by Henry Miller
What a deception you are in for! What plagues and scourges lie in wait for you! Give us your mightiest thoughts, shake the world to its foundations—but do not hope to escape your Calvary! Once you have launched your creations, be certain they will be turned against you. You will be unique if you are not overwhelmed and engulfed by monsters of your own breeding. The day is sure to come when you will look upon the world as if it had never received the impact of a single uplifting thought. You will be terrified and bewildered to see how thoroughly awry everything has gone, how utterly you and those you emulated have been misunderstood. The world you unwittingly helped to make will claim you, not as master or arbiter, but as its victim.
No, these things I cannot tell you in advance because, to begin with, you would never believe me. And you shouldn’t! Listening to you, observing the ardor which lights your countenance, I am almost ready to believe that I am wrong. And I am wrong in putting it to you this way, since one thing is true beyond all dispute, and that is—no matter what the game, it is worth playing to the end. But can you bring yourself to regard your high task as “a game”?
There is one other thing to know … when you have expressed yourself to the fullest, then and only then will it dawn upon you that everything has already been expressed, not in words alone but in deed, and that all you need really do is say Amen!
It was here at Big Sur that I first learned to say Amen! And here too that I came to dwell with more than a feeling of mystification on that edifying observation of Céline’s: “I piss on you all from a considerable height!” It was here, in the backwoods, as it were, that I discovered—mirabile dictu!—that three of my neighbors had read Arabia Deserta. It was also here, in my own home, that I met and retained as a guest for several months a man who had given up the ministry in order to lead a Christ-like life. It is here, and nowhere else, that I have witnessed people recast their ideas and live them out. And here, more than anywhere else, that I have listened to the greatest nonsense as well as the greatest wisdom.
Stay put and watch the world go round!
I know there are some who complain that Big Sur does not offer enough stimulus. My feeling, on the contrary, is that there is too much stimulus here. To the man whose senses are alive and alert there is not even the need to stir from one’s threshold. For such a one there is a world here as full and rich, as compelling and instructive, as Thoreau found at Walden.
As a man who is in love with the world—the alien world—I must confess that I am also in love with my home, the first real home I have known. Doubtless those who appreciate “home” most are the eternal vagabonds, the outlaws. If I am ever to venture forth into the world again I trust I can now offer something of root as well as flower. To offer simply what Big Sur has taught me would be no small thing. I say Big Sur, not America. For, however much a part of America Big Sur may be, and it is American through and through, what distinguishes it is something more than the word America conveys. If I were to single out one element in the American temperament which has been exalted here, it would be kindness. It has always been the custom here on the Coast, when raising one’s glass, to say: “Here’s kindness!” I have never heard the expression used elsewhere. And when Harrydick Ross, my nearest neighbor, says “Kindness!” it means just that.
Reading my quaint biographical romances, people often ask how on earth I managed to keep my head above water during the black years of famine and drought. I have explained, of course, and in these very books, that at the last ditch someone always came to my rescue. Anyone who has a steady purpose is bound to attract friends and supporters. What man ever accomplished anything alone? The impressive thing, however, is that aid, when it does come, never comes from the expected quarter—where it should come from, as we think.
No, we are never alone. But one has to live apart to know it for the truth.
The first time I knew what it was to be alone, and to like it, was on the island of Corfu. The second time it happened, despite all my talk about not being alone, was here at Big Sur.
To be alone, if only for a few minutes, and to realize it with all one’s being, is a blessing we seldom think to implore. The man of the big city dreams of life in the country as a refuge from all that plagues him and renders life intolerable. What he fails to realize, however, is that he can be more alone, if he chooses, in the midst of ten million souls than in a tiny community. To experience the feeling of aloneness is a spiritual achievement. The man who runs away from the city in search of this experience may find to his chagrin, particularly if he has brought with him all the cravings which city life fosters, that he has succeeded only in becoming lonely. “Solitude is for wild beasts or the gods,” said someone. And there is truth in it.
