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إنها سرد مسهب لحياة ميللر في مدينة نيويورك... يصل إلى أوجه بقصف معربد رائع بوصفه لقدرات المؤلف على ممارسة الجنس لا يقل روعة عن تنوع جوانبها... إنها حيوية فريدة... لا يمكن لميللر أن يكون طناناً، وهذه فصيلة نادرة، وصدقه لا حدود له"
صحيفة "سبكتاتر"
"إن عمل هنري ميللر هو مصارعة طويلة أساسها السيرة الذاتية مع العالم، والجسد، والشيطان والملاك"
صحيفة "الديلي تلغراف"
"إن الأدب الأميركي يبدأ وينتهي مع مغزى ما أنجزه ميللر"
الكاتب لورانس دريل
على الرغم من أن "سكسوس" هي الرواية الأولى، إلا أنها آخر جزء في المملكة المتحدة من ثلاثية "الصلب الوردي"، التي أساسها سيرة حياته الخاصة. و"بليكسوس" هي الرواية الثانية. و "نكسوس" هي الأخيرة.
صحيفة "سبكتاتر"
"إن عمل هنري ميللر هو مصارعة طويلة أساسها السيرة الذاتية مع العالم، والجسد، والشيطان والملاك"
صحيفة "الديلي تلغراف"
"إن الأدب الأميركي يبدأ وينتهي مع مغزى ما أنجزه ميللر"
الكاتب لورانس دريل
على الرغم من أن "سكسوس" هي الرواية الأولى، إلا أنها آخر جزء في المملكة المتحدة من ثلاثية "الصلب الوردي"، التي أساسها سيرة حياته الخاصة. و"بليكسوس" هي الرواية الثانية. و "نكسوس" هي الأخيرة.
725 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1949
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18499 people want to read
About the author
Henry Miller
1,005 books5,201 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 506 reviews
September 4, 2007
I'm an artist, blah blah blah blah blah, I have promiscuous sex, blah blah blah blah blah, my wife is a lesbian, blah blah blah blah blah, I just got some genital warts, blah blah blah blah blah, banged my wife's lesbian lover, blah blah blah blah blah, I'm a poet, blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah....
November 3, 2022
I believe that the trilogy title The Rosy Crucifixion is a free interpretation of the mystical term Rosicrucianism – the Order of the Rosy Cross… Thus Henry Miller is a Rosicrucian and alchemist of passion and the name of the novel Sexus wholly expresses the contents of the book.
And for the artist of Henry Miller’s calibre this period of gestation and the spade work is an ecstasy of love.
And Henry Miller’s love confessions are a boiling geyser of martyr’s lust.
Even being crucified, if one is crucified by love, may be an excruciating delight…
The best thing about writing is not the actual labor of putting word against word, brick upon brick, but the preliminaries, the spade work, which is done in silence, under any circumstances, in dream as well as in the waking state. In short, the period of gestation.
And for the artist of Henry Miller’s calibre this period of gestation and the spade work is an ecstasy of love.
And Henry Miller’s love confessions are a boiling geyser of martyr’s lust.
His mouth would wreath itself in a veritable mandibular ecstasy; he would work himself up until the very soul of him came forth in a spongy ectoplasmic substance. It was a horrible state of affection, terrifying because it knew no bounds. It was a depersonalized glut or slop, a hangover from some archaic condition of ecstasy – the residual memory of crabs and snakes, of their prolonged copulations in the protoplasmic slime of ages long forgotten.
Even being crucified, if one is crucified by love, may be an excruciating delight…
December 23, 2025
It is an ode to Mara-Mona, the author's second wife, June, whom he celebrates many times in his work.
The first chapter opens in the dance hall where, the day before, the narrator has just met a hostess who sells his dances and company to men alone. From there, Miller leads his reader through a round of characters that he has already made us admire in individual samples. I will mention only one name - that does not need comment: the ineffable Kronski.
But Sexus is mainly an opportunity for Miller to refine his hyper-manly character, satisfying all women—or almost. That he is with Mara, who, at a precise moment, asks Kronski "humbly" if "she is worthy of Henry" (!!!), does not prevent him from fornicating on the right and on the left and even with his lawful wife while both of them start their divorce proceedings. The reader immediately notes that it is almost Maude who asks him.
I believe in the American author's too much intelligence and subtlety not to have painted such an unflattering portrait of himself in vain. Because he is deeply involved in his life story, the fact that he embellishes many details or arranges them in a more theatrical perspective does not detract from this depth. Miller knows he can not back down: this time, he will not be able to content himself with touching the Miller gigolo, the Miller macho, the cowardly coward, and running away that he was too. Therefore, with social skills and talents that are not challenging, the writer reveals everything that shocks and scandalizes him, as the language he loves never grows.
The most extraordinary is that, throughout these almost 500 pages (pocket edition), we do not think for a moment to plant there, Henry. His sex, his gonorrhea, his women, his scams for money, his blackmail of feelings, his cooking, and the unlikely friends he drags in his wake. Sometimes, it's true. We stop and wonder: let's see, this exhibitionist tightrope walker, who, completely drunk, makes us sneaky up there on this rope with the edge of a razor blade, is it the great Henry Miller? Unbelievable! Despite all that we already knew about his sexual frenzy, his emotional complications, and the man's life he maintained, for example, with Anais Nin, we would never have thought of him.
And yet, despite everything, we keep him (the author) in a tiny place deep in our hearts. No one is perfect, they say to themselves, and at least we can not tax hypocrisy in this writer who perseveres in painting in such colors.
That's an ultimate wink addressed to the reader by the text itself: the anecdote that Miller reports on Knut Hansum, one of the authors he loved. I'll let you discover it. It resembles the part of Miller's shadow: annoying, pitiful, cunning, arrogant, and yet so naive that we can not help smiling as we would before the escapades of a poor kid but brilliant. ; O)
The first chapter opens in the dance hall where, the day before, the narrator has just met a hostess who sells his dances and company to men alone. From there, Miller leads his reader through a round of characters that he has already made us admire in individual samples. I will mention only one name - that does not need comment: the ineffable Kronski.
But Sexus is mainly an opportunity for Miller to refine his hyper-manly character, satisfying all women—or almost. That he is with Mara, who, at a precise moment, asks Kronski "humbly" if "she is worthy of Henry" (!!!), does not prevent him from fornicating on the right and on the left and even with his lawful wife while both of them start their divorce proceedings. The reader immediately notes that it is almost Maude who asks him.
I believe in the American author's too much intelligence and subtlety not to have painted such an unflattering portrait of himself in vain. Because he is deeply involved in his life story, the fact that he embellishes many details or arranges them in a more theatrical perspective does not detract from this depth. Miller knows he can not back down: this time, he will not be able to content himself with touching the Miller gigolo, the Miller macho, the cowardly coward, and running away that he was too. Therefore, with social skills and talents that are not challenging, the writer reveals everything that shocks and scandalizes him, as the language he loves never grows.
