Tropic of Cancer

Miller'sgroundbreakingfirstnovel,bannedinBritainforalmostthirtyyears,nowreinvigoratedinanewHarperPerennialModernClassicsedition.Apennilessandasyetunpublishedwriter,HenryMillerarrivedinParisin1930.LeavingbehindadisintegratingmarriageandanunhappycareerinAmerica,hethrewhimselfintothelow-lifeofbohemianPariswithunwaveringgusto.AfictionalaccountofMiller'sadventuresamongsttheprostitutesandpimps,thepennilesspaintersandwritersofMontparnasse,TropicofCancerisanextravagantandrhapsodichymntoaworldofunrivallederoticismandfreedom.TropicofCancer's1934publicationinFrancewashailedbySamuelBeckettas"amomentouseventinthehistoryofmodernwriting".ThenovelwassubsequentlybannedintheUKandtheUSAandnotreleasedforpublicationforafurtherthirtyyears.ATaste:IamlivingattheVillaBorghese.Thereisnotacrumbofdirtanywhere,norachairmisplaced.Weareallalonehereandwearedead.LastnightBorisdiscoveredthathewaslousy.Ihadtoshavehisarmpitsandeventhentheitchingdidnotstop.Howcanonegetlousyinabeautifulplacelikethis?Butnomatter.Wemightneverhaveknowneachothersointimately,BorisandI,haditnotbeenforthelice.Borishasjustgivenmeasummaryofhisviews.Heisaweatherprophet.Theweatherwillcontinuebad,hesays.Therewillbemorecalamities,moredeath,moredespair.Nottheslightestindicationofachangeanywhere.Thecanceroftimeiseatingusaway.Ourheroeshavekilledthemselves,orarekillingthemselves.Thehero,thenisnotTimebutTimelessness.Wemustgetinstep,alockstep,towardtheprisonofdeath.Thereisnoescape.Theweatherwillnotchange.ItisnowthefallofmysecondyearinParis.IwassenthereforareasonIhavenotyetbeenabletofathom.Ihavenomoney,noresources,nohopes.Iamthehappiestmanalive.Ayearago,sixmonthsago,IthoughtthatIwasandartist.Inolongerthinkaboutit,Iam.Everythingthatwasliteraturehasfallenfromme.Therearenomorebookstobewritten,thankGod.Thisthen?Thisisnotabook.Thisisalibel,slander,defamationofcharacter.Thisisnotabook,intheordinarysenseoftheword.No,thisisaprolongedinsult,agobofspitinthefaceofArt,akickinthepantstoGod,Man,Destiny,Time,Love,Beauty...whatyouwill.Iamgoingtosingtoyou,alittleoffkeyperhaps,butIwillsing.Iwillsingwhileyoucroak,Iwilldanceoveryourdirtycorpse...Tosingyoumustfirstopenyourmouth.Youmusthaveapairoflungs,andalittleknowledgeofmusic.Itisnotnecessarytohaveanaccordion,oraguitar.Theessentialthingistowanttosing.Thisthenisasong.Iamsinging.