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Under the Roofs of Paris
“Dios sabe que llevo ya bastante tiempo viviendo en París como para asombrarme de algo. Aquí no hace falta ir buscando aventuras a propósito, como en Nueva York. . . basta con tener un poco de paciencia y esperar, la vida te sale al encuentro en los lugares más recónditos e increíbles, aquí te pasan cosas.” Así empieza este texto inédito de Henry Miller , de cuya existencia nadie tenía conocimiento hasta que inesperadamente, el 10 de marzo de 1983, un antiguo librero de Hollywood, Milton Luboviski, se personó en la Embajada de los estados Unidos en París con el fin de declarar bajo juramento en qué circunstancias él mimo había encargado a Henry Miller la redacción de lo que, más tarde, sería Opus pistorum . En 1914, Luboviski, además de otros libros curiosos y especiales, empezó a vender en su librería narrativa erótica, a la que se mostraron muy aficionados grandes directores de cine como Joseph Mankiewicz y Billy Wilder, entre otros. No debían irle de maravilla las cosas a Miller cuando aceptó escribir para su amigo Luboviski, por un dólar la página, las peripecias de la muy cachonda vida parisina de un probable doble suyo, quien, con adolescentes intensidad y constancia, persigue obstinadamente a la mujer y la cópula perfectas. Miller iba entregando páginas y más páginas a Luboviski, quien se la pagaba, según lo convenido, al contado. Cuando Miller le llevó las últimas a mediados de 1942, le dijo : “Aquí tienes el final del libro. Espero que te dé para varios meses de alquiler”. Por lo visto, le dio para bastante más tiempo… El caso es que, desde que se dio a conocer, Opus pistorum ha hecho correr ya mucha tinta en la prensa mundial. Su publicación, tanto en los Estados Unidos como en Europa, fue precedida de toda suerte de especulaciones y escándalos. Ahora, finalmente, también los fans hispanoparlantes de Henry Miller podrán “descubrir” a su admirado autor en el audaz y pintoresco lenguaje de este libro, en cierto modo revelador de las fantasías eróticas primarias de un escritor considerado hoy como uno de los autores de nuestro siglo más destacados precisamente en este género, el erótico.
272 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1941
About the author
Henry Miller
786 books4,761 followersHenry Valentine Miller was an American novelist, short story writer and essayist. He broke with existing literary forms and developed a new type of semi-autobiographical novel that blended character study, social criticism, philosophical reflection, stream of consciousness, explicit language, sex, surrealist free association, and mysticism. His most characteristic works of this kind are Tropic of Cancer, Black Spring, Tropic of Capricorn, and the trilogy The Rosy Crucifixion, which are based on his experiences in New York City and Paris (all of which were banned in the United States until 1961). He also wrote travel memoirs and literary criticism, and painted watercolors.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 192 reviews
October 13, 2008
I relished nearly every sentence of this bawdy handbook for the sexually unapologetic. If you finish it without wincing, you get a *handjob* for your reward. If you find it compulsively readable, the way I did, we ought to become friends.
November 22, 2017
“As Meninas de Paris” é um livro com um formato físico curioso em que Henry Miller relata as suas trocas amorosas com quatro prostitutas de Paris.
Apesar de ter algumas (poucas) cenas de sexo mais explícitas, o autor dedica-se mais a caracterizar estas mulheres sob o ponto de vista psicológico ou a relatar acasos que as definem enquanto pessoas sendo, por isso mesmo, um livro em que não sentimos a degradação da figura feminina. As mulheres são apresentadas como mulheres, não como objectos e é-lhes dada voz nas quatro histórias porque elas são uma fonte de riqueza humana inesgotável que o narrador, inteligentemente, aproveita para contar episódios de vida que enriquecem cada uma das pequenas narrativas compostas.
Este livro serviu sobretudo o propósito de me preparar para as obras de maior fôlego do autor Americano que pretendo ler.
Apesar de ter algumas (poucas) cenas de sexo mais explícitas, o autor dedica-se mais a caracterizar estas mulheres sob o ponto de vista psicológico ou a relatar acasos que as definem enquanto pessoas sendo, por isso mesmo, um livro em que não sentimos a degradação da figura feminina. As mulheres são apresentadas como mulheres, não como objectos e é-lhes dada voz nas quatro histórias porque elas são uma fonte de riqueza humana inesgotável que o narrador, inteligentemente, aproveita para contar episódios de vida que enriquecem cada uma das pequenas narrativas compostas.
Este livro serviu sobretudo o propósito de me preparar para as obras de maior fôlego do autor Americano que pretendo ler.
June 26, 2020
Horrible. Infect.
May 9, 2010
Though many view this novel as obscene, I see it as a beautiful piece of art. Sometimes it's difficult to get through, the monologue during certain scenes drowns out the setting and when Alf zones back in I'm left thinking, "Wait. What's going on?"
The use of rape and pedophilia is prevalent, Miller doesn't hide this, nor his thoughts of disgust and piqued interest. He bears his character's soul and touches on taboo topics.
This novel isn't for everyone. There are violent scenes of rape, many levels of child prostitution and pedophilia--enough so that it makes the reader somewhat uncomfortable (somewhat in my case, anyway). Having read Miller for years and worshiping every letter on the page has rid me of any shock.
A superb read, not for the feint of heart, though. ;)
The use of rape and pedophilia is prevalent, Miller doesn't hide this, nor his thoughts of disgust and piqued interest. He bears his character's soul and touches on taboo topics.
This novel isn't for everyone. There are violent scenes of rape, many levels of child prostitution and pedophilia--enough so that it makes the reader somewhat uncomfortable (somewhat in my case, anyway). Having read Miller for years and worshiping every letter on the page has rid me of any shock.
A superb read, not for the feint of heart, though. ;)
April 22, 2013
As Henry Miller appears to be a "hot" subject at the moment with goodreads' reviewers, it made me check to see which books I have from this author.
I came across this book this morning and I see that I've never read it. This happens to me a lot. I purchase a book and I never get around to reading it as it gets overtaken by other books.
So I started to read this book as, when I purchased it in 2000, I had thought this was a book on erotica as I always loved the works by Anais Nin on this genre.
Looking at the "blurb" I can see why I was mistaken:
"In 1941, Henry Miller, the author of "Tropic of Cancer" - called "one of the great novels of our century" by Norman Mailer - was commissioned by a Los Angeles bookseller to write an erotic novel for a dollar a page. "Under the Roofs of Paris" (originally published as "Opus Pistorum") is that book. Here one finds Miller's characteristic candor, wit, self-mockery, and celebration of the good life. From Marcelle to Tania, to Alexandra, to Anna, and from the Left Bank to Pigalle, Miller sweeps us up in his odyssey in search of the perfect job, the perfect woman, the perfect experience."
So at a dollar a page, I see that Miller earned $288.
There were three good recommendations (not necessarily for this book!) from Lawrence Durrell (one of my three favourite authors of all time), Terry Southern (no idea who this individual is) and Noel Young from Capra Press. Unknown to me also.
Well, I looked at this book and basically I was shocked. Erotic! This is porn at its worst! I must re-examine all my other Miller books and see if they are the same. Now I read all those other books, years ago. Have I become such a prude with the passage of time, or was my mind really "outrageous" at that time. That is what concerns me.
Trying to delete all of these odious words - the first chapter is the worst and I'm shocked at what happens here - I've been looking for beauty in the writing. No, I cannot see it. Do I want to burn this book as my mother did when she came into my own house one day and found "Lady Chatterly's Lover"? And that book was mild by today's standards. No, I will keep it just to remind myself to read "blurbs" in greater detail.
My only excuse? I had been misled by the word "erotic".
I came across this book this morning and I see that I've never read it. This happens to me a lot. I purchase a book and I never get around to reading it as it gets overtaken by other books.
So I started to read this book as, when I purchased it in 2000, I had thought this was a book on erotica as I always loved the works by Anais Nin on this genre.
Looking at the "blurb" I can see why I was mistaken:
"In 1941, Henry Miller, the author of "Tropic of Cancer" - called "one of the great novels of our century" by Norman Mailer - was commissioned by a Los Angeles bookseller to write an erotic novel for a dollar a page. "Under the Roofs of Paris" (originally published as "Opus Pistorum") is that book. Here one finds Miller's characteristic candor, wit, self-mockery, and celebration of the good life. From Marcelle to Tania, to Alexandra, to Anna, and from the Left Bank to Pigalle, Miller sweeps us up in his odyssey in search of the perfect job, the perfect woman, the perfect experience."