The most extraordinary is that, throughout these almost 500 pages (pocket edition), we do not think for a moment to plant there, Henry. His sex, his gonorrhea, his women, his scams for money, his blackmail of feelings, his cooking, and the unlikely friends he drags in his wake. Sometimes, it's true. We stop and wonder: let's see, this exhibitionist tightrope walker, who, completely drunk, makes us sneaky up there on this rope with the edge of a razor blade, is it the great Henry Miller? Unbelievable! Despite all that we already knew about his sexual frenzy, his emotional complications, and the man's life he maintained, for example, with Anais Nin, we would never have thought of him.
And yet, despite everything, we keep him (the author) in a tiny place deep in our hearts. No one is perfect, they say to themselves, and at least we can not tax hypocrisy in this writer who perseveres in painting in such colors.
That's an ultimate wink addressed to the reader by the text itself: the anecdote that Miller reports on Knut Hansum, one of the authors he loved. I'll let you discover it. It resembles the part of Miller's shadow: annoying, pitiful, cunning, arrogant, and yet so naive that we can not help smiling as we would before the escapades of a poor kid but brilliant. ; O)
January 12, 2019
As a no-holds-barred relic of the sleazy 1920s, this is an audacious text, marred by passages of sublime arrogance, outrageously boring prose soup, and inane porn scenes. Miller’s status as a provocateur is well-earned, his style a frenetic mash-up of Dostoevsky, Lawrence and Selby. Sexus is incoherent, meandering and shameless, but compelling and unavoidably stimulating.
June 30, 2007
This is such a difficult book to write about because it's so expansive and so forthright in its world view. This is my first foray into Henry Miller and lets just say that it has truly altered my perceptions, and affected my world view. Miller is a nutjob, and often times you can't help but loathe his actions and are revolted by his way of thinking, but this is where he succeeds and makes his strongest victories. Miller's writing is the most confessional personal essay one can imagine. He never shies away from telling us of his more devious visions in order to create a more likeable personality for himself. He strips himself bare and includes his most bizarre sexual and primal impulses. Obviously there is a strong emphasis on the book's sexual proclivities as it was a pivotal moment in the deconstruction of our country's censorship laws, but Miller (I believe) is not trying to be overtly graphic in his sex writing merely to shock people so he can sell more books. In my opinion he includes the sex scenes in all their detailed glory because he wants to give them as much space in his writing as they exist in his world. Sex is a huge part of most people's lives, be it actually having sex or merely thinking about it. Miller was an especially amorous person, so a book about his life is going to contain a lot of sexual writing. Is this a sensational way to write a book? Damn right. But the beauty of Miller is that he couldn't give two shits. He is driven and unrepentant of any of his beliefs. He wasn't trying to start a revolution here, he was just writing the only way he could. And controversial subject matter aside, it's just worth reading for the poetic style of his prose which contains some of the most aesthetically beautiful sentences, forget content, that I have ever read. There are times I would read paragraphs out loud to myself just to hear the way they sounded coming off my tongue. So yeah, I like Henry Miller. He has won me over as a convert and I'm very excited to delve deeper into his other writings.
July 29, 2015
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!
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!
November 9, 2023
Well, Henry isn't a patch on Anaïs, that's for sure, but this complex book makes for some interesting discussion pieces. Firstly, I couldn't put this book with my Nin collection, as this is not erotica. Henry does attempt (and sometimes succeeds) to lay with any woman he chooses, and sometimes this is described in detail, but it was in parts almost comical, and then mostly it felt like an overwhelming sadness that at first not even Henry himself knew he was suffering with. He wandered aimlessly through life trying to find his purpose seeking comfort in sex whilst probably feeling like the loneliness man in the world.
Anaïs Nin gives us raw, unadulterated sex, a moment of discovery and pages of breaking those boundaries. She is one of my favourite female writers, and I'll read anything with her name attached to it.
The comical sex scenes did not make for smooth reading. It is obvious Miller could write, and there were quite a few mesmerising excerpts in here, but the sex stuck out like a sore thumb, immaturely written, and there was too much said about his 'Slippery genitals' and fine detail about his bowel movements.
I can always appreciate someone that isn't afraid to say exactly what they mean, without fear of judgement; Henry Miller is definitely one of those people. I admittedly felt the angry feminist rearing it's head during parts as he jumped from bed to bed, but actually, it was his self-respect he damaged, and although he didn't say it, I think he probably knew it.
I'm glad I have read this book, as it was an interesting one to sit and unpick, and it has also solidified my love for Nin.
The man could write;
"His head nestling in her lap like a swollen viper, the words seived through Kronski's mouth like gas escaping through a half opened cock. It was the weird of the irreducible human atom, the subsoul wandering in the cellar of collective misery. Dr Kronski ceased to exist:only the pain and torment remained, functioning as positive and negative electrons in the vast atomic vacuum of a lost personality. In this state of abeyance not even the miraculous Sovietization of the world could rouse a spark of enthusiasm in him. What spoke were the nerves, the ductless glands, the spleen, the liver, the kidneys, the little blood vessels lying close to the surface of the skin. The skin itself was just a bag in which was loosely collected a rather messy outfit of bones, muscles, sinews, blood, fat, lymph, bile, urine, dung and so on. Germs were stewing around in this stinking bag of guts: the germs would win out no matter how brilliantly that cage of dull gray matter called he brain functioned. The body was in hostage to Death, and Dr Kronski, so vital in the X-ray world of statistics, was just a louse to be cracked under a dirty nail when it came to surrender it's shell."
Anaïs Nin gives us raw, unadulterated sex, a moment of discovery and pages of breaking those boundaries. She is one of my favourite female writers, and I'll read anything with her name attached to it.
The comical sex scenes did not make for smooth reading. It is obvious Miller could write, and there were quite a few mesmerising excerpts in here, but the sex stuck out like a sore thumb, immaturely written, and there was too much said about his 'Slippery genitals' and fine detail about his bowel movements.
I can always appreciate someone that isn't afraid to say exactly what they mean, without fear of judgement; Henry Miller is definitely one of those people. I admittedly felt the angry feminist rearing it's head during parts as he jumped from bed to bed, but actually, it was his self-respect he damaged, and although he didn't say it, I think he probably knew it.
I'm glad I have read this book, as it was an interesting one to sit and unpick, and it has also solidified my love for Nin.
The man could write;
"His head nestling in her lap like a swollen viper, the words seived through Kronski's mouth like gas escaping through a half opened cock. It was the weird of the irreducible human atom, the subsoul wandering in the cellar of collective misery. Dr Kronski ceased to exist:only the pain and torment remained, functioning as positive and negative electrons in the vast atomic vacuum of a lost personality. In this state of abeyance not even the miraculous Sovietization of the world could rouse a spark of enthusiasm in him. What spoke were the nerves, the ductless glands, the spleen, the liver, the kidneys, the little blood vessels lying close to the surface of the skin. The skin itself was just a bag in which was loosely collected a rather messy outfit of bones, muscles, sinews, blood, fat, lymph, bile, urine, dung and so on. Germs were stewing around in this stinking bag of guts: the germs would win out no matter how brilliantly that cage of dull gray matter called he brain functioned. The body was in hostage to Death, and Dr Kronski, so vital in the X-ray world of statistics, was just a louse to be cracked under a dirty nail when it came to surrender it's shell."
August 15, 2025
To be able to give oneself wholly and completely is the greatest luxury that life affords. Real love only begins at this point of dissolution.
