Henry Miller, "The Air-conditioned Nightmare"
I remember reading something from that last Bukowski where he mentioned he was reading Henry Miller, and said something to the extent of “when he’s on, he’s fantastic, but when he’s not he’s excruciating.”
To me, “Tropic of Cancer” was fairly excruciating, although it did get better after a fashion. This book was, for the most part, “on.” It’s really a departure from the other Miller books I’ve read, as this is the only book by him I can think of where he’s not talking about sex.
And I guess that’s why I can’t get into his more famous books. I’ve seen pictures of Henry Miller, and reading him talk about sex and female anatomy is like walking into your parent’s room – there are things I just don’t want to visualize.
So it’s good that this is just a collection of essays he wrote while traveling across America, twenty years after he split to live in Paris. For the most part he’s horrified at how people live, a weird take for the so-called “happiest man alive.”
The book as a whole is a kind of highbrow version of Michael Moore’s film, “Roger & Me,” as we’re treated to various people, some who are out of work, some who are too rich for their own good, and some who are a little crazy.
Of course, as this is a collection of essays, there’s bound to be some clunkers, and it’s certainly true in this case. Still, the ratio is something like 80 percent interesting, and that’s pretty good for someone such as myself who likes to complain.
