Henry Miller

Twilight hour. Indian blue, water of glass, trees glistening and liquescent.

It was just dawning on me that to make music one had first to make himself into an exquisite, sensitive instrument.

If they liked it it would appear in print, my name would be signed to it, and I could show it to my friends, carry it about with me, put it under my pillow at night, read it surreptitiously, over and over, because the first time you see yourself in print you’re beside yourself, you’ve at last proved to the world that you really are a writer, and you must prove it to the world, at least once in your life, or you will go mad from believing it all by yourself.

What good will it do to make an invisible temple?

Perhaps it is because the book has begun to grow inside me. I am carrying it around with me everywhere. I walk through the streets big with child and the cops escort me across the street. Women get up to offer me their seats. Nobody pushes me rudely any more. I am pregnant. I waddle awkwardly, my big stomach pressed against the weight of the world.

We can call Miller the greatest living Patagonian.

I have often thought that the Germans make the best Americans, though they certainly make the worst Germans.

what makes money make money?”

“Oui, tu as raison, salope que tu es. Mais moi je n’aime pas les jardins, les pots de fleurs, la petite vie adoucie. Je n’aime pas la Normandie. J’aime le soleil, la nudité, la lumiére….”