I'm giving this 4 stars for the wild energy of Miller's vision and writing, and the iconoclastic way in which he challenged the 'rules' of fiction - but this comes with massive caveats about the casual racism ('now a Chink was different. Chinks were white slavers. But a Jap you could trust'), implicit homophobia ('he was a bit queer, wasn't he? Didn't you tell me he was in love with a bus driver? Or was he a N***** lover?') - though women having sex together is totally ok, preferably with a male watching or participating - and complete macho obsession with the potency of the penis: 'she had several orgasms in succession and almost fainted in the process'. Incidentally, this isn't just one woman but all 'good' women in Miller-world are multi-orgasmic at the sight of a erect penis, while you know a 'bad' women because she's frigid. Oh, until she catches a glimpse of said Miller's always-erect penis, of course! Still, at least sex and pleasure are not the prerogative of men, even if the fantasies that underpin the sexual scenarios and the writing of sex are very different from, say, that of Anais Nin.
While this has been cited as literate pornography, I'm not convinced that that's true as I'm not sure this is written to titillate - in actual fact, the sex scenes are pretty samey (I soon started skimming them) and are more about a rejection of bourgeois values (though I was immensely amused that during this book, Miller is working a 9-5 corporate job!) than anything else. Sex is a counter-cultural marker as is the writing of it in explicit detail.
I came to this book on the back on Anais Nin's writings, especially her diary that details her ménage with Miller and his wife June (here known as Mara and then Mona) in Paris. The frenetic energy might all belong to Miller but the more intriguing character is Mara-Mona/June and the role she plays in Miller's own inner narrative: 'but if they are able to throw themselves at one another recklessly, concealing nothing, surrendering all, if they admit to one another their interdependence, do they not enjoy a great and unsuspected freedom?'.
It's this goal of liberation that really drives the book, and Miller's simultaneous power over, and enthrallment to, an endlessly elusive woman ('then it came to me: only if she were dead could I love her the way I imagined I loved her!') is one that reverberates through male writing in a western cultural tradition from Catullus' Lesbia poems, via Dante's Vita Nuova and Petrarch's sonnets to Laura in the Canzoniere all the way through to Swann's obsession with Odette in Proust. These women are all subject to the overwhelming literary, spiritual and physical desires of their male lovers and creators which is why it's especially seductive and a bit subversive that in Miller's case we have, in Anais Nin, a female voice from within this nexus of desires.
So I enjoyed this for its crazy whirl of youthful adventures in New York (it's only at the end that Miller and Mona start to talk of travelling to Europe), its philosophising ('the truth that the goal of life is the living of it'), and the full-on rejection of limiting conventions whether in writing or living. It's easy to see how influential this was, and it's difficult to imagine an On the Road without Miller (though Kerouac's vision is very different). Just be ready for an awful lot of hardily-erect penises and gushing ejaculations!
February 4, 2023
حسنا هنرى اخبرنى كيف أقيم هذا الكتاب ؟؟
من المفترض انها الجزء الاول من ثلاثية الصلب الوردى التى اساسها حياته الخاصة .
وما تم كتابته عن العمل
ان مافعله هنرى انه تناول السنوات الجوهرية للحياة فى أمريكا حين كان يتعلم فى البداية كيف يكتب وعلاقة الحب الجوهرية فى حياته وفحصهما بدقة ولكن من وجهة نظر لاحقة اكثر نضجا بكثير فكانت النتيجة سردا ساحرا بصورة لاتصدق عملا ملحميا بالمعنى الشخصى والاجتماعى والاجمالى
حقيقة لااستطيع تصنيف هذا العمل لكنه مزيج غريب وجذاب احداث حياتيه يومية ، وفلسفة ، واراء اجتماعية وسياسية ، وأفكار، وجنس .
فى العادة عندما اكتب مراجعة تتدفق الافكار او احساسى تجاه العمل لكن هنا اجد صعوبة ، بداية اجد تسميتها رواية ليست صحيحة فلن تجد حبكة وقصة متكاملة ويمكن تلخيصها فى جملتين السيد ميلر وزوجته وحبيبته واصدقاءه ومعارفة .
اما الجزء الاخير فحقيقة لم افهم ماذا يريد هنرى لم افهمه جيدا ..
لكن ذلك لم يمنع ان هناك شئ يجذبنى للقراءة بشدة هناك افكار داخلية ومناقشات خارجية واحاسيس واراء جذبتنى . تشعر انه يتحدث عن كل شئ ف الحياة والمجتمع ليس عن شى محدد ، تجده يأخذك فى جميع الاتجاهات .
《مع هنرى ميلر مش هتقدر تغمض عنيك 》 😁😁
باختصار عمل غريب وجميل وصادم ويتضمن اجزاء جنسية صادمة مقيتة وستجدها عادة فجأة احيانا سريعة واحيانا باسهاب ووصف مطول وهنرى تقريبا مارس الجنس مع اغلبية النساء فى الرواية او الكتاب ايا كان تصنيف هذا العمل وربما يعقب حكاياته الجنسية افكار واراء وفلسفة .
السؤال الان لنفسى :
هل ستكملين باقى الاجزاء ؟؟ نعم لدى فضول لقراءة باقى الاجزاء كما ان هناك حبل خفى يجذبنى هناك اجزاء لمستنى بشكل شخصى تجعلنى اتجاوز او اتجاهل صدمات كتاباته .
٣١ / ٣ / ٢٠١٩
من المفترض انها الجزء الاول من ثلاثية الصلب الوردى التى اساسها حياته الخاصة .
وما تم كتابته عن العمل
ان مافعله هنرى انه تناول السنوات الجوهرية للحياة فى أمريكا حين كان يتعلم فى البداية كيف يكتب وعلاقة الحب الجوهرية فى حياته وفحصهما بدقة ولكن من وجهة نظر لاحقة اكثر نضجا بكثير فكانت النتيجة سردا ساحرا بصورة لاتصدق عملا ملحميا بالمعنى الشخصى والاجتماعى والاجمالى
حقيقة لااستطيع تصنيف هذا العمل لكنه مزيج غريب وجذاب احداث حياتيه يومية ، وفلسفة ، واراء اجتماعية وسياسية ، وأفكار، وجنس .
فى العادة عندما اكتب مراجعة تتدفق الافكار او احساسى تجاه العمل لكن هنا اجد صعوبة ، بداية اجد تسميتها رواية ليست صحيحة فلن تجد حبكة وقصة متكاملة ويمكن تلخيصها فى جملتين السيد ميلر وزوجته وحبيبته واصدقاءه ومعارفة .
اما الجزء الاخير فحقيقة لم افهم ماذا يريد هنرى لم افهمه جيدا ..
لكن ذلك لم يمنع ان هناك شئ يجذبنى للقراءة بشدة هناك افكار داخلية ومناقشات خارجية واحاسيس واراء جذبتنى . تشعر انه يتحدث عن كل شئ ف الحياة والمجتمع ليس عن شى محدد ، تجده يأخذك فى جميع الاتجاهات .
《مع هنرى ميلر مش هتقدر تغمض عنيك 》 😁😁
باختصار عمل غريب وجميل وصادم ويتضمن اجزاء جنسية صادمة مقيتة وستجدها عادة فجأة احيانا سريعة واحيانا باسهاب ووصف مطول وهنرى تقريبا مارس الجنس مع اغلبية النساء فى الرواية او الكتاب ايا كان تصنيف هذا العمل وربما يعقب حكاياته الجنسية افكار واراء وفلسفة .