So at a dollar a page, I see that Miller earned $288.
There were three good recommendations (not necessarily for this book!) from Lawrence Durrell (one of my three favourite authors of all time), Terry Southern (no idea who this individual is) and Noel Young from Capra Press. Unknown to me also.
Well, I looked at this book and basically I was shocked. Erotic! This is porn at its worst! I must re-examine all my other Miller books and see if they are the same. Now I read all those other books, years ago. Have I become such a prude with the passage of time, or was my mind really "outrageous" at that time. That is what concerns me.
Trying to delete all of these odious words - the first chapter is the worst and I'm shocked at what happens here - I've been looking for beauty in the writing. No, I cannot see it. Do I want to burn this book as my mother did when she came into my own house one day and found "Lady Chatterly's Lover"? And that book was mild by today's standards. No, I will keep it just to remind myself to read "blurbs" in greater detail.
My only excuse? I had been misled by the word "erotic".
May 20, 2008
Apparently he wrote this one chapter at a time and sold them to a pornographer who compiled them into a full book. What can I say? It's just porn porn porn. He seems to try to find the raunchiest, most scandalous scenarios to write about. My roommate kept egging me on telling me it was leading somewhere so I kept reading. Apparently he was dicking me around because the story didn't go anywhere and I felt like I'd wasted my time reading it. There's plenty of better stuff out there to spend your time reading.
July 6, 2011
Jouissance!
I read an article during my freshman year of college, or perhaps even before, that the New York Times published about the English language's poor treatment/approach to sex, along with most authors' inability to land more squarely in the middle between too scientific or too corny. Struggling is not uncommon, for most, but Miller shows no sign of it.
This book is a struggle for most readers, I imagine. It's exhausting, in fact. Like many other reviews I read, it was my first erotica novel and first Miller. It's more a wonderful exploration of how far one can take the topic, and it's taken in every direction imaginable. Well, to the heterosexual male, perhaps. Miller blames it all on Paris, which is a bit of a cop out, but that reality, still, articulates the differences of what we tolerate in either culture, US or French. There are many, many golden! moments in this book.
What was my other point? If you don't feel anything after reading this, just dig a hole in your backyard, jump on in and have someone fill it up. For good or ill, emotions stir. All the time. Boy, I need a cigarette. If you aren't stirred, you're probably already half-dead, head to foot.
Thank you, Roseanne Barr, for the recommendation.
PARENTAL DISCRETION IS ADVISED
Golden! Moments:
But these (art students)--they're all kids, even the instructor--know what it is they're after, the girl on the soap box is a naked girl with a bush around her cunt and juice between her legs! She's something alive, to get your hands on and your prick into, and if the boys stop to give her a feel, if they pinch her ass and do their work with their cocks up . . . their work and the world will be the better for it.
Vol. I; Book I; pp. 20-21
"Flamenca," Ernest says, "they tell me she's the youngest girl dancing it . . . I mean really dancing it."
For all I know it may be just so much shit . . . but people who claim to know have told me it takes ten years to make a flamenca. Ten years to learn to do a dance that takes ten minutes! It's one of those things that don't interest me very much . . . it all seems like a lot of fucking wasted effort, like learning the Bible by heart.
Vol. I; Book II; p. 64
My God, if you came like that the first time you'd probably shit your pants and then cut your dick off with your old man's razor. . . .
Vol. I; Book II; p. 83
Ah, Gay Paree! This must be what people mean when they talk about Bohemia. . . .
Vol. I; Book II; p. 92
It's a great weight off one's shoulders, not having to worry about a knife in the back. . . . .
Vol. I; Book II; p. 98
Say what you will for hidden sweets; I like things out in the open, all of it where you can get your hands on it when you want it, with no laces and straps and ties.
Vol. I; Book III; p. 115
And this is the thesis of the book, I suppose:
Yes, I'll screw you . . . ass, mouth and cunt . . . until you have been marked forever by the passage of my prick . . . I'll put my dong in your hair, in your ears, let you jerk me off and come with the end of my cock held tightly against your nostrils . . . I'll fill your body with fucking, and your mind with fucking and your soul with fucking . . . Your hair will be forever sparse where my cock has rubbed it thin. I'll give you a fucking too great for you to hold within yourself, a screwing too big for your life and your experience . . . it will enter you, fill you to overflowing, spill into your children, and your children's grandchildren . . . ten generations from today your descendants will start from their sleep with the shock of a dream which will live forever in the cells and fibers of the line that springs from your ripe loins.
Vol. I; Book III; p. 118
It's such a wonderful erection I have that, after I've gotten my clothes off, I stand in front of the mirror and admire myself for a couple of minutes. A man ought to have a photograph taken of himself when he's in shape like that, just to keep around and look at when he goes in to ask the boss for a raise in salary.
Vol. I; Book III; pp. 150-151
Do I think she's nice? Someday I'll find a cunt who doesn't ask me that question while I'm feeling her up, and the chances are ten to one that when that happens I'll find out that she's swallowed her false teeth and choked to death. . . .It's like asking if you think breathing is nice . . . a cunt's a cunt and they're all nice. . .
Vol. II; Book I; p. 166
And, finally:
End of the ride. End of a long, long ride. Finish, all over, all done. Now I'm beginning to wonder where I got on this merry-go-round, and why this is the particular place where I get off. Well, one place is as good as another, I suppose. The trick is not to get so dizzy while you're going round that you can't walk straight when you get off. This way to the Ferris wheel, and the roller coaster. They take you nowhere in an even more breathtaking manner.
Vol. II; Book III; p. 281
I read an article during my freshman year of college, or perhaps even before, that the New York Times published about the English language's poor treatment/approach to sex, along with most authors' inability to land more squarely in the middle between too scientific or too corny. Struggling is not uncommon, for most, but Miller shows no sign of it.
This book is a struggle for most readers, I imagine. It's exhausting, in fact. Like many other reviews I read, it was my first erotica novel and first Miller. It's more a wonderful exploration of how far one can take the topic, and it's taken in every direction imaginable. Well, to the heterosexual male, perhaps. Miller blames it all on Paris, which is a bit of a cop out, but that reality, still, articulates the differences of what we tolerate in either culture, US or French. There are many, many golden! moments in this book.
What was my other point? If you don't feel anything after reading this, just dig a hole in your backyard, jump on in and have someone fill it up. For good or ill, emotions stir. All the time. Boy, I need a cigarette. If you aren't stirred, you're probably already half-dead, head to foot.
Thank you, Roseanne Barr, for the recommendation.
PARENTAL DISCRETION IS ADVISED
Golden! Moments:
But these (art students)--they're all kids, even the instructor--know what it is they're after, the girl on the soap box is a naked girl with a bush around her cunt and juice between her legs! She's something alive, to get your hands on and your prick into, and if the boys stop to give her a feel, if they pinch her ass and do their work with their cocks up . . . their work and the world will be the better for it.
Vol. I; Book I; pp. 20-21
"Flamenca," Ernest says, "they tell me she's the youngest girl dancing it . . . I mean really dancing it."
For all I know it may be just so much shit . . . but people who claim to know have told me it takes ten years to make a flamenca. Ten years to learn to do a dance that takes ten minutes! It's one of those things that don't interest me very much . . . it all seems like a lot of fucking wasted effort, like learning the Bible by heart.
Vol. I; Book II; p. 64
My God, if you came like that the first time you'd probably shit your pants and then cut your dick off with your old man's razor. . . .
Vol. I; Book II; p. 83
Ah, Gay Paree! This must be what people mean when they talk about Bohemia. . . .
Vol. I; Book II; p. 92
It's a great weight off one's shoulders, not having to worry about a knife in the back. . . . .
Vol. I; Book II; p. 98
Say what you will for hidden sweets; I like things out in the open, all of it where you can get your hands on it when you want it, with no laces and straps and ties.
Vol. I; Book III; p. 115
And this is the thesis of the book, I suppose:
Yes, I'll screw you . . . ass, mouth and cunt . . . until you have been marked forever by the passage of my prick . . . I'll put my dong in your hair, in your ears, let you jerk me off and come with the end of my cock held tightly against your nostrils . . . I'll fill your body with fucking, and your mind with fucking and your soul with fucking . . . Your hair will be forever sparse where my cock has rubbed it thin. I'll give you a fucking too great for you to hold within yourself, a screwing too big for your life and your experience . . . it will enter you, fill you to overflowing, spill into your children, and your children's grandchildren . . . ten generations from today your descendants will start from their sleep with the shock of a dream which will live forever in the cells and fibers of the line that springs from your ripe loins.
