Henry Miller
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Strange Waters
And every life that moves, or dies, or multiplies will have an effect of some sort on the lives around it, a different effect than the one it had before.
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Henry Miller’s Disgust for Brooklyn
Henry Miller hated Brooklyn almost as passionately as he loved Big Sur and dirty sex. In “Henry Miller, Brooklyn Hater,” Alexander Nazaryan takes a look at Miller’s lifelong contempt for the borough. In a 1975 documentary, Miller refers to Brooklyn as: a…
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Unreliable Narrators
In reviewing RENEGADE: Henry Miller and the Making of “Tropic of Cancer,” Jeanette Winterson explores mythmaking in cultural criticism, unearthing who and what gets ignored in the process. “There is beauty as well as hatred in “Cancer,” and it deserves…
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Rhona Cleary: The Last Book I Loved, Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch
Was there ever a place greyer, wetter or lonelier than Paris in the fall? For an Irish person, that’s a weighty question to consider. I guess that in some other incarnation of myself I might have found the glistening cobblestones…
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The Rumpus Interview with Gerald Stern
There’s a black and white photo in which the poet Stanley Kunitz lovingly holds Gerald Stern’s cheeks in both hands. It’s 1990. They’re looking into one another, and Kunitz says, “You’re the wilderness in American poetry.”
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Henry Miller in Lotos Land: Paint as You Like, and Die Happy
Thinking back on his first stay in Hollywood, Miller often reminisced about the Green House, “where I made so many watercolors, sold them for a song or for an umbrella I had no use for, but where I also made…
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The Journal Of Albion Moonlight
“Carol wants me to write a novel: ‘You’ve met so many interesting people,’ she tells me. Very good, there was a young man and he could never get his hands on enough women. That’s a novel. There was an idiot…
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“Why don’t you dance with her?”
In the Guardian, novelist Ewan Morrison — whose newest novel is called Ménage — tosses out a list of literary ménages à trois, leading off with the Hemingway erotic novel (some would call it an embarrassment that Hemingway never intended…

