It's been a while since I've read Henry Miller. Like 25 odd years, and so when I saw "Under the Roofs of Paris" I picked it up. Inside the flap it advertised itself as having 10 times the sexual content of Tropic of Cancer.
And it's true, it's out and out pornography, fucking and more fucking and if there's a paragraph without fucking it's only to help the main character (read Henry) get from one location to the other, where he can fuck some more (and break more taboos....).
"There are books to be read with one hand, and books to be read with two..."
That noted, this is a one handed book. Now I wonder how much of what he's telling us actually transpired, and how much he's making up, it seems a bit much and then I think some more and realize he's probably, if anything, toned it down. I mean, if you were so inclined you could have all of these adventures and then some. But personally, I'm more interested in the characters, the environment, the art scene of Paris in the 30's, etc. Which is my fault, because it really isn't that sort of book, not at all, it teases you with the introduction then proceeds immediately to the main chance.
It's good, he can write for sure, but - be warned, it's all about the fucking.
Link: Henry Miller on YouTube