Vol. I; Book III; p. 118
It's such a wonderful erection I have that, after I've gotten my clothes off, I stand in front of the mirror and admire myself for a couple of minutes. A man ought to have a photograph taken of himself when he's in shape like that, just to keep around and look at when he goes in to ask the boss for a raise in salary.
Vol. I; Book III; pp. 150-151
Do I think she's nice? Someday I'll find a cunt who doesn't ask me that question while I'm feeling her up, and the chances are ten to one that when that happens I'll find out that she's swallowed her false teeth and choked to death. . . .It's like asking if you think breathing is nice . . . a cunt's a cunt and they're all nice. . .
Vol. II; Book I; p. 166
And, finally:
End of the ride. End of a long, long ride. Finish, all over, all done. Now I'm beginning to wonder where I got on this merry-go-round, and why this is the particular place where I get off. Well, one place is as good as another, I suppose. The trick is not to get so dizzy while you're going round that you can't walk straight when you get off. This way to the Ferris wheel, and the roller coaster. They take you nowhere in an even more breathtaking manner.
Vol. II; Book III; p. 281
February 22, 2024
My guess is this book only took me a few years to finish reading, but to my surprise I finally did it. Page after page my head would spin continuously within his relating the countless sins of lords and masters and their man-driven sexual escapades. Miller offers porno as high art. I have never before heard mention the many different tags he uses for the organs, cuts, and appendages involved in sexual acts, my favorite being his word "figlet." I have viewed a few porn films in my time, but nothing compares to this novel and the way Miller had written it for pay. Pretty graphic stuff, and the most well-written disgusting book I have yet read on the subject. The women he portrays are all in, ready to sexually experiment with any and all, and never regretful of any developing circumstance. Of course, it must be viewed and remembered as fiction. But most of the men in the book, unfortunately, behaved as little boys too eager to behave selfishly with no respect for any consequence of their actions for another. Nonetheless, it was instructive for me to privately witness a seedier side of life.
June 26, 2021
Back when I was a literary agent, books would occasionally come from publishers with notes saying, "we want this kind of thing," and I'd read them.
Since I don't fancy women, this was a deeply distasteful read for me. Since I like my sex partners to be eager, it was titillating...the verve of the sexual acts was well conveyed. Since I think men are already ignorant about what actual, flesh-and-blood women like to do in bed, it was appalling and extremely unhelpful from a how-to perspective.
All in all, something I don't think is best passed around but rather allowed to sink quietly into obscurity.
Since I don't fancy women, this was a deeply distasteful read for me. Since I like my sex partners to be eager, it was titillating...the verve of the sexual acts was well conveyed. Since I think men are already ignorant about what actual, flesh-and-blood women like to do in bed, it was appalling and extremely unhelpful from a how-to perspective.
All in all, something I don't think is best passed around but rather allowed to sink quietly into obscurity.
February 19, 2009
Dirtiest book I have read. Ever.
December 24, 2017
Under the Roofs of Paris is ADULT Material. Language and content is explicit sex.
Henry Millers’ Under the Roofs of Paris, if it is Henry Millers work was written to order at $1 per page to be pornography. The back story to this book may be more interesting than the book. It was certainly written to an order that specified that the contents be pornographic. It was commissioned in 1941 by an LA book seller known to sell specialty titles under the counter (Wink Wink). He then kept the original and made four copies. This copy, a Book of the Month Club Edition, ends with a copy of the sign avadavat attesting to these facts.
There is some debate over who wrote it. Miller later disavowed having written it. Some say it was written by Anaïs Nin. The two were lovers (the movie version: https://smile.amazon.com/Henry-June-V...) and she also wrote porn to order-https://smile.amazon.com/Little-Birds...
However I have read Anais Nin, and this is not typical of her work.
If you are going to read this book, it is very possible that within 5 pages you will read something sexual that will make you question your limits. Within 20 pages you are going to have to make a decision about if you want to read it at all. There may be a value to a book that has you asking about what your limits are, and who you are. These are legitimate goals for an artist as writer. But would we be asking such soulful, artful questions if authorship was attributed to anonymous?
Accepting that Under the Roofs is a book designed to arouse our prurient interests… NM the fancy word how sexually explicit it?
It is explicit. Absent the use of motorized sex toys, the heavy equipment of BDSM and some of the more extreme words available for the most unusual tastes in sex, it is here. What a potential reader must consider is that whoever wrote Under the Roof of Paris does not limit contents to just the variations allowed under either of the words in the term between “Consenting Adults”.
If it is allowed to refer to our misogynist, hedonistic, opportunistic and self-justifying narrator as the hero of the story, he has other limitations. Women have or do not have names, and they are designated as Women or (unprintable). Miller seems to have only one word for breasts, it is not breast, but has a wide variety of now out of date expressions for almost every other part male or female that one has to name when describing explicit sex acts. Perhaps it is telling that this oddity became noticeable as more of the text became less noticeable.
At about the half way through the book two thing happen.
1. There is a major discontinuity. At the end of a chapter, events are recounted, and then we are brought back to the events just after the earlier chapter. Bad editing or more than one author?
2. Style changes. For example it is possible to have as many as three pages between descriptions of body parts rubbing together.
Are there more than one person with pride of authorship?
In Miller’s and whoever's defense this book was intended for very limited publication. There may have been an earlier edition, but it was not in general publication (Grove Press) until 1983. Miller died in 1980. In this light, Miller was writing to a small audience that wanted sex. It also tends to deflate the opinion that this is a commentary on modern times.
Under the Roofs of Paris was written and intended to be what it is: A dirty book.
Henry Millers’ Under the Roofs of Paris, if it is Henry Millers work was written to order at $1 per page to be pornography. The back story to this book may be more interesting than the book. It was certainly written to an order that specified that the contents be pornographic. It was commissioned in 1941 by an LA book seller known to sell specialty titles under the counter (Wink Wink). He then kept the original and made four copies. This copy, a Book of the Month Club Edition, ends with a copy of the sign avadavat attesting to these facts.
There is some debate over who wrote it. Miller later disavowed having written it. Some say it was written by Anaïs Nin. The two were lovers (the movie version: https://smile.amazon.com/Henry-June-V...) and she also wrote porn to order-https://smile.amazon.com/Little-Birds...
However I have read Anais Nin, and this is not typical of her work.
If you are going to read this book, it is very possible that within 5 pages you will read something sexual that will make you question your limits. Within 20 pages you are going to have to make a decision about if you want to read it at all. There may be a value to a book that has you asking about what your limits are, and who you are. These are legitimate goals for an artist as writer. But would we be asking such soulful, artful questions if authorship was attributed to anonymous?
Accepting that Under the Roofs is a book designed to arouse our prurient interests… NM the fancy word how sexually explicit it?
It is explicit. Absent the use of motorized sex toys, the heavy equipment of BDSM and some of the more extreme words available for the most unusual tastes in sex, it is here. What a potential reader must consider is that whoever wrote Under the Roof of Paris does not limit contents to just the variations allowed under either of the words in the term between “Consenting Adults”.
If it is allowed to refer to our misogynist, hedonistic, opportunistic and self-justifying narrator as the hero of the story, he has other limitations. Women have or do not have names, and they are designated as Women or (unprintable). Miller seems to have only one word for breasts, it is not breast, but has a wide variety of now out of date expressions for almost every other part male or female that one has to name when describing explicit sex acts. Perhaps it is telling that this oddity became noticeable as more of the text became less noticeable.
At about the half way through the book two thing happen.
1. There is a major discontinuity. At the end of a chapter, events are recounted, and then we are brought back to the events just after the earlier chapter. Bad editing or more than one author?
2. Style changes. For example it is possible to have as many as three pages between descriptions of body parts rubbing together.
Are there more than one person with pride of authorship?
In Miller’s and whoever's defense this book was intended for very limited publication. There may have been an earlier edition, but it was not in general publication (Grove Press) until 1983. Miller died in 1980. In this light, Miller was writing to a small audience that wanted sex. It also tends to deflate the opinion that this is a commentary on modern times.
Under the Roofs of Paris was written and intended to be what it is: A dirty book.
Read
June 4, 2018(Perchè) Il cobra non è un serpente/ ma un pensiero frequente/ che diventa indecente / quando vedo te, quando vedo te, quando vedo teeee/ il cobra si snoda/ si gira e m'inchioda/ mi chiude la bocca/ mi stringe mi tocca Ooooh da da da da da
[sottotitolo : Le avventure parigine di mr John Thursday & co :) ]
Azz!