السؤال الان لنفسى :
هل ستكملين باقى الاجزاء ؟؟ نعم لدى فضول لقراءة باقى الاجزاء كما ان هناك حبل خفى يجذبنى هناك اجزاء لمستنى بشكل شخصى تجعلنى اتجاوز او اتجاهل صدمات كتاباته .
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October 28, 2010
Henry Miller always writes with a surge of life being pushed through his pen. His stories, countless stories, always with another point of view - at one moment, as an all-knowing superior man, and the next, as a good-for-nothing, useless piece of garbage that's floating about the air. He's all too ready to express his truth, even when it doesn't serve him favorably. Who can't relate?
Sex is part of life. The view that Henry Miller is attempting to show himself off as some kind of Casanova has never come through to me. He writes objectively, as if to say 'Yeah, it happened. This is what it was.' and before you know it, he's gallanting into some other room, all together unconcerned with the scene he was just inextricably a part of.
Who hasn't received something from reading some Henry Miller? You can learn to live from his books, if even a small compartment of your life.
Sex is part of life. The view that Henry Miller is attempting to show himself off as some kind of Casanova has never come through to me. He writes objectively, as if to say 'Yeah, it happened. This is what it was.' and before you know it, he's gallanting into some other room, all together unconcerned with the scene he was just inextricably a part of.
Who hasn't received something from reading some Henry Miller? You can learn to live from his books, if even a small compartment of your life.
April 6, 2025
Sexus is a whirlwind of desire, philosophy, bodies, filth, sudden poetry, and inner turmoil, captured within the body of New York in the mid-20th century. It’s a piece of Miller’s pre-Parisian life—the time of his painful divorce from his first wife and his intense infatuation with the woman who would become his second. Miller here is both hero, narrator, and accused. He’s grand, harsh, and unbearable; he’s in love with women, with words, with himself. His anger fuels him, and his irony is life-giving.
Reading Sexus is like letting yourself fall into an armchair, light something filthy, and listen to an old acquaintance rambling, sometimes with brilliant insights. I laughed out loud when I reached the part with the letter from Knut Hamsun—Miller’s idol. There’s so much disillusionment, honesty, and comic humiliation, it’s impossible not to laugh. This book isn’t for everyone, but if you believe art can be dirty, unshaven, and yet completely honest—welcome to the club.
It’s a monologue, a confession, sometimes nonsense, sometimes a manifesto. If you’ve ever wondered whether it’s possible to be both vulgar and sublime at the same time—here are 500 pages of proof that it is.
Reading Sexus is like letting yourself fall into an armchair, light something filthy, and listen to an old acquaintance rambling, sometimes with brilliant insights. I laughed out loud when I reached the part with the letter from Knut Hamsun—Miller’s idol. There’s so much disillusionment, honesty, and comic humiliation, it’s impossible not to laugh. This book isn’t for everyone, but if you believe art can be dirty, unshaven, and yet completely honest—welcome to the club.
It’s a monologue, a confession, sometimes nonsense, sometimes a manifesto. If you’ve ever wondered whether it’s possible to be both vulgar and sublime at the same time—here are 500 pages of proof that it is.
Read
November 13, 2024
Sexus, Henry Miller's first novel in his Rosy Crucifixion trilogy, is a fictionalized autobiographical account written when Miller was in his fifties, reflecting on his time as a thirty-something in New York City before his Paris years. Miller doesn’t hold back—everyday life, philosophical musings, and sex, along with more sex, erupt in a 500-page literary volcano that was famously banned from publication in the US.
As a way of providing something of a taste test for this Henry Miller rosy crackerjack, below are a number of Sexus direct quotes along with my comments.
“We got into a cab and, as if wheeled around, Mara impulsively climbed over me and straddled me. We went into a blind fuck, with the cab lurching and careening, our teeth knocking, tongue bitten, and the juice pouring from her like hot soup.”
Can you imagine a prudish, puritanical judge back in 1940s America reading these lines? We shouldn't be surprised the publisher was fined and handed a prison sentence. Fortunately, some years later, readers could detect there was more to Sexus than sex, that the novel possessed the qualities of a first-rate literary work.
“The only benefit, I reflected, which the act of writing could offer me was to remove the differences which separated me from my fellow man. I definitely did not want to become an artist, in the sense of becoming something strange, something apart and out of the current of life.”
Henry Miller leaves no doubt: while his voice as a writer—his particular angle of vision—counts as his exclusive, unique property, he always aimed for his writing and life as a writer to express a common human experience that all women and men could directly relate to. Miller positions himself at the opposite end of the artistic spectrum from those writers and artists, like the nineteenth-century French decadents, who viewed themselves as highly refined, uniquely aesthetic beings, holding little in common with the vast majority of the population they looked down upon as a filthy, money-grubbing ruck.
“A great work of art, if it accomplishes anything, serves to remind us, or let us say to set us dreaming, of all that is fluid and intangible. Which is to say, the universe. It cannot be understood; it can only be accepted or rejected. If accepted we are revitalized; if rejected, we are diminished.”
Henry Miller understood that no amount of analysis, commentary, or theory could ever fully capture the essence of a true work of art. His words remind us that art defies containment; it invites us to encounter it without preconceptions, to let it wash over us like a mystery we accept rather than solve. To engage with a work of art—especially literature, one of the most vivid expressions of the human spirit—demands a willingness to be transformed. In that openness, Miller suggests, lies the potential for revitalization, a renewal that only those who surrender themselves fully can experience.
“The only time a writer receives his due reward is when someone comes to him burning with this flame which he fanned in a moment of solitude. Honest criticism means nothing: what one wants is unrestrained passion, fire for fire.”
Having spent the past twelve years immersed in writing book reviews, Henry Miller's words resonate deeply with me. My goal has always been to go beyond mere critique, to share the author's vision, and ignite in others the same fervor I feel. I want to convey not just why a book is worth reading, but why missing it would be a kind of loss.
“To be joyous is to be a madman in a world of sad ghosts.”
Reading Miller's works—books like Tropic of Cancer, Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch, and the novel under review—it becomes clear that Henry Miller is all about celebrating life. Even when his head and bones ache, or when he's hungover and feeling exhausted from a marathon conversation with friends or an intimate night with a lover, Miller still makes room for joy, for the simple fact that he's alive.
“People have had enough of plot and character. Plot and character don't make life. Life isn't the upper storey: life is here now, any time you say the word, any time you let rip. Life is four hundred and forty horsepower in a two-cylinder engine . . .”
Here, Miller lashes out at anyone who clings to the notion that a novel must mimic the style of Charles Dickens or Theodore Dreiser. No! Henry Miller knew, deep in his heart and gut, that his writing—raw, revolutionary, and wildly unorthodox—was as legitimate as any novel that had come before.
I've only touched on a few highlights. Again, Sexus is a 500-pager. More, much more Henry Miller burning lava awaits a reader courageous enough to tackle this glowing gem.
August 31, 2010
Henry Miller quotes,"Whatever I do is done out of sheer joy; I drop my fruits like a ripe tree. What the general reader or the critic makes of them is not my concern."
