When I finished that last post I moved along into housework and such, wondering how I could be so flippant about a piece of work that’s considered a classic. I do understand the notion of classics not necessarily being known as such for particularly fine writing skill and so on. And I realize that with the passing of time, that which was once extraordinary may lose its luster. I suppose this work of Henry Miller and others of the same style broke ground in their banning and acceptance due to language in particular. That, and in the view of an American in Paris that shows a seamier side of the city, a true love/hate relationship that stirs the soul.
How unrighteously snobbish of me to assume that because the writer/narrator was no one I particularly cared for, I dug no deeper into his words. Offered no insight aside from a few postings on story and writing style. Then again, I am but one reader and certainly entitled to my own reaction. If I have failed to ferret out the extraordinary in this novel, I have not offended by taking anything away from the book or its ultimate readers. Very simply, I was not moved to uncover, to find any more than what was served up to me easily. My loss, if any.