La vie est une plage;
we’re all a bit screwy.
Indeed, “you can be as whacky as you like, so long as you don’t go breaking up the furniture.” I like Henry Miller.
He deserves the criticism, which is an unfortunate side-product of his rawness.
“One has to allow for drift.”
He has quotes for immigration:
“America. The same paradise which millions of souls have fabricated in the darkness of despair.”
And democracy: “Democracy, a vague, empty word, simply denotes the confusion which the common man has ushered in and in which he flourished like the weeds.”
Henry lives in his own world, as many writers have their own worlds. They stand accused of being alcoholics and bums: true bohemian artists. He refuses to make terms with the world. He wanders incessantly: “the farther I get from myself the more certain I am to have an inspiration.”
I belong lost and wandering in the west.
Also, I belong found and building.
Within me lives a war between frugality and extravagance.
Vagrancy & construction.