Porca vacca !
Abbandonato dopo aver letto alcuni episodi
Per l'uso forsennato della sineddoche...
ecco,la metonimia avveduta passi , poi però ...eh
( magari era meglio andare ai Tropici!)
[sottotitolo : Le avventure parigine di mr John Thursday & co :) ]
Azz!
Porca vacca !
Abbandonato dopo aver letto alcuni episodi
Per l'uso forsennato della sineddoche...
ecco,la metonimia avveduta passi , poi però ...eh
( magari era meglio andare ai Tropici!)
June 12, 2007
I knew Henry Miller was one of the greats of twentieth century American fiction so I thought I would give this one a go. I didn't realise it was completely smut! To be fair, it's extremely well written smut. But, my God, the sex scences (which is pretty much every scence - honestly!) make the ones in American Psycho look tame. Not really one for the train in the morning but a humorous and enjoyable read nonetheless.
February 7, 2008
It is porn.
September 26, 2015
THIS REVIEW IS NSFW!!! BE FOREWARNED!!!
I had been looking for this book to read for awhile because I get a little obsessive about Anais Nin and Henry Miller. I'd also read Nin's "Delta Of Venus", which was a collection of erotica commissioned by a private collector. The foreword to her collection was the primary reason I wanted to read this. I'm thinking of "Under the Roofs of Paris" as a complementary book to Nin's "Delta of Venus".
In the foreword of "Delta of Venus", Nin wrote a letter basically admonishing the collector, who wanted her to write erotica with none of the "love" and just the bare bone (pardon the pun) facts of a variety of sexual encounters. Nin argued that to remove the emotions and the sex from the acts were unnatural and that it was anti-thetical to the act of congress to pull the emotions out of it. Miller's reaction? Sure I'll write your erotica--for $1.00 a page. Which he did, and this is the resultant collection.
Because of that, and knowing a bit more about their personal relationship, I was excited about reading it. I mean, what kind of work would one of the greatest American writers write when it was purely for commission and for the consumption of a rich donor with plenty of money to spend on his sexual proclivities with as little emotional connection as possible? Well.....Miller wrote this. And just to start it off right, he began his book with the story of Marcelle, her father, one of the many "whores" in the novel, and himself. While a bit shocking, I think it was the best way to start the collection off: with a completely uncomfortable incestuous situation, devoid of any emotion, graphic to the core. Because that's the kind of work you churn out for $1.00 a page for a horny investor.
Still, this was still Miller we're talking about, and it wound up being one of the funniest books I'd read in a good while. Even though the medium was erotica, and that's not even debatable after the first page, Miller was still an astute wordsmith, a clever observant writer, and his talent could not even be suppressed for such a lowly commission. While the humor is certainly dark and not for everyone, if you're not adverse to reading graphic depictions of every kind of sex imaginable (and some I didn't even think of), you'll get to pick up on his witticisms and his scathing satire of certain aspects of French and American society. And honestly, that's the entire novel: one giant scathing criticism of the upper echelons of polite society, so disconnected by greed and desire that they commit a series of depravity with no emotional connection, none of what makes a person alive.
In fact, he brings up that very point repeatedly, how there are people who are basically dead their entire lives and they never come to know what it is to be alive. On page 85 of my version, there's a beautiful glimpse of true Miller in the first two paragraphs of the page:
For me, it's as if Miller is sitting up off the page at those moments, pointing a damning finger at the private donor, leveling a biting indictment of his own. It's almost as if I can hear Miller screaming beneath the bought prose, "YOU!!! It is YOU who are not alive! You who thinks this is what fulfillment involves. It is YOU who are dead inside, so dead that you've commissioned me to write stories under which you can hide the rank stench of your fetid rotting entrails."
To that end, Miller includes plenty of commentary about 1930's-1940's Paris society in these beautiful typed jewels. One of my favorite lines was on pg 45.: "Talk begins to roll around the room...Matisse...Gertrude Stein...I don't have to listen to take an intelligent part any more, I simply say the names, for no one listens to anyone else anyway," which I think is a pretty pointed bit of commentary of the shallow conversations of polite society. No one listens. They're not interested in the life-giving words of the figures they pretend to admire; it's enough to just know the names to pass as being cultured. And all the while, these brilliant figures with their keys to life on full display, are only worth the cultural collateral they can bring to the person saying them, even if they're not internalized or embraced for more than being a conversation piece.
So you might think it odd that I think there's a fair bit of Miller as feminist in this book, even one that reduces most of the women to "bitches" and "cunts". The thing is, Miller isn't necessarily writing this character as an extension of himself. If you want more of a glimpse into Miller the man, I'd recommend "Tropic of Cancer" or a collection of his letters. Miller is clearly taking the piss when he writes this book from the perspective of "Alf", short for what I imagine is "Alpha Male". He's writing to the particular appetites of the Alpha Male persona. I don't necessarily believe he holds these ideas true but I believe he believes this is just the kind of ego-stroking that Alpha Male indulges in. I think one of the clearest examples of his writing to his Alpha Male donor are the first two paragraphs in "Book II: The French Way" in which the encounter with Miss Cavendish is further detailed. Everything you need to know about the machismo Alpha Male psyche can be encapsulated in the following quote:
He might as well have said it when it was writing about his last encounter with Toots, one of the women of the book. She was about to move away to America with the gay American dude who owned a bunch of furniture shops. They had come to a protective arrangement, a pretty typical one in the days before legal gay marriage. However, in this last encounter, a bit of the petulant man-child came out, even as he was trying to figure out a way of saying goodbye. And this passage is particularly strong to match the kind of response Alpha Male has to a loss he has no control over.
This is how Alpha Male responds to loss: like an immature child trying to force his imprint on the world. But an imprint of what? He's part of the dead world. The only way he can even pretend to be alive is by sex, and that's a cheap facsimile for a life that isn't being lived but merely passed through. Also, Alpha Male is just a facade: he acts in very similar ways to the women he passes through in the book. In that same encounter with Toots, she starts telling him about some of her sexual encounters and he remarks, "She confesses most of her erotic history (why this compulsion for confession in women?)," and I thought it was pretty funny because Alpha Male *would* say something like that while, un-ironically, regaling his friends with the list of his sexual conquests. I mean, let's be honest: the entire book reads like a confession of just a year of his erotic history, and he's not reticent in the least about details.
As for how Miller actually feels about women, he's a bit more sympathetic, but you only catch glimpses of this because of him being commissioned to present just the facts of sex. For instance, one of the most touching lines to that end was when he was talking about Anna, one of the figures in the book, and said, "And Anna's a moral cunt, too....at least as moral as women ever get to be." In that small line, he acknowledges that Alpha Male is always seeking to subjugate women, that a woman is never seen as being moral because of her innate womanhood, at least not to Alpha Male. That to this kind of person, a woman is always to be put under someone's foot, and that even as pious as she is, she will always be the entrance of sin and depravity, because woman.
There is a lot of sex in the book, and most of it seems so comedic that I couldn't help but laugh at some of the passages. His personification of his penis "John Thursday" or "Jean Jeudi" lead to some of the most hilarious descriptions of sex I've ever read. It really seems like, at times, the book could be entitled, "The Adventures of Alf and Jean Jeudi" or "John Thursday and Alf see Paris", almost like it's a buddy-cop movie but instead of perps, it's pussy. Incidentally, that word is only used once in the book, during his encounter with the butch lesbian Billie. However, there's been so many mentions of figs that I don't think I can eat another Mediterranean dessert without hiding a small giggle.
While the main figure lampooned in the book is the protagonist Alf, and by proxy, the wealthy donor who is paying Miller for the privilege of imagining himself as such, Miller doesn't save his criticism for just Alf alone. When Alexandra gets wrapped up in religious fervor, I think it reads like a pretty scathing criticism of the debauchery of the Catholic Church, with Canon Charenton in the role of Papal representative. Since it's laid out to be the opposite (Alexandra went to the Satanists to feel something more mystical), he could escape the hell he'da caught if he were more blatant about it; however, I think it was a pretty acerbic take on the depravity demonstrated within the hallowed walls of the Church. Miller also takes a ribald view of the wealthy American family who comes to Paris to infuse their lives with a bit of joie de vivre. He makes several notes about tourists and the latter bits about Sam and Ann Backer and their daughter Snuggles (And I don't think that was a lazy misstep to name them the Backers considering they were financially backing some crazy scheme his friend Carl came up with and Ernest took advantage of). In fact, his whole treatment of the Backer family was pretty grim, as they came over to Paris to experience life and discovered that they were trying to find in the streets of Paris that spark that made them feel alive. Only, at the end, they were no less enlightened than before. It wasn't because Paris wasn't doing enough, providing enough. It was that even when they had sampled all the delights that Paris had to offer them, they were no more alive than they had been back in the States. They were already dead, trying to resurrect themselves on the bodies of willing Parisians who were no more alive than they were.
