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eBook Category: Erotica/Classic Literature
eBook Description: Henry Miller's best-known and most famous work (on anybody's top 100 list, and among this year's top 50 sellers), was first published by Girodias's father in 1934. The book itself was accepted by Jack Kahane in '31, but the economy and Kahane's legal struggles led him to continually delay launching the title into print, a situation that was remedied only by Anais Nin's agreeing to pay printer's costs several years later. (A few accounts have Nin receiving the money from her rich broker husband, others state she got the money from her lover and former therapist.) However it happened, Tropic of Cancer was an immediate underground sensation. The book is an avant-garde account of Henry's poverty-stricken days in Paris, after he'd fled New York, America, and the aftermath of a disastrous marriage, offering life in its minutest detail.

eBook Publisher: Disruptive Publishing, Inc./Olympia Press, Published: 1934
Fictionwise Release Date: May 2004

12 Reader Ratings:

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Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: eReader (PDB) [327 KB] , ePub (EPUB) [261 KB] , Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [287 KB] , Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [1.1 MB] , Palm Doc (PDB) [336 KB] , Microsoft Reader (LIT) [264 KB] , Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [332 KB] , hiebook (KML) [658 KB] , Sony Reader (LRF) [324 KB] , iSilo (PDB) [278 KB] , Mobipocket (PRC) [342 KB] , Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [366 KB] , OEBFF Format (IMP) [440 KB]
Words: 107000
Reading time: 305-428 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Portable Document Format (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

I am living at the Villa Borghese. There is not a crumb of dirt anywhere, nor a chair misplaced. We are all alone here and we are dead.

Last night Boris discovered that he was lousy. I had to shave his armpits and even then the itching did not stop. How can one get lousy in a beautiful place like this? But no matter. We might never have known each other so intimately, Boris and I , had it not been for the lice.

Boris has just given me a summary of his views. He is a weather prophet. The weather will continue bad, he says. There will be more calamities, more death, more despair. Not the slightest indication of a change anywhere. The cancer of time is eating us away. Our heroes have killed themselves, or are killing themselves. The hero, then, is not Time, but Timelessness. We must get in step, a lock step, toward the prison of death. There is no escape. The weather will not change.

It is now the fall of my second year in Paris. I was sent here for a reason I have not yet been able to fathom.

I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive. A year ago, six months ago, I thought that I was an artist. I no longer think about it, I am. Everything that was literature has fallen from me. There are no more books to be written, thank God.

This then? This is not a book. This is libel, slander, defamation of character. This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolongeo insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty ... what you will. I am going to sing for you, a little off key perhaps but I will sing. I will sing while you croak, I will dance over your dirty corpse....

To sing you must first open your mouth. You must have a pair of lungs, and a little knowledge of music. It is not necessary to have an accordion, or a guitar. The essential thing is to want to sing. This then is a song. I am singing.

It is to you, Tania, that I am singing. I wish that I could sing better, more melodiously, but then perhaps you would never have consented to listen to me. You have heard the others sing and they have left you cold. They sang too beautifully, or not beautifully enough.

It is the twenty-somethingth of October. I no longer keep track of the date. Would you say--my dream of the I 4th November last? There are intervals, but they are between dreams, and there is no consciousness of them left. The world around me is dissolving, leaving here and there spots of time. The world is a cancer eating itself away.... I am thinking that when the great silence descends upon all and everywhere music will at last triumph. When into the womb of time everything is again withdrawn chaos will be restored and chaos is the score upon which reality is written. You, Tania, are my chaos. It is why I sing. It is not even I, it is the world dying. shedding the skin of time. I am still alive, kicking in your womb, a reality to write upon.

Dozing off. The physiology of love. The whale with his six foot penis, in repose. The bat--penis libre. Animals with a bone in the penis. Hence, a bone on ... "Happily," says Gourmont, "the bony structure is lost in man." Happily? Yes, happily. Think of the human race walking around with a bone on. The kangaroo has a double penis--one for weekdays and one for holidays. Dozing. A letter from a female asking if I have found a title for my book. Title? To be sure: "Lovely Lesbians."

Your anecdotal life! A phrase of M. Borowski's. It is on Wednesdays that I have lunch with Borowski. His wife, who is a dried-up cow, officiates. She is studying English now--her favourite word is "filthy." You can see immediately what a pain in the ass the Borowskis are. But wait....