What do You think about Sexus (1994)?
Henry Miller is nothing short of a favorite writer of mine, after just one book. I feel like I discovered a whole new universe between his pages. I feel like I’ve been let in a secret club of people who can feel so deeply that their hearts beat in the spine of the book, who can be filled with so much of anything that their blood oozes in the spaces between letters. To say that I like his writing is an understatement – I fell in love with it. This semi - autobiographical work is, in itself, very good fiction. I’m sure it’s embellished, in true style of every over achieving author, but it’s not embellished to the point where you don’t believe it anymore. The characters are real, they’re human through their flaws, through their denial and acceptance of life’s moments, they are a bunch of “characters” in the real sense of the word: people whom you find hard to believe you would see on the street, in your neighborhood, because such individuals could only gravitate around someone like Miller. He is the center piece of this trilogy, and by all means, he has to be. His portrayal of himself is pathetic: he’s a man of a thousand vices, of which just the first are women and alcohol, he is weak in his will to do anything except for laying around and having fun, he is defined, ultimately, by his cowardice and laziness. How, can you ask, is he then the great man that I advertise him to be? Well, he’s a genius - the way he writes beggars belief. I could not have expected more out of his work, and I feel sad that I haven’t read him earlier. There might be people out there who find his style shallow and empty, as his life was all about himself, sex, himself, literature, himself, sex, alcohol, sex.. you get the point. But I beg to differ – even in his most dirty episodes, those that give feminists heart attacks, he never shames women, never debases them. They are, to him, part of the few things beautiful in this world, part of what is to be worshipped, be it that his prayers come in the form of sex (did I say he had a lot of sex?). In order to understand his take on women better, I advise anyone interested to read his correspondence with his wife, Anais Nin. They are exquisitely beautiful declarations of love and you can recognize his penmanship in there, as well. To “Plexus”, I say!
—Ana
I tried to finish reading Sexus this weekend, but I just can’t. I wish I could erase it, that I could go back and get the time I spent back. I first took it to read four or five years ago and gave up. I decided to try again thinking maybe I was not ready to read a Miller’s book. I was wrong. I don’t know what category I can put this book. It tries to be a philosophical book like Brothers Karamazov, but all the caracter has to make philosophy is his sexual adventures or lack of good life.I don’t know if my christian thinking and way to see life made me a wrong reader of this book or if it is really that bad, but the fact is that Sexus sucks!It is difficult to follow the line of thought and the sequences at Miller’s life. I could never tell who he is with and why he keeps changing women for he is definitely incapable of love and being faithful. He treats women like things at Sexus and keep going thinking he is some kind of great man.I got boring trying to keep up my mind with the dirty book. I gave up again. I know now this is definitely a book I will never finish reading. And all that I want to read was Nexus because I thought it would be a mix of literature and philosophy. I gave up ever trying to read it too.http://wordsideas.blog.com/2012/07/09...
—Ana Celia
"It must have been a Thursday night when I met her for the first time --at the dance hall. I reported to work in the morning, after an hour or two's sleep, looking like a somnambulist. The day passed like a dream. After dinner I fell asleep on the couch and awoke full dressed about six the next morning. I felt thoroughly refreshed, pure at heart, and obsessed with one idea --to have her at any cost. Walking through the park I debated what sort of flowers to send with the book I had promised (Winesburg, Ohio). I was approaching my thirty-third year, the age of Christ crucified. A wholly new life lay before me, had I the courage to risk all. Actually there was nothing to risk: I was at the bottom rung of the ladder, a failure in every sense of the word."
—Robert Ross
