Henry Miller
Tropico Del Cancro

In an essay, George Orwell, contextualizing this absolute masterpiece in the landscape of the '30s, states that Miller, unlike his contemporary Marxists, has more affinity with artists of the previous decade, such as Eliot and Joyce, whose works are devoid of any politico-social interest. He describes him as the bard of the average man, bored by any discourse that strays from his personal sphere, attentive only to the harsh reality of things in their rawness, stripped of any "high" meaning. This is partially true.

It is highly recommended for anyone to open this book and accompany the author in what was his real "bohemian" Parisian life. Losing ourselves in the surreal, grotesque pages of "Tropic of Cancer", an extraordinary debut work, one cannot help but notice that beyond the obscene language, the degraded streets of Paris, full of brothels and bars overflowing with hungry pseudo-artists, hunger, a visceral immersion in the flesh, in its ugliness but also in its flashes of light, there's much more. Miller manages to put on paper all the futility and superficiality that is the world. He does not attempt to find something behind it. He shows understanding, and enjoys it. Torn the veil of Maya, he discovers that beneath it there is nothing, less than nothing. But he enjoys that nothing, and with furious joy, because it is the only real thing. This is the difference between the narrating "I" of this novel, and many of its characters, and the average man. And perhaps between Miller and Orwell. The awareness.

"And then this? This is not a book. It's a pamphlet, libel, defamation. But it's not a book, in the usual sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a spit in the face of Art, a kick to Divinity, to Man, to Destiny, to Time, to Love, to Beauty... to whatever you please. I will sing for you, perhaps a bit off-key, but I will sing. I will sing while you die, I will dance on your dirty carcass..."