Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch

by Henry Miller

  What can you work on in the hour or so that is left? You tackle this, then that. Nothing goes right. You are all too conscious of the speed with which the light is fading. Soon it will be time to chop wood, break coal, fill the kerosene lamps, hold the baby while it squawks. Perhaps there are no more clean diapers. Then it’s a rush to the sulphur baths three miles down the road. Sometimes you get a hitch, sometimes not. To walk six miles with a bucketful of diapers is no joke. Especially if it’s raining. Thoroughly done in and hoping to throw yourself on the couch and take a little snooze, what do you find on arriving but an old friend, someone who came a thousand miles or more to see you!

  On the way home, despite the hard trudge, despite the rain, ideas had been streaming in on you. You thought you knew just how to go on from where you had left off a few hours ago. You tell yourself over and over to remember it—a word, a phrase, sometimes a whole paragraph. You must hold on to this little item or the thought will fall apart. (You never have pencil and paper with you, of course.) So you keep repeating some idiotic key words over and over as you plod wearily along. At the same time you wonder if there is enough coal and wood to last should the storm continue for several days or weeks. Did you close the window in the studio where your manuscript was lying? Don’t forget to drop so and so a line….

  Of course it is mail day again before you get round to answering those important letters. Time presses. The mornings are always short, what with one thing and another. There is no time to write the letter you intended to write; it will have to be just a scratch, a postcard perhaps. “More anon … in haste as always, your friend, etc.” Again Jake is honking the horn, and again you rush up for a new batch of agony. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, sure as fate itself.

  One can work at night, of course. Certainly. I try that too. When it is impossible to work any longer in the studio I drag my papers to the house. I have hardly spread them out, it seems, when it is time to set the table for dinner. I push the papers aside. We eat. Then we clear the table, wash the dishes, spread the papers out again. Strange, but I feel sleepy. I look at the clock. It is only nine-thirty. In New York, Paris, or any big city, I would be wide awake and wondering what movie to go to. But at Big Sur I have only one thought—to hit the hay. I curse myself for being a slacker, crawl into bed, and try to prepare myself, mentally, to jump out of bed at the crack of dawn.

  Sometimes I do get up with the dawn, by God. Then it’s so beautiful that I must first take a walk. I was never one to start work first thing in the morning, and never on an empty stomach.

  Well, the walk was wonderful. I have a thousand new ideas, all of them brilliant, extraordinary. I am almost on the trot by the time I near the house. So many ideas, I don’t know what to tackle first. Shall I go on with the Rimbaud opus or revise the Rattner script? Or shall I tackle The Rosy Crucifixion this morning, seeing as how the day began so auspiciously? No one is awake yet. I tiptoe about, get the fire started, make breakfast, and between times spend long minutes standing over the baby’s crib. She looks just like an angel when asleep. Soon she will be cooing and chirping and gurgling. I can’t rush to work immediately after break fast; I want to see her being bathed and dressed, I want to hold her in my arms a while, talk to her in her bird and dog language. After that, just because the day has begun so well, I decide that I won’t write after all … I’ll paint. It’s too lovely a day to waste time writing books which will only be condemned. No, I’ll do something I really enjoy. I’ll make a water color or two.

  Now the six-foot table on which all my papers are carefully arranged has to be cleared. I make ready for the carnival, moistening the sheets, cleaning my palette, squeezing out bright new pigments which I have never used before. Then it’s on, it’s got me, the water-color mania. It may last a few days or a few weeks. Everything else is forgotten meanwhile. I am a painter again. The only life! Why in hell was I born a writer? Maybe I’m not a writer any more. But deep down I know that, after I have had my fling, I will go back to the typewriter. I will die sitting at the typewriter, in all probability. I know it. But now and then I allow myself the luxury of thinking that one day I will chuck it all. I will do nothing. Just live.

  But what does that mean, to just live? To live without creating, to live only in the imagination … is that living? No, I know it isn’t. I am not quite at this stage of renunciation. Too many urges still, too many desires, too great a need of communicating with the world. “But couldn’t you slow up?” I ask myself. “Why not take it easy for a while?”

