The Monkey King's Used Primate Emporium and Book Reviews

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Ana�s Nin, "Henry and June"

Started February 20 � Finished February 23, 2002; 279 pages. Posted 24 February 2002

I was in class the other day when the instructor started talking how it was difficult for authors to write convincing characters of a different gender. It was a poor set-up for my train of thought, but I decided that the next book I read would be by a female author.

As he continued to blather on, I tried to remember what books I had on my �to read� pile, so I could figure out whom to read next. I couldn�t think of any female authors at all. I knew I had 100 books left on my fiction shelf, and so I started listing the authors on the top of my notes, now totally ignoring the instructor. By the time I gave up I had listed 75 authors, all of them male.

I thought that was pretty strange. After all, it wasn�t like that was some sort of criteria to reading a book. I don�t pick something up and say, �Hey! This looks interesting; maybe I should buy this... Oh wait, it�s written by a chick. Never mind.�

I got home after class and checked my shelves. I found three authors on my fiction shelf, one of them being a biography on somebody else who just happens to be male.

I checked the non-fiction �to read� bookcase. That fared only marginally better, considering there were five authors, two being biographies of other men, and two books steeped in sexuality. Finally I checked the shelves of things I�ve already read: Ten authors total, two of which are biographies on other men, one autobiography; and two that are books on and about sex.

What a truly pathetic collection from a group that represents 51% of the population! No wonder I�m not getting laid! I suppose it�s just that I haven�t heard enough about female authors, so if anybody wants to suggest something, drop a note in the guestbook, and I�ll take it under consideration. The point of this exercise is to finish all the books I have sitting around however, so it may be a while before I get to them.

Anyhoo, I didn�t buy this book. This copy was brought into the store, but was kind of ratty looking so we didn�t buy it from them. The customer left it behind, and it was tossed onto the recycle pile. I figured I didn�t want to pay for it, but I�d read it if I had the opportunity. (This, incidentally, is one of the reasons my to read pile has got so out of hand.)

So when I searched for a female author, what could be more female-based than the queen of the female erotica movement? And so I start reading her autobiographical journal, and come across this line on page 11: �Henry says I write like a man, with tremendous clearness and conciseness.�

So much for trying to support the fairer sex.

And all right look, goddamn it, if there�s one thing I hate, it�s people who put up the pretense that if they weren�t doing something involved with art, they wouldn�t be able to do anything. Bullshit. Phony. Bah!

So when Ana�s says, �Writing is not, for us, an art, but breathing.� I groan and throw the book full of pretensions against the wall, a pretentious act in itself. Later, she says, �the life of writers is another life.� Yeah, pretentious writers.

In Orwell�s �Down and Out in Paris and London� he writes to get money when he and his traveling companion are broke, but it doesn�t always work. So what does he do? He washes dishes!

I like writing, I even dare say that I�m occasionally good at it. But if I didn�t write, I could still do anything else and that includes washing dishes.

Which I�ve done.

When she�s not talking about the lost gentle souls of writers, she�s talking about sex. Well, not the sexual act in it self, though she certainly brings it up in passing quite a bit. Really, what we�re treated to is the evolving of desire, particularly the desire of other artists and writers.

Groan.

She comes across as precisely the kind of head tripping, game playing, manipulative girl that needs twelve-step therapy. The kind of girl that I always seem to hook up with.

This girl is more flighty than United Airlines. �Oh, I love Henry Miller,� she says. Then, five pages later, she says, �No wait, I love his wife June.� Then, �I�m jealous of June, but I just happen to be not only married to some other guy, but fucking at least three other people while I�m burning with rage over Henry�s infidelity.� Later: �I love sex with Henry, but I don�t love Henry.� Later still: �No wait, I think I love Henry, but don�t like sleeping with him. Or maybe I love both. Maybe I should sleep with some other people and figure it out...�

Do whatever you like, Ana�s. I don�t give a fuck.


Rating: Library material, if you can take the accusing looks from the old ladies behind the counter.

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