Only when we are truly alone does the fullness and richness of life reveal itself to us. In simplifying our lives, everything acquires a significance hitherto unknown. When we are one with ourselves the most insignificant blade of grass assumes its proper place in the universe. Or a piece of manure, for that matter. Properly attuned, it’s all one come Christmas, as we say. One thing becomes just as important as another, one person as good as another. Lowest and highest become interchangeable. The own precious self gets swallowed up in the ocean of being. It is then that the carrion bird no longer seems hideous, nor merely to be tolerated because of his scavenger propensities. Nor do the stones in the field then seem inanimate, or to be regarded with an eye toward future walls and buttresses. Even if it last for only a few moments, the privilege of looking at the world as a spectacle of unending life and not as a repository of persons, creatures and objects to be impressed into our service, is something never to be forgotten. The ideal community, in a sense, would be the loose, fluid aggregation of individuals who elected to be alone and detached in order to be at one with themselves and all that lives and breathes. It would be a God-filled community, even if none of its members believed in (a) God. It would be a paradise, even though the word had long disappeared from our vocabulary.
In all the cities and countries I dream of visiting one day there are, of course, no such communities. Even in the holiest places man is prone to act the fool, the bigot, the idolater. As I said before, today we find only individuals dedicated to “the good life.” Nevertheless, these isolated individuals are bringing about a community which will one day replace the dismembered warring communities which are a disgrace to the name. The world does tend to become one, however much its component elements may resist. Indeed, the stronger the resistance the more certain is the outcome. We resist only what is inevitable.
I have talked of Big Sur as if it were a place apart, having little or no connection with the world. Nothing could be less true. Nowhere else in my travels have I found individuals more alert to what is going on in the world, nor better informed. It is rare that a community as small as this can boast so many world travelers. I never cease to be amazed when I hear that this one has just left for Siam, that one for Japan, Turkey, or Greece, another for India or Peru, another for Guatemala, Yucatan, or the Polynesian Islands. Some of my neighbors have dwelt for extended periods in very remote parts of the globe. Some have lived with the Indians (of both continents), some with the primitive peoples of Africa, Japan, India, Melanesia.
Nearly every one seems to be a specialist in some field, be it art, archaeology, linguistics, symbolism, Dianetics, Zen Buddhism or Irish folklore. Men like Ross and Tolerton, to mention two near neighbors, have a range of practical knowledge, not to speak of earthly and heavenly wisdom, which would be hard to match in any community. Others, like the Trotter boys, as they are still called, perform feats of strength in the daily pursuance of their tasks which would put glorified “strong men” to shame. Nearly all the women are excellent cooks, and the men as well ofttimes. Every other home possesses a connoisseur of wines. And every other father has the makings of an excellent mother.
I cannot refrain from repeating—never have I known a community in which there was so much talent, so many capable m
en and women, so many resourceful, self-sufficient souls. Even that scallywag up in the hills who pretends to be a good for nothing, “a real son of a bitch,” as he lovingly labels himself, knows how to live with himself and can be, when he chooses, a most gentle, lovable, charitable person, one of those happy “misfits” who has tasted everything and who, God bless him!, has therefore no more respect for the inside of a temple than the inside of a jail, no more consideration for a scholar than for a tramp, no higher opinion of a judge than of the culprit who keeps the judge in food and raiment.
And where else in this beloved country is a neighbor apt to turn up unexpectedly in order to inquire what he can do for you? Meaning by that—what needs fixing, mending or repairing? In an emergency there are always a half-dozen fullbodied spirits within shouting distance who can be relied upon to drop everything and come to one’s assistance. I have never known a situation to arise, and I must say we have had some bizarre ones, with which these volunteers could not cope. The moral of all this is—the less organization the better!
