Perils of assimilation

If only life came with subtitles.

Saturday, January 06, 2007

My name? Why just call me God-- God the embryo.

If you've spoken to me lately, you know that I hold Henry Miller's 'Tropic of Cancer' in the highest esteem. It is a novel which, with very sentance, made me stop in wonder and have to relearn how to breathe before I could go on.
I didn't think a book could top 'Tropic of Cancer.'

I was wrong.

Henry Miller also wrote a prequel to it, 'Tropic of Capricorn.' Right from the start, each WORD is more amazing than the last. I'm trying to go slow, I hate that I'm over half-way through.

I took this from page 204, floating down river in the Land of Fuck:
"What is your name? shouts someone. My name? Why just call me God-- God the embryo. I go sailing on. Somebody would like to buy me a hat. What size do you wear, imbecile! he shouts. what size? Why size X! (And why do they always shout at me? Am I supposed to be deaf?) The hat is lost at the next cataract. Tant pis- for the hat. Does God need a hat? God only needs to become God, more and more God."

"This is the incarnation of the hallucination of sex, the sea nymph squirming in the maniac's arms. I watch the two of them as they move spasmodically inch by inch around the floor;they move like a octopus working up a rut. Between the dangling tentacles the music shimmers and flashes, now breaks in a cascade of sperm and rose water, forms again into an oily spout, a column standing erect without feet, collapses again like chalk, leaving th upper part of the leg phosphorscent, a zebra standing in a pool of golden marshmellow, one leg striped, the other molten."

I mean, who else writes like that?


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