I thought this book was amazing. There were certainly passages that get the juices flowing but most of the writing is so over the top that it's more like a sex comedy than it is moving erotica. Consider this as a reference point:
Considering that's what Miller sounds like in love and in earnest desire, it's pretty easy to distinguish between Henry Miller the author and the man and Alf, the scamp, with his little buddy, Jean Jeudi. So the book was what it was. Scathing. Bawdy as fuck. Stuffed with ribald ribbons. I don't think it's for everyone but I've been reading erotica for over 20 years at this point and there is very little that shocks me. However, I also think this whole piece serves as salted satire only in the way Miller can provide. He is funny, explicit, graphic, matter-of-fact, and hilarious. But also this reads like he is angry, reluctant, and defiant but poor and committed to saying his peace about what's really important in life, even for $1.00 a page to a private pervert. And for that, I salute you, Mr. Miller. I salute you for your layers, for your brilliantly worded prose, for your delicate insights, and for your defiance.
I had been looking for this book to read for awhile because I get a little obsessive about Anais Nin and Henry Miller. I'd also read Nin's "Delta Of Venus", which was a collection of erotica commissioned by a private collector. The foreword to her collection was the primary reason I wanted to read this. I'm thinking of "Under the Roofs of Paris" as a complementary book to Nin's "Delta of Venus".
In the foreword of "Delta of Venus", Nin wrote a letter basically admonishing the collector, who wanted her to write erotica with none of the "love" and just the bare bone (pardon the pun) facts of a variety of sexual encounters. Nin argued that to remove the emotions and the sex from the acts were unnatural and that it was anti-thetical to the act of congress to pull the emotions out of it. Miller's reaction? Sure I'll write your erotica--for $1.00 a page. Which he did, and this is the resultant collection.
Because of that, and knowing a bit more about their personal relationship, I was excited about reading it. I mean, what kind of work would one of the greatest American writers write when it was purely for commission and for the consumption of a rich donor with plenty of money to spend on his sexual proclivities with as little emotional connection as possible? Well.....Miller wrote this. And just to start it off right, he began his book with the story of Marcelle, her father, one of the many "whores" in the novel, and himself. While a bit shocking, I think it was the best way to start the collection off: with a completely uncomfortable incestuous situation, devoid of any emotion, graphic to the core. Because that's the kind of work you churn out for $1.00 a page for a horny investor.
Still, this was still Miller we're talking about, and it wound up being one of the funniest books I'd read in a good while. Even though the medium was erotica, and that's not even debatable after the first page, Miller was still an astute wordsmith, a clever observant writer, and his talent could not even be suppressed for such a lowly commission. While the humor is certainly dark and not for everyone, if you're not adverse to reading graphic depictions of every kind of sex imaginable (and some I didn't even think of), you'll get to pick up on his witticisms and his scathing satire of certain aspects of French and American society. And honestly, that's the entire novel: one giant scathing criticism of the upper echelons of polite society, so disconnected by greed and desire that they commit a series of depravity with no emotional connection, none of what makes a person alive.
In fact, he brings up that very point repeatedly, how there are people who are basically dead their entire lives and they never come to know what it is to be alive. On page 85 of my version, there's a beautiful glimpse of true Miller in the first two paragraphs of the page:
"These pricks who tell you that in five or fifty years they will be ready to give up the ghost...how in Christ's name can a man say something like that? There's too much to see, too much to do, and as long as you're alive it should be impossible to get tired of possessing that tiny spark of consciousness....
As long as you're alive! But we live in a land of ghosts. The world is half dead before it's born. People straddle their lives with one foot in the grave and the other still sticking in the womb...they never grow up and they're old from the first second they utter the first squawk of protest on finding out they're on their own......"
For me, it's as if Miller is sitting up off the page at those moments, pointing a damning finger at the private donor, leveling a biting indictment of his own. It's almost as if I can hear Miller screaming beneath the bought prose, "YOU!!! It is YOU who are not alive! You who thinks this is what fulfillment involves. It is YOU who are dead inside, so dead that you've commissioned me to write stories under which you can hide the rank stench of your fetid rotting entrails."
To that end, Miller includes plenty of commentary about 1930's-1940's Paris society in these beautiful typed jewels. One of my favorite lines was on pg 45.: "Talk begins to roll around the room...Matisse...Gertrude Stein...I don't have to listen to take an intelligent part any more, I simply say the names, for no one listens to anyone else anyway," which I think is a pretty pointed bit of commentary of the shallow conversations of polite society. No one listens. They're not interested in the life-giving words of the figures they pretend to admire; it's enough to just know the names to pass as being cultured. And all the while, these brilliant figures with their keys to life on full display, are only worth the cultural collateral they can bring to the person saying them, even if they're not internalized or embraced for more than being a conversation piece.
So you might think it odd that I think there's a fair bit of Miller as feminist in this book, even one that reduces most of the women to "bitches" and "cunts". The thing is, Miller isn't necessarily writing this character as an extension of himself. If you want more of a glimpse into Miller the man, I'd recommend "Tropic of Cancer" or a collection of his letters. Miller is clearly taking the piss when he writes this book from the perspective of "Alf", short for what I imagine is "Alpha Male". He's writing to the particular appetites of the Alpha Male persona. I don't necessarily believe he holds these ideas true but I believe he believes this is just the kind of ego-stroking that Alpha Male indulges in. I think one of the clearest examples of his writing to his Alpha Male donor are the first two paragraphs in "Book II: The French Way" in which the encounter with Miss Cavendish is further detailed. Everything you need to know about the machismo Alpha Male psyche can be encapsulated in the following quote:
"Of course she's deserving everything that's happening to her tonight...every time the hollow voice of conscience gives a burp I remember the teasing this bitch gave me; it helps a great deal to keep me from feeling sorry for her."The act he's describing is when he, Sid, and Ernest decide to gang rape this woman who was guilty of being a "tease". And it's not the only time in the book where these three punish a woman for some imagined crime with multiple rapes and degrading invasions. And while these sections were particularly difficult to read through, I understand that it is an extremely advanced criticism of the kind of man who gets off on this type of shit. These are the passages where Alf is most petulant, most immature. In reference to Miss Cavendish, just a few pages earlier on pg 51, you get a sense of this childish entitlement best when Alf says, "Even if she has to be held while I do it, I CAN DO ANY FUCKING THING I WANT!" It is that surly, entitled, rich asshole that Miller is writing to at that moment. I can almost hear him say, "This is the kind of shit that gets you hard, isn't it, you selfish dead prick! This is what you need to read to even get an erection anymore, that's how dead you are inside!"
He might as well have said it when it was writing about his last encounter with Toots, one of the women of the book. She was about to move away to America with the gay American dude who owned a bunch of furniture shops. They had come to a protective arrangement, a pretty typical one in the days before legal gay marriage. However, in this last encounter, a bit of the petulant man-child came out, even as he was trying to figure out a way of saying goodbye. And this passage is particularly strong to match the kind of response Alpha Male has to a loss he has no control over.
"Yes, I'll screw you...ass, mouth and cunt...until you have been marked forever by the passage of my prick...I'll put my dong in your hair, in your ears, let you jerk me off and come with the end of my cock held tightly against your nostrils...I'll fill your body with fucking, and your mind with fucking and your soul with fucking...Your hair will be forever sparse where my cock has rubbed it thin. I'll give you a fucking too great for you to hold within yourself, a screwing too big for your life and your experience...it will enter you, fill you to overflowing, spill into your children, and your children's great-grandchildren...ten generations from today your descendants will start from their sleep with the shock of a dream which will live forever in the cells and fibers of the line that springs from your ripe loins."