Maintaining Henry’s charm; let the perversity surge.
Ladies and gentlemen, I am Henry Miller and I’m in a gratifying allegiance with my penis. I LOVE TO FUCK!!! Screw every pussy in town!! YooHoo!! My ex-wife is a lesbian! Yay!! I fucked my wife’s lesbian lover; for years! Whoa! Aren’t I an uncouth, sordid dirty little bastard?
Things you ought to discern about my book - Sexus.
1) Sexus is the first volume of the Rosy Crucifixion trilogy. The series is based on my factual life experiences amid my metamorphosis of being a novelist. Predominantly, it is my sexual navigation of an exotic creature – Mara; not before circumnavigating Irene, Sylvia and numerous dripping lassies. Irene that horny cunt can make a man bleed. No wonder her husband is paralytic. She must have twisted his cock off. Poor Ulrich couldn’t keep up with the all night orgy. Sylvia on the other hand is dull as ditch water. Mara, that bitch can get me barmy giving me a hard on even when I’m looking at the bitter hag -my wife. I am so hung up on her blowjobs and taxi quickies, I overlook that she is an impetuous liar.
2) Maude my present wife is such a wrench. Fucking her makes me feel like a necrophiliac. Although it is not a nuisance as I can bang any crap with a hole, yet her customary snide of me being a promiscuous prick, not caring about the family or my child smacks the shit out of me.
3) My cronies- Dr. Kronski, Ulrich (my sidekick in sexual burlesque), Stanley, etc.. are a bunch of sympathetic drunks with suicidal or fatal aspirations, except get them some twirling willowy legs and they can hump like rabbits.
4) Sex is one of the nine reasons of reincarnation. So, each time I get a stiff bulge in my pants I come across ways to attain salvation.
5) If the frequent usage of racially provocative or prejudiced language astounds the proverbial reader, chew a nickel and get on with it. I can’t help if I’m the cruelest sexist asshole.
6) At times when my penis does not take a call, I do manage to pen down sensible libretto arguing the significance of being a writer and life as we call it. However, me being a narcissistic prick, eventually the narration embellishes all-night orgy sessions with couple of lou-lous and Ulrich.
7) Several readers consider me to be a pervert dickhead while some contemplate about my genius collaboration of imaginative intelligentsia. Yes! My common sense does take a hike at times, but that’s who I am – a raunchy, egoistical mastermind of sexual emancipation.
Hush Miller! We get it! You are as horny as a three-balled tomcat with a swamped gutter mouth.
In conclusion, as to sum it all up, Sexus is a freakishly fascinating reserve.
Maintaining Henry’s charm; let the perversity surge.
Ladies and gentlemen, I am Henry Miller and I’m in a gratifying allegiance with my penis. I LOVE TO FUCK!!! Screw every pussy in town!! YooHoo!! My ex-wife is a lesbian! Yay!! I fucked my wife’s lesbian lover; for years! Whoa! Aren’t I an uncouth, sordid dirty little bastard?
Things you ought to discern about my book - Sexus.
1) Sexus is the first volume of the Rosy Crucifixion trilogy. The series is based on my factual life experiences amid my metamorphosis of being a novelist. Predominantly, it is my sexual navigation of an exotic creature – Mara; not before circumnavigating Irene, Sylvia and numerous dripping lassies. Irene that horny cunt can make a man bleed. No wonder her husband is paralytic. She must have twisted his cock off. Poor Ulrich couldn’t keep up with the all night orgy. Sylvia on the other hand is dull as ditch water. Mara, that bitch can get me barmy giving me a hard on even when I’m looking at the bitter hag -my wife. I am so hung up on her blowjobs and taxi quickies, I overlook that she is an impetuous liar.
2) Maude my present wife is such a wrench. Fucking her makes me feel like a necrophiliac. Although it is not a nuisance as I can bang any crap with a hole, yet her customary snide of me being a promiscuous prick, not caring about the family or my child smacks the shit out of me.
3) My cronies- Dr. Kronski, Ulrich (my sidekick in sexual burlesque), Stanley, etc.. are a bunch of sympathetic drunks with suicidal or fatal aspirations, except get them some twirling willowy legs and they can hump like rabbits.
4) Sex is one of the nine reasons of reincarnation. So, each time I get a stiff bulge in my pants I come across ways to attain salvation.
5) If the frequent usage of racially provocative or prejudiced language astounds the proverbial reader, chew a nickel and get on with it. I can’t help if I’m the cruelest sexist asshole.
6) At times when my penis does not take a call, I do manage to pen down sensible libretto arguing the significance of being a writer and life as we call it. However, me being a narcissistic prick, eventually the narration embellishes all-night orgy sessions with couple of lou-lous and Ulrich.
7) Several readers consider me to be a pervert dickhead while some contemplate about my genius collaboration of imaginative intelligentsia. Yes! My common sense does take a hike at times, but that’s who I am – a raunchy, egoistical mastermind of sexual emancipation.
Hush Miller! We get it! You are as horny as a three-balled tomcat with a swamped gutter mouth.
In conclusion, as to sum it all up, Sexus is a freakishly fascinating reserve.
November 6, 2024
Nueva York. Miller trabaja en una compañía de telégrafos absurda, llena de camaradas de un mundo cosmocócico —palabra que sigo sin reconocer—. Vive con su mujer e hija y tiene un idilio con una bailarina, que acaba siendo su segunda pareja con la que sueña irse a Francia... y poco más. Tan solo un relato de los infortunios que le sobrevienen, de una manera aparentemente aleatoria.
Entre tantos hombres/andobas y mujeres/fulanas, Miller no deja de ser un sexista que elude madurar pero que se sabe con un potencial sobrenatural para la escritura. Siempre está mirándose a la luz que le reflejan sus amigos en el espejo: que si es un impulsivo egoísta, un mártir, un frustrado, un romántico, un débil sin ambición, un sinvergüenza con suerte. En definitiva, un narciso solipsista encantador. No se trata de empatizar, no estamos aquí para empatizar, me repito a cada rato. Y me pregunto por qué no soporto el "yo" de Carrère y sí el de Miller, aunque la verdad es que este Henry me resulta un poco indiferente.
Está claro que se esfuerza en encajar de la mejor manera el guirigay de la vida real dentro de la literatura, huyendo de una trama concreta. Me acuerdo de aquello que decía Philip Roth: "La vida es lo evanescente y lo tangible, lo inaudito y lo previsible, todas esas realidades múltiples, entrelazadas, que se solapan y entran en conflicto". Pue esto es. Parece que el hilo conductor de sus días sea solo la retahíla de polvos que protagoniza, pero no nos engañemos, no es más que la precariedad, esa incesante búsqueda de dinero, el único mediador de todos sus vínculos sociales.
Da la sensación de que no quisiese hacer literatura en su afán de no traicionar la vida. Sí, consigue escribir como los ángeles, siempre presa de un gran arrebato, mezclando jazzísticamente ironía, humorismo, cinismo, anarquía y erotismo; el mundo le importa un pito y su prosa hedonista me hace sonreír, pero lo cierto es que sus avatares vitales, básicamente sexo, amigos, libros y whiskis, llegan a cansarme.