When all is said and done, there remains the inescapable fact that to keep a footing here taxes all one’s resources. One may be capable, practical, determined, persevering, full of vitality, yet never quite equal to the challenge which is constantly imposed. It is all thrown at you pell-mell: landscapes, seascapes, forests, streams, birds of passage, weeds, pests, rattlesnakes, gophers, earwigs, misfits, vagabonds, sunsets, rainbows, yarrow, hollyhocks, and that leech of the plant world called the morning-glory. Even the rocks are seductive and hypnotic. And where else on this earth will you find a towering wall of fog advancing from the date line with a knife-blue crest behind which a setting sun shoots out “squirrels and lightning”?
It is all so inviting, so spectacular, so complete in itself, that at first you are emotionally stymied. The preliminary bout of intoxication which inevitably follows is one the alcoholic never knows. Comes a settling down period, generally accompanied by a slight touch of boredom—the ransom one pays for flirting with perfection. Then follows the trouble period, when inner doubts pave the way for domestic squabbles, and the whole horizon grows dark with conflict. When at last you hit bottom, you say—every one has said it at least once!—“Big Sur? Why, it’s just like every other place!” Speaking thus, you voice a profound truth, since a place is only what you make it, what you bring to it, just as with a friend, a lover, a wife, a pet or a pursuit.
Yes, Big Sur can be a dream come true—or a complete washout. If there’s something wrong with the picture, have a look at yourself in the mirror. The one difference between Big Sur and other “ideal” spots is that here you get it quick and get it hard. Get it between the eyes, so to say. The result is that you either come to grips with yourself or else turn tail and seek some other spot in which to nourish your illusions. Which leaves a whole universe to roam—and who is to care should you never come face to face with yourself?
Big Sur is not a Mecca, a Lourdes, or even a Lhasa. Nor is it a Klondike for the incurable idealist. If you are an artist and think to muscle in here, it would be wise to first find a patron, because the artist cannot live off the artist, and here every other individual, seemingly, is an artist of one sort or another. Even the plumbers.
What could one bring that would be of value to the community? Just a normal, modest desire to do whatever needs to be done in whatever way it can be done. Briefly, two capable hands, a strong heart, and a certificate of vaccination against disillusionment. If you have an intellect, bring it with you, but not the rubbish that usually goes with it. There are too many intellects here already. And, if you bring nothing else, bring a sense of humor, for you will need it here if you haven’t needed it elsewhere. If you believe in medicine, bring your own medicine chest, for there are no doctors here except learned ones. And don’t bring any pets unless you are prepared to make frequent trips to the veterinary, because, for reasons as yet unknown, the pets here take on all the illnesses of human kind as well as those of the animal kingdom.
As for Partington Ridge, whence this message emanates, there is still no telegraph, no telephone, no sewage system, no garbage disposal plant. To get rid of your empty bottles, tin cans and other refuse, you must own a car and drive an appreciable distance to the allotted dumping ground, or else engage the professional services of Howard Welch, the man from Missouri.
Thus far Big Sur has crept along with what’s to hand. What is probably needed to put it on the map are—a brothel, a jail, and a gold-plated electric chair. It would also be wonderful to have a Jewish delicatessen, but that’s probably asking too much all at once.
In tailing off I would like to quote the words of another Henry Miller, better known in these parts than yours truly. I refer to Henry Miller the cattle baron, a man who once owned so much land that one could start from the Mexican border and walk to Canada without ever taking foot off his possessions. Anyway, here is what he once said: “If a man is so unfortunate as to beg for food, give it to him and win his gratitude. Never make him work for it and get his hatred.”
PART TWO
PEACE AND SOLITUDE:
A POTPOURRI
1.
I had gone to bed to nurse a cold when it started, the hemorrhage. Whenever I take to bed (in broad daylight), which is my way of curing colds, hemorrhoids, melancholia or any ailment real or imaginary, I always put beside the bed a little bench laden with cigarettes, ash tray and reading matter. Just in case….
