Aufklärung ([info]avralavral) rakstīja,
@ 2018-06-26 15:13:00
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vienīgais, ko esmu lasījusi no Millera, kaut kad sen, bet patika
On one side of the ledger are the books man has written, containing such a hodgepodge of wisdom and nonsense, of truth and falsehood, that if one lived to be as old as Methuselah one couldn't disentangle the mess; on the other side of the ledger things like toenails, hair, teeth, blood, ovaries, if you will, all incalculable and all written in another kind of ink, in another script, an incomprehensible, undecipherable script.

Henry Miller, Tropic of Capricorn, 1983

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(Anonīms)
2018-06-27 15:15 (saite)
In The Tropic of Cancer and The Colossus of Maroussi, where Miller is at his best, in spectacular bursts, in similar fits and starts throughout his oeuvre, there is an eager vitality and exuberance to the writing which is exhilarating; a rush of spirit into the world as though all the sparkling wines had been uncorked at once; and the language we watchfully hear skip, whoop and wheel across Miller’s pages makes an important esthetic point, especially to those of us who are more at home with Joyce or Woolf or James or Proust, and that is that beneath all the quiet ruminations of the mind, the slendered sensibilities, the measured lyricism of finer feelings, even nearby the remotest precincts of being, is a psyche like quicksand, an omnivorous animal, the continually chewing self.

William Gass, World Within The Word

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[info]avralavral
2018-06-27 15:41 (saite)
labs

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