A Sentence from Miller

I have been reading Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, a mixed experience at best.  It seems a juvenile book in many respects, immature, self-obsessed, desperate to make a name for itself, to do something original, to be something other than a book. What is most frustrating, however, is that it has moments of genuine brilliance where Miller shows himself capable of the best sort of writing, and I am left disappointed, wishing that he had done more and better, that he had written something that mattered more than Paris cafes and uninteresting roommates and cheap whores.  In any case, here is a sentence that shows what he can be at his best, one of those impossible sentences that I love so much:

“Tania is a fever too – les voies urinaires, Cafe de la Liberte, Place des Visges, bright neckties on the Boulevard Montparnasse, dark bathrooms, Porto Sec, Abdullah cigarettes, the adagio sonata Pathetique, aural amplificators, anecdotal seances, burnt sienna breasts, heavy garters, what time is it, golden pheasants stuffed with chestnuts, taffeta fingers, vaporish twilights turning to ilex, acromegaly, cancer and delirium, warm veils, poker chips, carpets of blood and soft thighs.”

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