. Spinning .

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.

Some points of interest…

Some seemingly philosophical soliloquies on the state of mankind, the government, and God.

The idea of combining fact with fiction on such a personal level that the narrator is once referred to as "Henry" and why perhaps this choice was made to publish this as a novel.  Embellishment of truth, perhaps, and yet it makes one wary of trusting the author/first person narrator.

A rather stinky ending, just when the story seemed to follow something concrete and linear as opposed to freeloading and free wandering adventures.  Though I cannot truly say I expected any more than this out of this character, he does still disappoint.  I think that my near dislike of him as someone of any substance prevented me from closer reading the the few areas–such as those mentioned above where imagery and metaphor and symbolism appear to collide.  But then again, perhaps not. 

All in all, while I can understand the freedom of language and randomness of thought, the almost anti-American tone and making Paris both a beauty and a beast, I’m glad to say I’m finally done with it and place it back upon the shelf.

Miller’s character has been one filled with low regard for women–notwithstanding the obvious explanation that he is hanging out with whores.  But there is a subtle empathy here:

When I listen to the reproaches that are leveled against a girl like Lucienne, when I hear her being denigrated or despised because she is cold and mercenary, because she is too mechanical, or because she’s in too great a hurry, or ecause this or because that, I say to myself, hold on there bozo, not so fast!  Remember that you’re far back in the procession; remember that a whole army corp has laid siege to her, that she’s been laid waste, plundered and pillaged. (p. 160)

I think that this ’empathy’ begins only out of seeing how much worse his fellow friends hold whores in their regard that brings the narrator on the other side, even for an instant.  It is not quite enough for me to begin to like him.  There is no real dislike of the character (based upon Miller’s own), and yet he comes off a bit flat with random ravings on the philosophical state of mankind.  It is for me a trial to listen to him; a young know-it-all who thinks he is in the hub of life because it is the backstreets of Paris he scrounges.  Yet this writer does not write–except about himself it would seem, and his friends.  To be poor in Paris is romantic; to be poor elsewhere is to be hard up.

Our young man gets a job as a proofreader, and his outlook changes, his spirits are lifted.

I had to travel precisely all around the world to find just such a comfortable, agreeable niche as this.  It seems incredible almost.  How could I have foreseen, in America, with all those firecrackers they put up your ass to give you pep and courage, that the ideal position for a man of my temperament was to look for orthographic mistakes?  Over there you think of nothing but becoming President of the United States some day.  Potentially every man is Presidential timber.  Here it’s different.  Here every man is potentially a zero.  If you become something or somebody it is an accident, a miracle. (…)

But it’s just because the chances are all against you, just because there is so little hope, that life is sweet over here.  Day by day.  No yesterdays and no tomorrows.  The barometer never changes, the flag is always at half-mast.  (p. 150)

Eternal pessimist that I am, I like this type of thinking.  It’s the "I’ve been down so long it looks like up to me" attitude that brings some of us over the fences, up the hills, stumbling toward the finish line.

It is an odd philosophy of life this, but then, the land of milk and honey is a myth and not more than one  out of thousands of Bay City, Michigan little girls grows up to be Madonna. When you’ve never held a rose, the little violet is astonishing. Think about this: "But it’s just because the chances are all against you, just because there is so little hope, that life is sweet over here. 

It is a matter of perception based on experience that determines expectations that are realistic.  Maybe it is the opposite of dreaming, and for many, dreams are what keep them alive.  Many achieve their dreams, or a reasonable facsimile.  Many more never do, for dreams and hopes do not pay college tuition, win lottery tickets, or charm George Clooney into a marriage proposal.  Time and space play a large part, as to opportunity and ambition.  Just because you’ve the confidence to believe in yourself and think you’re good, doesn’t mean you are.

The strange thing about this in our narrator is that when he adopts this perspective, he becomes happier, recognizing that while he is in miserable circumstances, he is still one step above bottom ground.