Entre tantos hombres/andobas y mujeres/fulanas, Miller no deja de ser un sexista que elude madurar pero que se sabe con un potencial sobrenatural para la escritura. Siempre está mirándose a la luz que le reflejan sus amigos en el espejo: que si es un impulsivo egoísta, un mártir, un frustrado, un romántico, un débil sin ambición, un sinvergüenza con suerte. En definitiva, un narciso solipsista encantador. No se trata de empatizar, no estamos aquí para empatizar, me repito a cada rato. Y me pregunto por qué no soporto el "yo" de Carrère y sí el de Miller, aunque la verdad es que este Henry me resulta un poco indiferente.
Está claro que se esfuerza en encajar de la mejor manera el guirigay de la vida real dentro de la literatura, huyendo de una trama concreta. Me acuerdo de aquello que decía Philip Roth: "La vida es lo evanescente y lo tangible, lo inaudito y lo previsible, todas esas realidades múltiples, entrelazadas, que se solapan y entran en conflicto". Pue esto es. Parece que el hilo conductor de sus días sea solo la retahíla de polvos que protagoniza, pero no nos engañemos, no es más que la precariedad, esa incesante búsqueda de dinero, el único mediador de todos sus vínculos sociales.
Da la sensación de que no quisiese hacer literatura en su afán de no traicionar la vida. Sí, consigue escribir como los ángeles, siempre presa de un gran arrebato, mezclando jazzísticamente ironía, humorismo, cinismo, anarquía y erotismo; el mundo le importa un pito y su prosa hedonista me hace sonreír, pero lo cierto es que sus avatares vitales, básicamente sexo, amigos, libros y whiskis, llegan a cansarme.
September 26, 2017
I intended to give it 3 stars but because of the last 2 chapters - almost 50 pages - i decided that it deserve the 4 stars.
The big difference between "Sexus" and his first two gems "Tropic of Cancer" and "Tropic of Capricorn" is that here there's a lot of sex without any aesthetic or artistic purposes. Also many times i feel he constrained the events and encounters with other characters. his ordinary nonsense about life and women reach another high limit.
He still got the great talent of a bohemian artist, still use the most remarkable language among American novelists. You can keep reading for many successive hours without felling boring except for the unnecessary porn scenes.
The most remarkable parts in Sexus are :
- When he tried to get rid of Maude by convincing her ex-lover to save her from him.
- The party he arranged for his friends when he got the bonus.
- His definition of creation and creativity.
- How Melanie got into the book.
- His dream of Una.
- Kent Hamson's letter.
- Finally the most beautiful parts i've ever read by Miller until now is the last 50 pages which starts with Cleo at Minsky brothers then the two deaths of Osmanli the Turk, and the end with Miller the dog and his woof! woof!.
The big difference between "Sexus" and his first two gems "Tropic of Cancer" and "Tropic of Capricorn" is that here there's a lot of sex without any aesthetic or artistic purposes. Also many times i feel he constrained the events and encounters with other characters. his ordinary nonsense about life and women reach another high limit.
He still got the great talent of a bohemian artist, still use the most remarkable language among American novelists. You can keep reading for many successive hours without felling boring except for the unnecessary porn scenes.
The most remarkable parts in Sexus are :
- When he tried to get rid of Maude by convincing her ex-lover to save her from him.
- The party he arranged for his friends when he got the bonus.
- His definition of creation and creativity.
- How Melanie got into the book.
- His dream of Una.
- Kent Hamson's letter.
- Finally the most beautiful parts i've ever read by Miller until now is the last 50 pages which starts with Cleo at Minsky brothers then the two deaths of Osmanli the Turk, and the end with Miller the dog and his woof! woof!.
June 5, 2024
I'm not using Goodreads much these days, but I had to tell somebody how much I hated this book. The whole novel is just a series of encounters with people telling Henry Miller how great and wonderful and what an excellent lover he is.
May 11, 2014
" لا توجد عاهرة ذكية ! إن عهر الجسد دليل على ضعف الذكاء "
من حِكم هنري ميلر المثير للقلق النفسي
هذا الكتاب ليس آمنًا لأصحاب القلوب الضعيفة ممن يعتبرون بطيش نظرًا لحداثة السن و التجربتان الحياتية والقرائية أن الأدب وسيلة إمتطاء لخيال جنسي سويّ أو تحرير و أعادة إحياء لما تكبته السنون في الإنسان من ناحية الجنس ،،
هذا كتاب للتحدي ،، تتحدى قدرتك على الإحتمال و تحاول أن تتوازن فكريًا و تعطي التقييم المناسب و أنت تخطو بحذر فوق مجزرة هنري ميلر الجنسية هذه بين علاقته الموشكة على الإنفصال بزوجته و بين عشيقته و مابينهما يزدرد ميلر جيش من النساء ، كنت قد قررت قراءة مجموعة من أعماله ( الكتب في حياتي و الضفيرة و الوشيجة ) لذلك بدأت بهذه الصبوات لأنها الجزء الأول من ثلاثية الصلب الوردي ، حتى إستيائي من هذه التجربة لن يثنيني عن مواصلة مخططي لأنني أعوّل على الجانب الصريح والجريء من تجربة ميلر الجانب الذي يزهو كديك ينازل العالم بألوانه البراقة فحسب،حسنًا لربما كانت تبدو له براقة أكثر من اللازم !..
تلك الغطرسة الإلزامية في ثنايا الرواية و الفحولة الغير معالجة بواقعية تجعلك مشدوهًا كقارئ
تعلم أن الأمر لا يجري في الحياة كذلك ، ميلر هنا يستخدم الجنس كركيزة روائية سخيفة و كمبدأ الجزرة والعصا و يتوقع الكثير من الانصياع من بهائمية عالم الغريزة ذلك العالم الخزفي كما يصوره ، طريقته في الحديث عن الجنس غير مسلية و مجحفه بحق الجنس ، الجنس كقطعة حلوى يجب أن يحتفظ بها الروائي الخبير في الرّف المناسب من الثلاجة و أي تغيير تصاعدي أوتنازلي يرهق النص و يرهله ، الجنس جاء هنا كعقبة لمنح نصّ ميلر القيمة التي يستحق ، محبطة جدًا البدء بقراءة هذا العمل تحديدًا لميلر دون سواه !..
