I ran into a number of references to Henry Miller in my wanderings this spring and decided to turn to his TROPIC OF CANCER from my alternates list. It is a meaty book, very graphic in sexual language, to be sure, but quite matter-of-fact in its sexual content and less titillating overall than many a prime time offering on cable these days. Of greater interest is Miller's use of words: a queer combination of unrestrained rhetoric and dry Yankee humor with which he records grotesque doings in dirty bedrooms and communicates feverishly moods of despair and disgust. Miller discourses on his life and lowlife in Paris, fashioning his experiences, reflections, orgasms and philosophizing into a shambling narrative. Is it misogynous? Yes, but misandrous as well; no one comes off well in this lurid world pervaded by a sense of hopelessness.
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