Tropic of Cancer

Sacre Bleu was recent, while this book dates back to 1934 (originally published in France), finally published in the US in 1961, and judged “non-obscene” by the U.S. Supreme Court in 1964, a decision I can heartily agree with, not because I enjoyed it so much (I can’t say that I did), but because what passes for “obscene” in the book is too tame to impress me.  It’s very much like that “M*A*S*H” episode where Hawkeye pulls strings in Seoul to get the film “The Moon Is Blue” released to show at the 4077, only to be frustrated and disappointed at how un-scandalous and dull it was when he finally got to see it.  Winchester’s reaction: “I warned you not to read too much into Boston banning that movie.  They would ban ‘Bambi.’”

The writer devotes 25% - 33% of the book to nonsense word-salad bravo-sierra, with which we’re supposed to be impressed.  No, don’t try to find meaning in it.  It’s not there, it never was.  My guess is Miller simply liked stringing together a series of ideas and images with no regard to coherence.  It’s just like the Beatles making nonsense lyrics and laughing at the critics for assigning meaning to them.

The remainder of the story is chapter after chapter about Miller’s relationships with several different shady characters: Boris, Carl, Collins, Fillmore, Van Norden, and Tania.  There’s also an Indian guy he brings to a brothel.  Prostitutes and brothels come up frequently in the book.  With the exception of a seaside excursion to the French coast (Le Havre), the book takes place in Paris, France in the late 20s or early 30s.   Miller is from NYC, he loves to talk about himself as a New Yorker, and so he frequently compares New York to Paris (I’ll relay my theory on that in just a bit).  

Miller is often broke and has to scheme at making his money last in between jobs or bumming off people.  In many ways the story is a raunchier version of George Orwell’s Down And Out In Paris and London, written about the same time.  Naturally, faced with starvation, poverty, squalor, etc. in the midst of the Depression, Miller has a great deal of negativity to work with, but instead of resisting it or dodging it, he absorbs it and allows it to change and define him, not “rolling with the punches” but beaten to a miserable piece of s**t.   He also fancies himself an artist, a writer, a bohemian, the kind of Wally-type slacker who takes pride in his anal-expulsiveness and indolence.  It seems to me that Orwell witnessed just as much crap, poverty, filth, and unpleasantness on his journeys – the same cities at the same time.  In fact, he’d seen much more, in Burma, in Barcelona, in London; and yet, despite all of that, he never descended into the cesspool (like a pig mucking around in the mud) the way Miller did.  Orwell kept a sense of decency and even defiance – 1984 and Animal Farm – to the end. 

None of Miller’s relationships are homosexual, and even the heterosexual ones are sleazy; I suppose after years of Penthouse Forum and (more recently) Fifty Shades, my standard for what I’m willing to consider “erotica” has far surpassed what passes for it in this book.  It’s not really explicit sex or detailed descriptions of acts.  In fact, the Tijuana Bibles of that time were 1000% more explicit than Tropic of Cancer; (I can’t comment on earlier “erotica” which I haven’t read).  ToC’s “sex” is more casual references to nudity, masturbation, and promiscuous sex and not much in the way of play-by-play, so to speak.  It’s like the easy familiarity of an intimate couple who take each other’s nudity for granted with the unspoken assumption that depending on the mood and circumstances, it could well turn into a quickie.   Much of the sex of ToC is really second hand relating of the sexual escapades of his male friends, and when it comes to discussing his own “fun”, it’s mostly him bragging about his prowess, endowment, or allure.  ZZZ.

NYC & Paris.  I’ve seen this preoccupation people who consider themselves “New Yorkers” have with Paris.  In fact, I see people from Chicago, Boston, Philadelphia and L.A. sometimes appear to have an inferiority complex relative to New York City, and in turn New Yorkers turn to Paris with this same complex.  By attaching themselves to Paris so often and trying to make a parallel between the two cities, while somehow (implicitly) acknowledging the futility thereof, they hope to make themselves honorary Parisians and that much more elegant and sophisticated.  Given that Paris as we know it really only took is current form with the Eiffel Tower in 1889, long after NYC was developed, I think New Yorkers sell themselves short by casting their eyes across the ocean.  Both cities have their unique charm and culture.  Let Parisians be Parisians, let Paris be Paris, and let New York be New York and New Yorkers be New Yorkers.   Unfortunately, Paris has no baseball or football team, and I can’t see a rivalry between the Red Bulls and Paris St-Germain. 

Movie.  Made in the 60s with Rip Torn as Henry Miller, and set in that time.  Really you see how it’s just a collection of meaningless and mostly independent sketches – and how horribly pretentious it was.  Not enough sex and nudity to make the supercrap remotely edible.