طوّر ميلر نوع مستحدث من السيرة الذاتية بخليط روائي فلسفي ناقدًا لهناتٍ نفسية في صلب المجتمع ، وهذه هي النتيجة و التي قد تتهم كجنس أدبي ماجن لن يتقبله كل القراء بالضرورة ولكن لابد من أن تجد في عشوائيته ميزة تطابق ميولك كقارئ ، رغم ذلك فلميلر هذه اللغة الذهبية التي لا تُملّ و القدرة على إلحاق القراءة النفسية الموجزة و الملائمة و المبرزة للشخصية المهمشة من بين براثن محيطه الجنسي :
" أستمع لعزف آرثر ديموند و أدركت أنه إذا قُيض لي أن أعزف البيانو فعليّ أن أتعلم من البداية ، إنتابني إحساس بأني لم أعزف البيانو حقًا طوال عمري ، و طرأ لي شيء مشابه حين قرأت دوستويفسكي أول مرة ، لقد مسح كل الآداب الأخرى "
" أراد أن يعيش حياته الخاصة ، وقد فعل ذلك ، لقد عاش حياته بالطول والعرض ، لقد عمل كل شيء ليحطم ذلك الموسيقي البارع الذي خلقته أمّه منه "
" ما الحديث إلا ذريعة لأشكال الإتصال الراقية الأخرى ، وعندما لا تؤدي هذه الأشكال وضيفتها يصبح الكلام ميتًا "
" لقد ترك أستاذ الموسيقى موسيقاه ليقوّم العالم و لكنه فشل "
" العظماء لا يقيمون مكاتب ، لا يطلبون أجراً و لا يلقون محاضرات أو يؤلفون الكتب ، الحكمة صامتة ، و أكثر الدعايات فعالية عن الحقيقة هي القدوة الشخصية "
" الخيال هو صوت الجرأة ، إذا كان ثمة شيء إلهيّ عن الله فهو هذا ( لقد تجرأ على تخيل كل شيء ) "
November 10, 2012
ما الذي يمكن قوله في كتاب عنوانه اللاتيني يعني " الجنس " !
هذا الكتاب كان ممنوعاً في أمريكا بلد الكاتب نفسه . و قد أحدث صدمة كبيرة استاء منها هنري قائلاً ما هذا الرياء ! لماذا يرفض الناس قراءة ما يقولون و يفعلون ! يقول أنه ليس مهووس بالجنس على عكس العالم ! يؤكد في حواراته أنه ضد الإباحية و مع الفسوق فالأخير صريح على عكس الأول ! و بما أن الجنس جزء أساسي من الحياة فلن يتورع عن كتابته بكل فحش ! الكلمة الأخيرة محببة لهنري .
الكتاب هو الجزء الأول من ثلاثيته التي يتناول فيها سيرته الروائية لا الذاتية ! و هنري ينهل بالأساس من معين حياته الغريبة و ترحاله البطوطي إن صح التعبير و بطبيعة الحال من تأملاته . فالكتاب يمكن القول أنه غني بالجنس فاحتمال أن تفتح الكتاب بشكل عشوائي لتجد مقطع ساخن يقارب ال 40 بالمئة ! و هو بعيداً عن ذلك - في الحقيقة هو لا يبتعد بالقدر الكافي - كتاب مليء بفلسفة هنري اللاذعة و سخريته النارية و تأملاته الشاطح منها و المصيب بدقة . يتناول العلاقات الاجتماعية حتى العظم ، كما يهاجم المباديء الحمقاء التي لا بد من التنازل عنها لصالح الحياة . و هو يقدس الحياة و يحب أن يعيشها كاملة حتى أقصى حدّ . يكفي أنه في منتصف الثمانيات من عمره و قبيل وفاته كان مغرماً ! يحب أيضاً تحطيم التابوهات و يباهي بذلك و يعود الفضل أو الإثم له كاملاً في تحرير الكتّاب من بعده . لا شك أن هنري ميللر لا يعرف الوسطية و قراءه لن يتمكنوا من ذلك . فإما كراهية و عداوة أبدية أو حب و تغاضي عن نزواته و طيشه . بالنسبة لي يروق لي أسلوبه و طريقة كتابته البارعة و تشبيهاته السوريالية .
April 21, 2011
صبوات أو سكسوس هي أول الكتب في "ثلاثية الصلب الوردي " ��التي تصنف كونها سيرة ذاتية لهنري ميلر
ميلر من الرواة القلّه الذين يمتلكون دقة الوصف وقوة التعبير حتى لكأن المشاهد تصوّر أمامك في فيلم طويل .. وطويل جداً .. وهذا ما قد يعيبه .. إذ أن إيقاع الملل يستبد بك حين وتتمكن أنت منه حيناً آخر
يحكي الجزء الأول معاناة فشل زواجه وطريقه في الوقوع بحب امرأة أحلامه التي كانت "عاهره" .. وصراع الكبار في وظيفته الصغيره
هي بالتأكيد كحياة أي كاتب آخر .. ولكنك ستعشق الكثير من الاقتباسات التي لن تراها إلا تجسّد حالتك بالأمس .. او الآن أو ربما غداً
الجدير بالذكر أن روايات هنري كلها +21
ميلر من الرواة القلّه الذين يمتلكون دقة الوصف وقوة التعبير حتى لكأن المشاهد تصوّر أمامك في فيلم طويل .. وطويل جداً .. وهذا ما قد يعيبه .. إذ أن إيقاع الملل يستبد بك حين وتتمكن أنت منه حيناً آخر
يحكي الجزء الأول معاناة فشل زواجه وطريقه في الوقوع بحب امرأة أحلامه التي كانت "عاهره" .. وصراع الكبار في وظيفته الصغيره
هي بالتأكيد كحياة أي كاتب آخر .. ولكنك ستعشق الكثير من الاقتباسات التي لن تراها إلا تجسّد حالتك بالأمس .. او الآن أو ربما غداً
الجدير بالذكر أن روايات هنري كلها +21
December 13, 2019
Read in the 1970s. Unforgettable. I recall when it was recommended, that when the author submitted the manuscript, he told the publisher not to touch one word. Publish as it is or not at all.
The book has a palpable sense of place and time.
The book has a palpable sense of place and time.
September 18, 2012
I loved this book the first I read it. It is a confessional poured out of a spittoon full of of piss, bile, semen, angst, blood, guts and ego. The moments when he meets June Mansfield Smith, Mona, Mara whatever are sublime. The trajectory downward into self humiliation, self deception and utter depravity are rivetting. This is warts and all story telling of one mans defeat in everything he was puruing in life but he continues to spit out his philosophical arguments and his world view at the very moments when he is at his lowest ebb, oblivious to how incongrous this may all seem. The book is a revelation on the duplicity that exists in the human personality and how ego can drive us on when all else has failed. I love this and Nexus and Plexus as well. Worth the effort if youve got the energy to trawl through Miller. Most people dont have the stomach for it.
April 10, 2015
Why do lovely faces haunt us so? Do extraordinary flowers have evil roots?
Studying her morsel by morsel, feet, hands, hair, lips, ears, breasts, travelling from navel to mouth and from mouth to eyes, the woman I fell upon, clawed, bit, suffocated with kisses, the woman who had been Mara and was now Mona, who had been and would be other names, other persons, other assemblages of appendages, was no more accessible, penetrable, than a cool statue in a forgotten garden of a lost continent. At nine or earlier, with a revolver that was never intended to go off, she might have pressed a swooning trigger and fallen like a dead swan from the heights of her dream. It might well have been that way, for in the flesh she was dispersed, in the mind she was as dust blown hither and thither. In her heart a bell tolled, but what it signified no one knew. Her image corresponded to nothing that I had formed in my heart. She had intruded it, slipped it like thinnest gauze between the crevices of the brain in a moment of lesion. And when the wound closed the imprint had remained, like a frail leaf traced upon a stone.
