Of all the Henry Miller Novels I'm enjoying this the most. Because it's him on writing, living, in Big Sur California, at the height of the 1950's counterculture.
A lot less raucous sex (so far) and a lot more of the living the values I can relate to.
It reminds me of Nelson, as it was perhaps 10, 20 years ago. It is somewhat the same now, but real estate, rent, the "buying-in" has gotten exorbitant, ridiculous, and the titled hippies, now millionaires, barons, baronesses, counts, countesses, they've been corrupted, eccentricity when poor becomes despotism when they think they're rich.
So, Big Sur, I mean, everyone went there - Steinbeck, Pynchon, Man Ray, Dylan Thomas, Jack Kerouac, Hunter S. Thompson, William Burroughs, Ginsberg, everyone went for a while, their time in the wilderness.
Few stayed, I'm not sure that Miller did for long beyond the scope of this book (I haven't finished it yet), but - it seems a place I should definitely visit.
Anyways, This, more autobiographical than his other books, more in the tradition of a writer on writing - and as such he comes off much better than he does say in "Tropic of Cancer" & "Tropic of Capricorn". Those - autobiographical to an extent, but also largely novels. This is him settled down, writing about more human relationships with wives and neighbors. And he has some pretty good neighbors.
It is a treat when a good book refers you to another good book you should read, that you haven't yet, and you make a note - the convenience of the internet is that whatever I don't know I can find out. And so note after note...
Like: Henry Miller's Watercolors (I didn't know he painted....), Artist Abe Rattner (neighbor), Ecce Homo by George Grosz, (funny, in that a painting by that name was infamously restored a few years ago, to art-lovers dismay and internet trolls delight...you know the painting...)
And for Authors: Arabia Deserta - Charles Montagu Doughty, Lillian Bos Ross, Robinson Jeffers, Rimbaud, "The House of Certain Death" by Albert Cossery, some of whom were Miller's neighbors, others people he knew through correspondence, and those he merely read and admired.
And - by this point, early 50's, he's well admired throughout the world. He wants - as always, only for cash, everyone knows his name but for some reason (the war) his royalties from France are slow to arrive. But he talks of his fame, people showing up unannounced to look at his pictures, see the writer, the sacks of mail, the hippies and drop outs and drop ins that frequent the Big Sur area, so, in almost every way a very relatable book...
Still another half to go, a little thicker than I'm used to reading, but enjoyable every inch of the way...