Finished reading Henry Miller's "Tropic of Cancer," and how I wish I had read it earlier. The good and acclaimed writers should be read preferably in ones youth and I lament the fact that I didn't have access to good books in my rather misspent days of ignorance and innocence. Oh! how I rue the callousness of those days. Coming back to the book, it's such a compelling work that I have started reading it again. Have to. Couldn't avoid it. The way he expresses himself, so controlled and unassuming, exposing the very depth of his thinking, his very thought process, gushing out in a torrent of exquisite prose, inspiring, challenging, daring one to dream, etc. etc. What more can I say? I was taken in by the whooshing play of words, some of which went well above my head, knowing as I do, very little of the Latin and other classic. One bows in awe and respect to a great master.
As Miller says in the preamble, "This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art... I am going to sing for you, a little off key perhaps, but I will sing. I will sing while you croak, I will dance over your dirty corpse...."