Studying her morsel by morsel, feet, hands, hair, lips, ears, breasts, travelling from navel to mouth and from mouth to eyes, the woman I fell upon, clawed, bit, suffocated with kisses, the woman who had been Mara and was now Mona, who had been and would be other names, other persons, other assemblages of appendages, was no more accessible, penetrable, than a cool statue in a forgotten garden of a lost continent. At nine or earlier, with a revolver that was never intended to go off, she might have pressed a swooning trigger and fallen like a dead swan from the heights of her dream. It might well have been that way, for in the flesh she was dispersed, in the mind she was as dust blown hither and thither. In her heart a bell tolled, but what it signified no one knew. Her image corresponded to nothing that I had formed in my heart. She had intruded it, slipped it like thinnest gauze between the crevices of the brain in a moment of lesion. And when the wound closed the imprint had remained, like a frail leaf traced upon a stone.
August 16, 2019
Read this as a youth, of course - not today. But I think that people who want to 'get' Miller should read Sexus, Plexus, and Nexus - not the Tropics.
April 24, 2018
صَبَــــــوات هنري ميللر
Henry Miller by Kalman Aron
هنري ميللر هو أحد هؤلاء الملعونين الذين يفرغون أدمغتهم بكل ماتحمله من رصاص في وجهك مباشرة ودون تمويه أو تلون .. هنري ميللر هذا الرجل المجنون يخبرك عن صبواته لا في جلسة سرية معه في مقهى معتم يشغل الموسيقا بصوت مرتفع يمنعك من التركيز فيما يقوله من يرافقك، بل يخبرك بهذه الصبوات بكل تفاصيلها في جلسة علنية وبأعلى صوت يمكن لإنسان أن يجهر به .. هل الصبوات هي ما سيهمك عندما تقرأ هذا الكتاب؟؟ قطعا لا فهنا سترى فلسفة لطالما علمت أن هناك من يحملونها لكنك لم تقابل أحدهم بعد .. هذا رجل يؤمن بأن
من يتخلى عن رؤياه يقع في متاهة لا منجاة منها سوى بالموت
هذا الرجل فج كمخرز .. يستفزك ويفقدك أعصابك بنخزه المستمر لك لكنك تشكره نهاية على إيقاظه لك .. هذا الرجل يخبرك ما معنى الحياة بكل فجاجة وصدق وصرامة أيضا
ملحوظاتي
ص 468
جنون
لم يكن سيفلح لو أصبح راهبا، فلقد ولد وهو يحمل ضغينة ضد العالم
الحب مقامرة وليس وثيقة تأمين
إن من يتخلى عن رؤياه يقع في متاهة لا منجاة منها سوى بالموت
الفصل الاخير يمزقك حرفيا يجذب شقي قلبك كلا في ناحبة لتستيقظ وتعي كم قاسية هذه الحياة
Henry Miller by Kalman Aron
هنري ميللر هو أحد هؤلاء الملعونين الذين يفرغون أدمغتهم بكل ماتحمله من رصاص في وجهك مباشرة ودون تمويه أو تلون .. هنري ميللر هذا الرجل المجنون يخبرك عن صبواته لا في جلسة سرية معه في مقهى معتم يشغل الموسيقا بصوت مرتفع يمنعك من التركيز فيما يقوله من يرافقك، بل يخبرك بهذه الصبوات بكل تفاصيلها في جلسة علنية وبأعلى صوت يمكن لإنسان أن يجهر به .. هل الصبوات هي ما سيهمك عندما تقرأ هذا الكتاب؟؟ قطعا لا فهنا سترى فلسفة لطالما علمت أن هناك من يحملونها لكنك لم تقابل أحدهم بعد .. هذا رجل يؤمن بأن
من يتخلى عن رؤياه يقع في متاهة لا منجاة منها سوى بالموت
هذا الرجل فج كمخرز .. يستفزك ويفقدك أعصابك بنخزه المستمر لك لكنك تشكره نهاية على إيقاظه لك .. هذا الرجل يخبرك ما معنى الحياة بكل فجاجة وصدق وصرامة أيضا
ملحوظاتي
ص 468
جنون
لم يكن سيفلح لو أصبح راهبا، فلقد ولد وهو يحمل ضغينة ضد العالم
الحب مقامرة وليس وثيقة تأمين
إن من يتخلى عن رؤياه يقع في متاهة لا منجاة منها سوى بالموت
الفصل الاخير يمزقك حرفيا يجذب شقي قلبك كلا في ناحبة لتستيقظ وتعي كم قاسية هذه الحياة
March 23, 2007
Some of Miller's most inspiring writing, I think. This is the kind of book you want to come with a highlighter so you can remember where those amazing passages are to quote again and again. That said, it's not for everybody, especially prudes. The gratuitious sex scenes almost turned me off from this book only for their sheer unbelievability and ridiculous frequency... but it all made sense in the end... or rather once I started reading Plexus, which contains absolutely NO sex scenes at all. Sexus covers the period of Miller's life when he was trying very hard to BECOME a writer, that is, work up the nerve to actually write something. Plexus covers the period when he actually does and becomes an artist. So the shift from Sexus to Plexus can be seen as the shift from the carnal to the intellectual life. Of course, it's much more fun to figure it out by reading it. Sorry for the spoiler.
February 4, 2008
I mention my thoughts here, though I could pick virtually any Henry book. I've read most of them, often a number of times. These books are totally unique, reveries, presentations of how man might live if he only had the notion and carried through on it. These books stand in total juxtaposition to the mind-conditioned state of society. They are free rambles, though carefully plotted and written! They discuss and elaborate on all man's ideas and dreams, crazy actions and adventures--both in real life and in the mind. Ground breaking is to say the least. God how lucky people are who've never read Henry and stumble upon a book like this. What a treat!
March 4, 2008
Henry Miller is one raunchy fella.
July 7, 2013
It is one of those rare books reading which transformed me.
Henry Miller’s capacity to offer raw phenomenology of experience is fascinating. He doesn’t attempt to portray himself as some sort of saint or a superhero. He basically describes social life in its nuanced ornaments, not loaded with superegoic impositions (meaning, you will find no puritanity in this book).
In the book Miller offers some of the most touching and vivid (and realistic, in my opinion) phenomenologies of contemporary sexual life. His philosophical insights are a gem too.
Loved the book!
Henry Miller’s capacity to offer raw phenomenology of experience is fascinating. He doesn’t attempt to portray himself as some sort of saint or a superhero. He basically describes social life in its nuanced ornaments, not loaded with superegoic impositions (meaning, you will find no puritanity in this book).
In the book Miller offers some of the most touching and vivid (and realistic, in my opinion) phenomenologies of contemporary sexual life. His philosophical insights are a gem too.
Loved the book!
April 1, 2013
First in the "Rosy Crucifixion" trilogy ~ I can't help but love Henry Miller. He's so full of life. His books get a lot of attention for the sexual content but they are also balanced for love of life's other treats as well. Love of people, love of food, love of life itself ~ although he seems to have a strong hate for the "everyday man's" work and a love-hate relationship with New York ~ I plan on reading as much Miller as I can.
September 29, 2020
A piece of transgressive fiction that draws upon Céline's 'Voyage au bout de la Nuit' to affirm a lust for life and love for sex like no other. While at first glance it may seem superficial or frivolous, drowning in its own sea of lustful scenes, there is depth to be discovered with each new reading. The trilogy constitutes a paradigmatic self-inquiry into the depth of the soul of a man forever in between being in love with everything and loving nothing at all.
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