Henry Miller, �Tropic of Capricorn�
Prediction: This will be the review that turns my so-called �readership� against me.
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Fuck Henry Miller.
I don�t mean that literally, for four reasons: He�s old, he�s ugly, he�s dead, and he�d probably enjoy it.
Seriously, have you ever seen a picture of this guy? If you have, then reading most of his books ought to give you a sense of revulsion, like walking into a room while your parents are fucking. There are some things you just don�t want to visualize.
I remember my first foray into Henry Miller. Whilst tooling around in another message board similar to this one, only much more exclusive (they have passwords and shit), there was the beginnings of a punk rock book club. After the first book, I suggested we read Tropic of Cancer. Ninety percent of the people who bought the book gave up after 200 pages. The funny thing was, it was right around page 220 when the novel actually got pretty good.
This book had the opposite effect. During the first 50 pages or so, I thought this was great and there wasn�t any mention of sex until page 29, and even that was a small mention. During this time, we�re treated to a Bukowski-esque portrait of a guy (Miller) who lands a job at a messenger agency, who promptly fucks off (though not literally, thank god), and starts running things his own way, which, as in the case of most people in this situation, is much better than what the company did previous to his hire.
But then he starts getting laid. A lot, apparently. And for the next 300 pages we�re �treated� to every description of cunts imaginable in a sense of lame bravado. Any semblance of a story line disappears into boasting of his sexual exploits. Since I know what Henry Miller looks like, and since this is supposed to be autobiographical, I got more and more disgusted.
Now, I am far from being a prude. But there is something quite boring about a man who can only talk about one subject. And Miller only has one subject on his mind: Cunt. As such, we are treated to eight hundred variations of that word, along with it being used eight thousand times. By the time I reached page 250, I hated this book, and I was in a bad mood nearly rivaling the mood that Kerouac put me into when I read Visions of Cody.
Quite a long time ago, I stumbled upon a site of movie reviews for a guy named Mr. Cranky. His schtick was that he hated every single movie ever put out. Some movies he hated less then others, but the highest rating any film could get was �Almost Tolerable.�
His site has since been taken over by advertisers, so much so that I don�t even bother to look it up anymore because it takes five minutes to load. But I remember a review that he gave for South Park, The Movie, and I think the idea fits here. So let me alter it slightly to fit my needs.
Read this entire next paragraph.
- Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt.
The point is, the �cunt� might be shocking the first few times you see it. After that it may seem funny in a juvenile sort of way, like giggling during sex-ed in junior high. Then it gets silly, and then it�s annoying. Finally, you get a headache, and you wish he would at least deviate from the word. The word cunt has lost any power that it once had, something that should never happen.
In other news, two former lovers have contacted me in the last week, and both are girls I haven�t spoken to in quite some time. Add that to the crazy girl who keeps contacting me despite me falling just short of threatening physical violence whenever we speak, I can only come to one conclusion � They really liked having sex with me.
But, seeing how I�m not Henry Miller, I don�t feel the need to expand on that.
