How can one escape the gloom and dejection that dominate modern literature? Why, by reading Henry Miller of course. We are told that happiness writes white and perhaps it does, but isn Miller’s case it’s a supernal, brilliant white and I could use more of it. As the second World War erupted, pushing 50 and fancying a break after two decades of writing, Miller travelled to Greece to visit his young friend Lawrence Durrell. The luminous, blissful book that resulted from his transformative time there was Miller’s favourite of his own works and it may be mine too. It is the morning of the first day of the great peace, the peace of the heart, which comes with surrender, I never knew the meaning of peace until I arrived at Epidaurus. Like everybody I had used the word all my life, without once realizing that I was using a counterfeit.” They thought it a very interesting story. So that's how it was in America? Strange country ... anything could happen there. I first met Miller at the end of 1936, when I was passing through Paris on my way to Spain. What most intrigued me about him was to find that he felt no interest in the Spanish war whatever. He merely told me in forcible terms that to go to Spain at that moment was the act of an idiot. He could understand anyone going there from purely selfish motives, out of curiosity, for instance, but to mix oneself up in such things from a sense obligation was sheer stupidity. In any case my Ideas about combating Fascism, defending democracy, etc., etc., were all baloney. Our civilization was destined to be swept away and replaced by something so different that we should scarcely regard it as human—a prospect that did not bother him, he said. And some such outlook is implicit throughout his work. Everywhere there is the sense of the approaching cataclysm, and almost everywhere the implied belief that it doesn't matter. Out of the sea, as if Homer himself had arranged it for me, the islands bobbed up, lonely, deserted, mysterious in the fading light'

It's on paper a travel book, but if you are looking for some sort of in-depth, detailed account of Greece and it's history, then this will not be the book for you, as that's not really the kind of book it is. It is more a journey of self-discovery for Miller and revelation, and although he does talk about the places he visits and gives a good account of them in his own poetic way, it's more about how Greece makes him feel, than anything else. He clearly has quite a spiritual awakening while spending time there, and he writes in a very effusive way, seeming as if he's becoming almost ecstatically happy and joyous as he travels around; philosophising with rapturous delight half the time, unless he's caught in a downpour, or being bothered by the odd tedious individual, here and there... A fertile setting for writers in need of inspiration, Hydra’s bohemian artistic community in the ’60s provided fodder for the literary wizards who’d adopted the island as their muse. From George Johnston’s barely-disguised biographies to Henry Miller’s transcendental ramblings, Daniel Klein’s epicurean musings and Charmian Clift’s poetic writing, all beautifully brought together in Polly Samson’s latest literary offering, Hydra plays protagonist and muse. The Colossus of Maroussi, Henry Miller

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One might say that Miller wanted to preserve an image of a paradise that he worried would soon be lost. But it wasn’t a paradise: Greece, as he mentions only once, was under a military dictatorship at this time. Should he have written about that? I can’t say. Not necessarily. But I can’t help but be reminded of another book, Roberto Bolano’s By Night in Chile, set during Pinochet’s coup, in which the artsy-fartsy folks sit around and talk about art and aesthetics while there’s a torture chamber in the basement. Miller drew his Colossus from events that occurred and landscapes he encountered while living for nine months in Greece. His portrayal of poet Katsimbalis and the country is tempered by the outbreak of the Second World War, which forced him to leave for the United States in December 1939. [2] Miller wrote the book in New York, and it reflects his resentment at having to return to America, as well as his feeling of isolation there. [2] Content [ edit ] Henry Miller’ı müstehcen olduğu gerekçesiyle uzunca bir süre yazıldığı dönemin yasaklı kitapları arasında olan Yengeç ve Oğlak Dönencesi ile tanıdım. Kesinlikle doğru, kitaplar fazla müstehcen olmakla beraber edebi değeri ise paha biçilemez bana göre. Aradan geçen bu sürede Marousi’nin Devi’yle karşımda bambaşka bir Hery Miller buldum. Kitabının son sayfalarında da bunu doğrulayan bir cümlesi var; ‘gözlerim bağlı, bocalayan, kararsız, adımlarla yürümüştüm;gururlu, kibirliydim...’ Access-restricted-item true Addeddate 2011-12-19 21:56:40 Boxid IA175401 Camera Canon EOS 5D Mark II City New York Donor

Vidal, Gore (9 September 1988). "From outlaws to intriguers". The Times Literary Supplement. p.979. Archived from the original on 4 March 2016 . Retrieved 14 August 2021.

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This is still nonfiction, but Miller's imaginative life at the time of his travels is real, and thus an important part of his narrative. In the end it all hangs together like a sumptuous tapestry woven by an inspired madman--which perhaps it is. We come away understanding more about the taste of Greek water, the quality of Greek light, and the magnificence of the Greek spirit than from reading all the objective reporting on Greece in the Library of Congress. He captures it all as it arrests him. Miller had an Olympian sense of himself, but in its sweetness and light Maroussi bears less of the mystic-surrealist bombast to which he was prone. He liked himself a great deal, and persuades us to like him too – we want to keep travelling, drinking, swimming, laughing in his company. After a climactic visit to an ego-boosting Armenian soothsayer in Athens, Miller determines that he will transcend the art that was was only ever training for his true masterpiece: life. Maroussi is his ode to joy and panegyric to generosity: from here on in he would use his immense, Whitmanian self for good. Could you ask for a more vivid and interesting description of a person? What more could you want to know about Katsimbalis?

We followed the blue-collar dogs to the Temple of Olympian Zeus and the National Gardens. Inspired by what I had seen, the casts of the missing Parthenon marbles, I felt the strength of the argument for their return. The experience of the actual Acropolis, windswept, expensive, hustled by tour gangs, is grim: far better to stroll the floors of the museum, to take coffee in a room with a view. Police cars screech around the tight curves of the Acropolis ascent, and the peddlers, Asians with cheap guidebooks and concertinas of photographs, scatter into the bushes to regroup in time for the next coach. A little later, strolling about the town, I, stopped into a shop near the museum, where they sold souvenirs and post-cards. I looked over the cards leisurely; the ones I liked best were soiled and wrinkled. The man, who spoke French fluently, offered to make the cards presentable. He asked me to wait a few minutes while he ran over to the house and cleaned and ironed them. He said he would make them look like new. I was so dumbfounded that before I could say anything he had disappeared, leaving me in charge of the shop. After a few minutes his wife came in. I thought she looked strange for a Greek woman. After a few words had passed I realized that she was French and she, when she learned that I hailed from Paris, was overjoyed to speak with me. We got along beautifully until she began talking about Greece. She hated Crete, she said. It was too dry, too dusty, too hot, too bare. She missed the beautiful trees of Normandy, the gardens with the high walls, the orchards, and so on. Didn't I agree with her? I said NO, flatly. "Monsieur!" she said, rising up in her pride and dignity, as if I had slapped her in the face.

There's a famous story about a lawyer who's been getting sniped at by a judge over and over for meaningless trivialities. Finally, after running afoul of the rules for the umpteenth time, the judge raps his gavel on the podium and says, "I am fining you five hundred dollars for contempt of court!" Soon enough, a circle of artists, poets, and writers formed around Miller, Katsimbalis, and Durrell. The intellectual company was joined by Nobel laureate poet Giorgos Seferis and the renowned painter, sculptor, and writer Nikos Hatzikyriakos Ghikas.