After I had whiled away an hour or two in delicious reverie, I reached for the issue of La Nouvelle Revue Française which my friend Gerald Robitaille had sent me. It was the issue dedicated to Charles-Albert Cingria, who had passed away a few months before. In his letter Gerald asked if I had ever heard of Cingria. I had indeed. It so happens that I met Cingria, for the first and only time, at the home of Bravig Imbs, in Paris. It was a whole afternoon and evening that I spent, most fortunately, in Cingria’s company. These few short hours stand out as one of the events in my life.
What I had not known, until I picked up the revue, was that at the time of this meeting Cingria was traversing one of the worst periods in his life. Who would have suspected that this man who had the look of a clown, or a defrocked priest, this man who never ceased talking, joking, laughing, drinking—it was New Year’s Eve and we were consuming pitchers of eggnog—who would have dreamed, as I say, that this man would leave us to return to a miserable hole in the hall, where crusts of bread were hidden away under bureaus and commodes and where he could plainly hear the noises made by everyone who went to the W.C.*
As I read the tributes that were paid him, as I perceived what a remarkable personality his was, what a fantastic life he had led, what precious things he had written, my head began to whirl. Thrusting the revue aside—I couldn’t possibly read another line—the hemorrhage suddenly broke loose. Like a drunken boat I tossed about, wallowing in the flood of memories which assailed me. After a time I rose, found a notebook, and began inditing cryptic cues. It went on for several hours. I forgot that I had a cold, forgot what time it was.
It was after midnight when I reluctantly laid down the pencil and switched off the lights. As I closed my eyes I said to myself: “Now is the time to tell about your life in Big Sur.”
And so I shall tell it, in the same disorderly fashion that it came to me the other day as I lay abed….
I suspect that many who read my books, or talk about my life, believe that I am living in an ivory tower. If I am, it is a tower without walls in which fabulous and often “anachronistic” things happen. In following this fantasia the reader should bear in mind that cause and event, chronology, order of any kind—except the illogical order of life itself—is absent.
Picture a day, for example, an excruciating one, in which I have been interrupted at least half a dozen times, and then … well, after an exciting talk with a writer who has just come from Paris (or Rome or Athens), after another talk with a bore who wants to know every detail about my life, past and pr
esent, and whom I discover (too late) has never read a single one of my books, after examining the cesspool to see why it doesn’t work, after shooing away three students who stand at the door and apologetically explain that all they want of me is my opinion of Job—yes, Job, no less!—and they are not joking, only too serious, alas! after one thing and another, with intermittent attempts to resume where I left off (the middle of a sentence), comes the incomparable Varda with a bouquet of “jeunes filles en fleur.” Observing that I am unusually quiet, and not realizing that it is a result of exhaustion, he exclaims: “And here I have been telling these girls what a wonderful raconteur you are! Come, do tell them something about your ‘anecdotal life’!” (A phrase of Zadkine’s.)
Strangely enough, at one in the morning, the table littered with empty glasses, bread crumbs and bits of rind, the guests departed at last, silence once again enveloping us, what is it that is singing in my head but a line from one of Cendrars’ books, an enigmatic line, in his own inimitable French, which had me electrified a few nights before. There is no relation whatsoever between this line of Cendrars’ and the multitudinous events of the day. We, Varda and I, had not even mentioned Cendrars’ name, which is unusual because, with certain of my friends—Varda, Gerhart Muensch, Giles Healey, Ephraim Doner—we sound off with Cendrars and finish with Cendrars. So there I sit with that curious, tantalizing line of his, trying to recall what evoked it and wondering how I shall finish the sentence I left on the roller hours and hours ago. I ask myself—I’ve asked it over and over—how ever did this extraordinary man, Cendrars, turn out so many books in such a short time (I refer to the period right after the Occupation) with only one hand, his left hand, and no secretary to aid him, no heat, little food, his beloved sons killed in the war, his huge library destroyed by the Huns, and so on. I sit there reliving, or trying to relive, his life, his books, his thoughts, his emotions. My day, full as it was, only begins there in the ocean of his prodigious being….