This is how Alpha Male responds to loss: like an immature child trying to force his imprint on the world. But an imprint of what? He's part of the dead world. The only way he can even pretend to be alive is by sex, and that's a cheap facsimile for a life that isn't being lived but merely passed through. Also, Alpha Male is just a facade: he acts in very similar ways to the women he passes through in the book. In that same encounter with Toots, she starts telling him about some of her sexual encounters and he remarks, "She confesses most of her erotic history (why this compulsion for confession in women?)," and I thought it was pretty funny because Alpha Male *would* say something like that while, un-ironically, regaling his friends with the list of his sexual conquests. I mean, let's be honest: the entire book reads like a confession of just a year of his erotic history, and he's not reticent in the least about details.
As for how Miller actually feels about women, he's a bit more sympathetic, but you only catch glimpses of this because of him being commissioned to present just the facts of sex. For instance, one of the most touching lines to that end was when he was talking about Anna, one of the figures in the book, and said, "And Anna's a moral cunt, too....at least as moral as women ever get to be." In that small line, he acknowledges that Alpha Male is always seeking to subjugate women, that a woman is never seen as being moral because of her innate womanhood, at least not to Alpha Male. That to this kind of person, a woman is always to be put under someone's foot, and that even as pious as she is, she will always be the entrance of sin and depravity, because woman.
There is a lot of sex in the book, and most of it seems so comedic that I couldn't help but laugh at some of the passages. His personification of his penis "John Thursday" or "Jean Jeudi" lead to some of the most hilarious descriptions of sex I've ever read. It really seems like, at times, the book could be entitled, "The Adventures of Alf and Jean Jeudi" or "John Thursday and Alf see Paris", almost like it's a buddy-cop movie but instead of perps, it's pussy. Incidentally, that word is only used once in the book, during his encounter with the butch lesbian Billie. However, there's been so many mentions of figs that I don't think I can eat another Mediterranean dessert without hiding a small giggle.
While the main figure lampooned in the book is the protagonist Alf, and by proxy, the wealthy donor who is paying Miller for the privilege of imagining himself as such, Miller doesn't save his criticism for just Alf alone. When Alexandra gets wrapped up in religious fervor, I think it reads like a pretty scathing criticism of the debauchery of the Catholic Church, with Canon Charenton in the role of Papal representative. Since it's laid out to be the opposite (Alexandra went to the Satanists to feel something more mystical), he could escape the hell he'da caught if he were more blatant about it; however, I think it was a pretty acerbic take on the depravity demonstrated within the hallowed walls of the Church. Miller also takes a ribald view of the wealthy American family who comes to Paris to infuse their lives with a bit of joie de vivre. He makes several notes about tourists and the latter bits about Sam and Ann Backer and their daughter Snuggles (And I don't think that was a lazy misstep to name them the Backers considering they were financially backing some crazy scheme his friend Carl came up with and Ernest took advantage of). In fact, his whole treatment of the Backer family was pretty grim, as they came over to Paris to experience life and discovered that they were trying to find in the streets of Paris that spark that made them feel alive. Only, at the end, they were no less enlightened than before. It wasn't because Paris wasn't doing enough, providing enough. It was that even when they had sampled all the delights that Paris had to offer them, they were no more alive than they had been back in the States. They were already dead, trying to resurrect themselves on the bodies of willing Parisians who were no more alive than they were.
I thought this book was amazing. There were certainly passages that get the juices flowing but most of the writing is so over the top that it's more like a sex comedy than it is moving erotica. Consider this as a reference point:
August 14, 1932
Anais:
Don't expect me to be sane anymore. Don't let's be sensible. It was a marriage at Louveciennes—you can't dispute it. I came away with pieces of you sticking to me; I am walking about, swimming, in an ocean of blood, your Andalusian blood, distilled and poisonous. Everything I do and say and think relates back to the marriage. I saw you as the mistress of your home, a Moor with a heavy face, a negress with a white body, eyes all over your skin, woman, woman, woman. I can't see how I can go on living away from you—these intermissions are death. How did it seem to you when Hugo came back? Was I still there? I can't picture you moving about with him as you did with me. Legs closed. Frailty. Sweet, treacherous acquiescence. Bird docility. You became a woman with me. I was almost terrified by it. You are not just thirty years old—you are a thousand years old.
Here I am back and still smouldering with passion, like wine smoking. Not a passion any longer for flesh, but a complete hunger for you, a devouring hunger. I read the paper about suicides and murders and I understand it all thoroughly. I feel murderous, suicidal. I feel somehow that it is a disgrace to do nothing, to just bide one's time, to take it philosophically, to be sensible. Where has gone the time when men fought, killed, died for a glove, a glance, etc? (A victrola is playing that terrible aria from Madama Butterfly—"Some day he'll come!")
I still hear you singing in the kitchen—a sort of inharmonic, monotonous Cuban wail. I know you're happy in the kitchen and the meal you're cooking is the best meal we ever ate together. I know you would scald yourself and not complain. I feel the greatest peace and joy sitting in the dining room listening to you rustling about, your dress like the goddess Indra studded with a thousand eyes.
Anais, I only thought I loved you before; it was nothing like this certainty that's in me now. Was all this so wonderful only because it was brief and stolen? Were we acting for each other, to each other? Was I less I, or more I, and you less or more you? Is it madness to believe that this could go on? When and where would the drab moments begin? I study you so much to discover the possible flaws, the weak points, the danger zones. I don't find them—not any. That means I am in love, blind, blind. To be blind forever! (Now they're singing "Heaven and Ocean" from La Gioconda.)
I picture you playing the records over and over—Hugo's records. "Parlez moi d amour." The double life, double taste, double joy and misery. How you must be furrowed and ploughed by it. I know all that, but I can't do anything to prevent it. I wish indeed it were me who had to endure it. I know now your eyes are wide open. Certain things you will never believe anymore, certain gestures you will never repeat, certain sorrows, misgivings, you will never again experience. A kind of white criminal fervor in your tenderness and cruelty. Neither remorse nor vengeance, neither sorrow nor guilt. A living it out, with nothing to save you from the abysm but a high hope, a faith, a joy that you tasted, that you can repeat when you will.
All morning I was at my notes, ferreting through my life records, wondering where to begin, how to make a start, seeing not just another book before me but a life of books. But I don't begin. The walls are completely bare—I had taken everything down before going to meet you. It is as though I had made ready to leave for good. The spots on the walls stand out—where our heads rested. While it thunders and lightnings I lie on the bed and go through wild dreams. We're in Seville and then in Fez and then in Capri and then in Havana. We're journeying constantly, but there is always a machine and books, and your body is always close to me and the look in your eyes never changes. People are saying we will be miserable, we will regret, but we are happy, we are laughing always, we are singing. We are talking Spanish and French and Arabic and Turkish. We are admitted everywhere and they strew our path with flowers.
I say this is a wild dream—but it is this dream I want to realize. Life and literature combined, love the dynamo, you with your chameleon's soul giving me a thousand loves, being anchored always in no matter what storm, home wherever we are. In the mornings, continuing where we left off. Resurrection after resurrection. You asserting yourself, getting the rich varied life you desire; and the more you assert yourself the more you want me, need me. Your voice getting hoarser, deeper, your eyes blacker, your blood thicker, your body fuller. A voluptuous servility and tyrannical necessity. More cruel now than before—consciously, wilfully cruel. The insatiable delight of experience.
HVM
Considering that's what Miller sounds like in love and in earnest desire, it's pretty easy to distinguish between Henry Miller the author and the man and Alf, the scamp, with his little buddy, Jean Jeudi. So the book was what it was. Scathing. Bawdy as fuck. Stuffed with ribald ribbons. I don't think it's for everyone but I've been reading erotica for over 20 years at this point and there is very little that shocks me. However, I also think this whole piece serves as salted satire only in the way Miller can provide. He is funny, explicit, graphic, matter-of-fact, and hilarious. But also this reads like he is angry, reluctant, and defiant but poor and committed to saying his peace about what's really important in life, even for $1.00 a page to a private pervert. And for that, I salute you, Mr. Miller. I salute you for your layers, for your brilliantly worded prose, for your delicate insights, and for your defiance.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
May 4, 2015
По поводу этой книги у меня есть несколько соображений.
1. это не первый порнороман, который мне довелось читать, -- и не худший, скажем так. последний абзац, каким его предложил Миллер, роману совершенно необходим: он придает всему предыдущему какой-никакой смысл и звук. и все же мировая литература, на мой личный взгляд, обошлась бы без него, не икнув.
