the time of day, next week, tomorrow, the day after, maybe half a year of your life. You start to think in “Milleresque” sentences, wake up at the ungodly hour of seven and sit and write about the little old men who walk by your door running away from Death. You begin to build a library of sad tomes and unrepentant pomes, you write poetry with decided dislike of poets, you make sandwiches and think to yourself how good life is, even if it really isn’t. You chain-smoke cigarettes and have a disdain for life, even if you secretly love life more than most of the troglydites traipsing through life. The rest is downhill, maybe Russian.
“Insightful” Review from a Mainstream Reader
I read the first few chapters…it was boring….then I skipped chapters hoping he would get more interesting..he didn’t….kept going…it was still boring…towards the end…he is pathetically sentimental, self-indulgent and boring…
I think it is because he was mooching off his wife while trying to shag someone else’s wives in order to mooch off them too…and too much mooching off the labours of women while being an annoying left bank Parisian bum, made him go “cunt, cunt, cunt” a lot…