Henry Miller
Henry Miller
Henry Valentine Millerwas an American writer. He was known for breaking with existing literary forms, developing a new sort of semi-autobiographical novel that blended character study, social criticism, philosophical reflection, explicit language, sex, surrealist free association and mysticism. His most characteristic works of this kind are Tropic of Cancer, Black Spring, Tropic of Capricornand The Rosy Crucifixion trilogy, all of which are based on his experiences in New York and Paris, and all of which were banned in the United...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionAutobiographer
Date of Birth26 December 1891
CityNew York City, NY
CountryUnited States of America
The only thing we never get enough of is love; and the only thing we never give enough of is love.
When shit becomes valuable, the poor will be born without assholes.
The world is not to be put in order, the world is order incarnate. It is for us to put ourselves in unison with this order.
All growth is a leap in the dark, a spontaneous unpremeditated act without benefit of experience.
A book lying idle on a shelf is wasted ammunition.
Americans can eat garbage, provided you sprinkle it liberally with ketchup, mustard, chili sauce, Tabasco sauce, cayenne pepper, or any other condiment which destroys the original flavor of the dish
It isn't the oceans which cut us off from the world -- it's the American way of looking at things.
He lives to express himself, and in so doing, enriches the world.
Instead of asking -- ''How much damage will the work in question bring about?'' why not ask -- ''How much good? How much joy?''
I feel that America is essentially against the artist, that the enemy of America is the artist, because he stands for individuality and creativeness, and that's un-American somehow.
Greece is the home of the gods; they may have died but their presence still makes itself felt. The gods were of human proportion: they were created out of the human spirit.
I took care of my wheel as one would look after a Rolls Royce. If it needed repairs I always brought it to the same shop on Myrtle Avenue run by a negro named Ed Perry. He handled the bike with kid gloves, you might say. He would always see to it that neither front nor back wheel wobbled. Often he would do a job for me without pay, because, as he put it, he never saw a man so in love with his bike as I was.
The only law which is really lived up to wholeheartedly and with a vengeance is the law of conformity.
If the poet can no longer speak for society, but only for himself, then we are at the last ditch.