тем не менее,
2. такие книги имеет смысл читать, когда все описываемое для читателя -- не просто не теория, а изрядно пропыленная практика; в таком случае по мере движения по тексту достигается некий интересный -- и в той или иной мере поучительный -- кумулятивный эффект: добавляется тонкого различения, какие позывы ума-тела движут человеком (вообще и мной лично) по лестнице между звериным бессознательным и полным осознанием себя, вверх или вниз;
3. тот же кумулятивный эффект сообщает к концу книги такую невыносимо абсурдную комичность человеческой версии секса, что порнокнижка превращается в совершенно водевильный фарс. Глубина бессмысленности такой вот безмозглой акробатики и полового эквилибра Миллеру удалась превосходно. Автор, впрочем, и сам не строит серьезной мины -- практически с самого начала, временами не на шутку проступают сквозь образы персонажей бивисы и баттхеды, а временами -- всякая вакхическая античность.
С другой стороны, я тут ощущаю и вижу специфическую разновидность предельной частной свободы и трансценденции, какую несет в себе секс безусловный и беспредельный, хоть люди -- в точности как герои Миллера -- ни черта, кроме попросту удовольствия, из этого вполне бесценного переживания не извлекают, такой секс (в пределах изложенного в тексте) никак их не трансформирует, а потому всё впустую; таким чудодейственным микроскопом, как секс, персонажи Миллера -- и люди вообще -- по своему обыкновению забивают гвозди.
Отдельно о Париже Миллера: регулярно навещаю Париж и потому сверяла свои ощущения от города с теми, какие возникают от Парижа Миллера. Нет, у нас довольно разные Парижи. Что, впрочем, не диво.
Про плевки в лицо блаародного общества и прочее очевидное говорить не буду, и так понятно.
Рассуждать же о мизогинизме, разнообразном шовинизме и иных -измах лирического героя Миллера в этом романе тем более комично -- вода под мостом, да и скучно. Не имеет никакого смысла обращать на это внимание, на мой взгляд, -- про -измы западной цивилизации все всем ясно.
1. это не первый порнороман, который мне довелось читать, -- и не худший, скажем так. последний абзац, каким его предложил Миллер, роману совершенно необходим: он придает всему предыдущему какой-никакой смысл и звук. и все же мировая литература, на мой личный взгляд, обошлась бы без него, не икнув.
тем не менее,
2. такие книги имеет смысл читать, когда все описываемое для читателя -- не просто не теория, а изрядно пропыленная практика; в таком случае по мере движения по тексту достигается некий интересный -- и в той или иной мере поучительный -- кумулятивный эффект: добавляется тонкого различения, какие позывы ума-тела движут человеком (вообще и мной лично) по лестнице между звериным бессознательным и полным осознанием себя, вверх или вниз;
3. тот же кумулятивный эффект сообщает к концу книги такую невыносимо абсурдную комичность человеческой версии секса, что порнокнижка превращается в совершенно водевильный фарс. Глубина бессмысленности такой вот безмозглой акробатики и полового эквилибра Миллеру удалась превосходно. Автор, впрочем, и сам не строит серьезной мины -- практически с самого начала, временами не на шутку проступают сквозь образы персонажей бивисы и баттхеды, а временами -- всякая вакхическая античность.
С другой стороны, я тут ощущаю и вижу специфическую разновидность предельной частной свободы и трансценденции, какую несет в себе секс безусловный и беспредельный, хоть люди -- в точности как герои Миллера -- ни черта, кроме попросту удовольствия, из этого вполне бесценного переживания не извлекают, такой секс (в пределах изложенного в тексте) никак их не трансформирует, а потому всё впустую; таким чудодейственным микроскопом, как секс, персонажи Миллера -- и люди вообще -- по своему обыкновению забивают гвозди.
Отдельно о Париже Миллера: регулярно навещаю Париж и потому сверяла свои ощущения от города с теми, какие возникают от Парижа Миллера. Нет, у нас довольно разные Парижи. Что, впрочем, не диво.
Про плевки в лицо блаародного общества и прочее очевидное говорить не буду, и так понятно.
Рассуждать же о мизогинизме, разнообразном шовинизме и иных -измах лирического героя Миллера в этом романе тем более комично -- вода под мостом, да и скучно. Не имеет никакого смысла обращать на это внимание, на мой взгляд, -- про -измы западной цивилизации все всем ясно.
July 8, 2010
content of book summed up in a single sentence: I may be a baby fucker, but who the Hell cares .... Snuggles is a damned fuckable baby.
there is no real plot to speak of, just page after page of women / girls / babies / midgets / satanists getting HONK HONKed in their dripping HONK HONKs. the word 'abricot-fendu' is thrown around liberally, in addition to synonyms 'fig' and 'figlet'. i read this next to some orthodox jewish guy on train and felt v. uncomfortable
one thing that i really admire (?) is its sheer relentlessness. i guess thinking of porn as more of a functional art, like the art of making a good techno song or a sick dorito, it makes sense - you just wnat that sick intensity, OVER. AND. OVER. AGAIN. i have trouble dealing with listening to more than three fast songs in a row; miller basically does equivalent of mashing up Radio Disney songs, cranking the BPM, and looping it for 3 hours. memorable and weird
there is no real plot to speak of, just page after page of women / girls / babies / midgets / satanists getting HONK HONKed in their dripping HONK HONKs. the word 'abricot-fendu' is thrown around liberally, in addition to synonyms 'fig' and 'figlet'. i read this next to some orthodox jewish guy on train and felt v. uncomfortable
one thing that i really admire (?) is its sheer relentlessness. i guess thinking of porn as more of a functional art, like the art of making a good techno song or a sick dorito, it makes sense - you just wnat that sick intensity, OVER. AND. OVER. AGAIN. i have trouble dealing with listening to more than three fast songs in a row; miller basically does equivalent of mashing up Radio Disney songs, cranking the BPM, and looping it for 3 hours. memorable and weird
April 15, 2015
Ну вот мы и дожили — зарабатываем на хлеб порнографией, хотя у Миллера это роман скорее политический, чем порнографический. Чистый секс — это же всегда политика. Зато интересно почувствовать себя Хенри Миллером, который где-то после первой трети, как хорошо видно, страшно заебался писать в избранном жанре и разбавляет текст разной занимательной хренью.
Но все недаром, да и привет из русской Маньчжурии здесь тоже имеется.
Но все недаром, да и привет из русской Маньчжурии здесь тоже имеется.
October 24, 2007
This is absolutely one of the most depraved and satirical book I have ever read. It almost approaches the level of debauchery achieved by the Marquis de Sade. The opening scene has to be one of the wildest things I have ever read, it is insane even for Miller. It's graphic nature notwithstanding, it has some extremely humorous moments and descriptions of events.
April 9, 2008
This is one of those books I liked very much...but I'm not sure that I should admit that. It's a somewhat guilty pleasure. Henry Miller is one of my favorite authors, and this is not his best book, but it's arresting and memorable.
April 5, 2014
This was my first Henry Miller book and it was the refreshing sense of reality that made me read all he ever published. Not my favorite Miller book, but I love it for introducing me to a fantastic writer and for being one of the first books that taught me how to read between the lines.
Read
March 17, 2024DNF 20%
Absolutely horrible.
Absolutely horrible.
December 4, 2015
Una "novela" en que el 90% es descripción pornográfica "clínica" (Boris Vian dixit), un 5% de "por qué las mujeres son tan putas, hasta las lesbianas y los 'sarasas' son putas" y el otro 5% divague sobre cuestiones políticas y culturales del París de entre guerras.
Al principio me venía gustando, claro, por el shock y la novedad, pero realmente, 350 páginas del viejo in-out aburre. En definitiva este librito es un gran ejemplo para ver cómo se escribía sobre sexo cuando la pornografía tenía potencial subversivo, esa época que empieza con D.H. Lawrence, los surrealistas, etc. Desde 1968 y sobre todo, desde porntube que este libro ya no tiene razón de ser.
Al principio me venía gustando, claro, por el shock y la novedad, pero realmente, 350 páginas del viejo in-out aburre. En definitiva este librito es un gran ejemplo para ver cómo se escribía sobre sexo cuando la pornografía tenía potencial subversivo, esa época que empieza con D.H. Lawrence, los surrealistas, etc. Desde 1968 y sobre todo, desde porntube que este libro ya no tiene razón de ser.
August 14, 2012
While Miller's wit and flow is apparent, this is not a good read. It was an endless "erotic" diatribe on the insatiable desire of women, and it drags on and on. Besides the horrific multi-page rape scene, the story was literally just an endless succession of silly and unrealistic sex scenes. While Miller is a great author, this isn't the book to waste time or money on. He wrote this for some rent money, and who can blame him? But in regards to oeuvre- a waste of time and paper.
