Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer Analysis
Henry Miller was one of America’s leading fiction writers, famous for his autobiographical and surreal fiction. He was a wild horse known for his wasteful lifestyle of alcohol and prostitutes. From America he emigrated to Paris to indulge himself on an aesthetic trip. His books were labeled pornographic and once banned in the United States.
There is very little philosophy in his writings, although theater, opera and music were aligned with his writings. There are some, few tropes in your writing. Most days he is drunk or a womanizer. Alcohol and women are a frequent leitmotif in his writings. He has little respect for the women he meets and treats them like stale sardines.
What would your philosophy of life be? It is one marked by chaotic nihilism and anarchy. Use profane language. He is unable to turn his sexual adventures into lyrical prose similar to poetry. Do you have a brothel mentality? There is no sublime sensuality in his writing and his writing is marked by the rough and the vulgar.
There is no literary depth in his writing. You find a feeling of unease when you go ahead with your writing. His writing is trapped in a fetish of man-centered sadistic nihilism. He is an escape artist who does not want to face the realities of life. For him, women are an obsession and he is trapped in the trauma of an oedipal arrest. One encounters the existentialism of a reprobate mind. Culture for him is a personalized evangelistic dirt. He’s caught up in the spirit of self-pity and the pseudo-narcissism of an inflated ego. You are overconfident in your writing skills. There is no catharsis in his sexual experiences with women. After the big bang and the straw, the curtain falls.
There is no personal satisfaction in his writing. He is a misogynist who ejaculates ugly semen on paper. He’s desperate caught up in the blasphemy of his own crap created by himself. Towards men, their relationship is clouded by domination and self-centeredness. He is a supreme egoist who is wrapped in a shell of despicable malevolence. Reading it, one is forced to sink to the shores of degraded nihilism. It involves the words in a virulent storm of circumlocution. From plateau to summit, it traverses like a locomotive phallus in self-proclaimed anguish. Literature is very scarce and his writing is equivalent to that of a prostitute. He is unhappy with life. His feelings are those of a petty and short-sighted criminal. It does not take the reader to sublime heights of dizzying elevation. The narrative is also fragmented and does not follow any order of thought. I would like to label him a meritorious writer.