August 4, 2013
This was PWP with a lot of taboo.
I waited a long time for any kind of story line. Didn't happen.
The constant sex got boring after a while. And repetitive.
It was not badly written, but just not great either.
I didn't like the incest, rape and other taboo tropes he used.
I waited a long time for any kind of story line. Didn't happen.
The constant sex got boring after a while. And repetitive.
It was not badly written, but just not great either.
I didn't like the incest, rape and other taboo tropes he used.
October 19, 2020
Livro sem conteúdo. Personagens no qual não conseguimos sentir empatia. Parece aquele tipo de leitura barata que serve para os seus leitores visualizarem verdadeiras cenas pornográficas.
Contendo cenas de incesto e violação. Também retrata a mulher como um simples objecto, como se tais mulheres servisse apenas para satisfazer os apetites do protagonista e não tivessem consciência própria.
Definitivamente é um escritor que não pretendo voltar a ler.
Contendo cenas de incesto e violação. Também retrata a mulher como um simples objecto, como se tais mulheres servisse apenas para satisfazer os apetites do protagonista e não tivessem consciência própria.
Definitivamente é um escritor que não pretendo voltar a ler.
September 1, 2018
First of all, this review is NSFW, so beware.
Well, where do I start?
I guess I'll start with a comment I made about this book when asked about the cover a few days back. "It looks innocent. It's not. It's straight up porn."
And it is. It's well written porn, but porn nonetheless. And it's no-hold's barred porn. You have to keep in mind the period in which this was written and who the author is because it is not for the squeamish or easily triggered. The events which the protagonist "Alf" encounters directly or indirectly covers all of and including: Sex with prostitutes, sex with underage prostitutes, sex with underage girls who are not prostitutes, spanking, sex with dogs, group sex, lesbian sex, a giant orgy in a church, blow jobs, cunnilingus, anal sex, golden showers(and I use that term very liberally. I'm not really sure what peeing *inside* someone is called), 69-ing, gang rape, rape-rape, threesomes (once with a little person), and incest.
In addition, Alf is particularly misogynistic and casually racist in that he does not refer to any of his conquests as women usually. His go-to term is "cunt" or "bitch" or whatever racial epithet applies. But, as I said earlier, you have to take this in the context of when this was written and who was writing it. We are talking about a white dude in the 1940's writing from the dirtiest, filthiest regions of his mind. We cannot expect the empowering porn of today.
I have to admit, there are plenty of portions that I found positively horrifying, yet, I can't call this a bad book or a poorly written book. It *is* well written and stunningly (if not painfully) vivid. It is titillating, highly sexual and, really, everything erotica is supposed to be - offensive stuff and all. If you like erotica, you may or may not *like* this book, but you've got to appreciate the nerve of it.
Well, where do I start?
I guess I'll start with a comment I made about this book when asked about the cover a few days back. "It looks innocent. It's not. It's straight up porn."
And it is. It's well written porn, but porn nonetheless. And it's no-hold's barred porn. You have to keep in mind the period in which this was written and who the author is because it is not for the squeamish or easily triggered. The events which the protagonist "Alf" encounters directly or indirectly covers all of and including: Sex with prostitutes, sex with underage prostitutes, sex with underage girls who are not prostitutes, spanking, sex with dogs, group sex, lesbian sex, a giant orgy in a church, blow jobs, cunnilingus, anal sex, golden showers(and I use that term very liberally. I'm not really sure what peeing *inside* someone is called), 69-ing, gang rape, rape-rape, threesomes (once with a little person), and incest.
In addition, Alf is particularly misogynistic and casually racist in that he does not refer to any of his conquests as women usually. His go-to term is "cunt" or "bitch" or whatever racial epithet applies. But, as I said earlier, you have to take this in the context of when this was written and who was writing it. We are talking about a white dude in the 1940's writing from the dirtiest, filthiest regions of his mind. We cannot expect the empowering porn of today.
I have to admit, there are plenty of portions that I found positively horrifying, yet, I can't call this a bad book or a poorly written book. It *is* well written and stunningly (if not painfully) vivid. It is titillating, highly sexual and, really, everything erotica is supposed to be - offensive stuff and all. If you like erotica, you may or may not *like* this book, but you've got to appreciate the nerve of it.
October 29, 2019
I want to start with a disclaimer that this title isn’t an accurate representation of Miller’s skill as an artisan, so I highly recommend starting with one of the Tropics or Colossus of Maroussi, or really anything else if you are new to him. In other books I’ve read of Miller’s, I’ve admired his ability to show beauty in the obscene and elicit a sacredness from the profane. This one’s really just smut with not much else going on...which is fine if that’s what you’re looking for, but I just expected more from it. (I’ll add that this book hasn’t aged well and is a bit creepy in my humble opinion, but then again I’m not the target audience.)
There was, however, one passage that struck me as beautiful—sort of a hint of Miller’s insight on existence (page 84):
“I don’t want to die. Today I take a half a dozen of my books to the binders...two of them are beyond repair and have to be discarded. I hadn’t noticed that they were dying, that the paper was becoming too brittle to hold the thread...but they were finished, and I bought them only last week or the week before...when I was America of course. Where else in but in America could you buy a book so shoddy that it was ready for the ash heap before the man who bought it. But time is passing.”
There was, however, one passage that struck me as beautiful—sort of a hint of Miller’s insight on existence (page 84):
“I don’t want to die. Today I take a half a dozen of my books to the binders...two of them are beyond repair and have to be discarded. I hadn’t noticed that they were dying, that the paper was becoming too brittle to hold the thread...but they were finished, and I bought them only last week or the week before...when I was America of course. Where else in but in America could you buy a book so shoddy that it was ready for the ash heap before the man who bought it. But time is passing.”
December 5, 2016
On page 133 I said enough is enough. Yes, that left another 155 virginal pages (haha) unread and unexplored - but I really couldn't take anymore. Dollar-a-page porn, that is. And to think this shit was written by one of my favourite authors! The same man, Henry Valentine Miller, who thrilled me with his transgressively brave The Tropic of Cancer. Not to mention, all those luminous essays of his, in The Time of the Assassins and Stand Still Like the Hummingbird.
In the post-apocalyptic event, however, after the Donald gets his hands on the nuclear codes, when I wake up one Sunday morning to find my world as I pretend to know it, has taken on the scorched-earth appeal of a Beyond Thunderdome - without, of course, the Tina Turner soundtrack - and the only book to survive the conflagration is Under the Roofs of Paris, aka Opus Pistorum, and I'm forced to finish and review this waste of a good tree - a fate I now consider worse than Donald - then I've reserved another half-a-star, for that all too plausible Mad Max scenario. And, by the way, Tina, you're wrong - we do need another hero.
In the post-apocalyptic event, however, after the Donald gets his hands on the nuclear codes, when I wake up one Sunday morning to find my world as I pretend to know it, has taken on the scorched-earth appeal of a Beyond Thunderdome - without, of course, the Tina Turner soundtrack - and the only book to survive the conflagration is Under the Roofs of Paris, aka Opus Pistorum, and I'm forced to finish and review this waste of a good tree - a fate I now consider worse than Donald - then I've reserved another half-a-star, for that all too plausible Mad Max scenario. And, by the way, Tina, you're wrong - we do need another hero.
April 8, 2008
It is stated that Henry Miller was paid a dollar per page for this book, provided that he included some aspect pertaining to sex on every page.
For those whom have read this book (or others by said author), you know that he went far above and beyond that which was requested. This book is not for the easily offended or the faint of heart; it paints a vivid picture of the most hedonistic acts that can still be considered extreme and mind numbing to this day. Henry Miller has always been able to astonish and repulse readers with his cynical and deranged commentary, but truly captured the definition of depravity in this book.
I applaud him in his efforts at creating erotica (especially for the time period) that entices, yet leaves an indelible stain upon your soul that will plague your sensibilities for life.
For those whom have read this book (or others by said author), you know that he went far above and beyond that which was requested. This book is not for the easily offended or the faint of heart; it paints a vivid picture of the most hedonistic acts that can still be considered extreme and mind numbing to this day. Henry Miller has always been able to astonish and repulse readers with his cynical and deranged commentary, but truly captured the definition of depravity in this book.
I applaud him in his efforts at creating erotica (especially for the time period) that entices, yet leaves an indelible stain upon your soul that will plague your sensibilities for life.
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