  It is at such moments that I think of the unanswered letters, of the many who are clamoring for just a little word—of advice, of appreciation, of encouragement, of criticism, of this, of that. I think first of their problem, mind you. And then I think of the unfinished books. And then of the places I would still love to visit: China, India, Java, Burma, Tahiti, Peru, Persia, Afghanistan, Arabia, Tibet, Haiti, the Carolines. But will there be time for all that? I try to figure out how many years may be allotted me. I give it up. Maybe I will live to be a hundred. Maybe now, in my fifties, I am passing through a second youth. When I get to be seventy, perhaps then I will have the time to do all the things I want to do…. So it goes.

  And then I hear Jake honking his horn! Mail day! It begins all over again. There’s no use, I’m licked.

  With all this caterwauling I haven’t said a word about my friend Emil White who has been trying to lift me out of the rut these last two years. What would I have done without him? Ever since he came to Big Sur he has been giving unstintingly of his time and strength. The loads he carried up and down Partington Ridge, where I lived before, were enough to slay a donkey. Day after day he has gone to the forest, gathered wood for us, chopped it, dragged the coal sacks up the hill, fixed whatever was falling apart or leaking or tottering. And as if all that were not enough, on leaving he would take with him the letters I hadn’t found time to answer and he would answer them for me. He has mailed out hundreds of books and water colors for me; he built me a studio out of thin air; he cooked my meals for me when my wife was away; he even bought a car so that he could drive to town and buy more cheaply for us, and then the car ran away with him and he almost lost two fingers of his good right hand. How can I begin to enumerate the thousand and one services he rendered me?

  For a while I thought the problem was solved. Emil would be my secretary, chief butler, private bodyguard and big shoo-fly. He would take care of everything. And so he did for a while. It was perfect. Then, at my instigation, he took up painting. Soon he was painting in earnest. One day he came to me and said in all innocence: “I don’t know what’s wrong. I don’t seem to have time for anything any more. When I first came here I had too much time on my hands.”

  I had to smile. I knew damned well what was wrong. The mail! You can’t answer letters and do your own work too. I tried to explain it to him, but he wasn’t convinced. He thought he could paint and take care of the correspondence. (And do the kribberyboo in his spare time.) He never realized what a burden he had assumed. It seemed exciting, at first, to be corresponding with so many people all over the world. The letters of acknowledgment he received were stimulating and fascinating. Instead of diminishing, the correspondence increased. For a while he enjoyed it. Then slowly it dawned on him that he was getting enmeshed. And with this realization the desire to paint became stronger and stronger.

  Well, the long and short of it is that I stopped turning my letters over to Emil to answer. He’s become a painter, and a painter I want him to remain. The hell with the letters! Let them answer themselves!

  And that’s where we are this moment. Only now I have the bright idea that by writing this pamphlet* there will be no more letter writing. I will just send this.

  We’ll see. Something tells me that I’ll be sending out these pamphlets and a letter or a postcard. That’s what my wife thinks, anyway. She may be right. But the only way to find out is to go through with it.

  A writer often has two great surpr
ises in store for him: the first is the lack of proper response to his efforts; the second is the overwhelming nature of the response when it does come. One is just as bad as the other.

  TO ANSWER EVERY LETTER THAT COMES TO HAND IS OBVIOUSLY IMPOSSIBLE.

  I could hire a secretary, of course, but I have not the means for that, nor do I wish to be in the position of needing a secretary. I am not in business. I am making an earnest effort to free myself from a peculiar sort of bondage which I myself created.

  This is an answer en bloc, an anticipatory acknowledgment of all the good wishes, the encouragement, the gifts, the advice, the criticism continually being showered upon me. I realize with gratitude that most people who write me are trying to aid me. Should they not be the first to understand my predicament, to realize that the only way to acknowledge their manifestations of faith and good will is by continuing to write books, not letters?

  There are many, of course, who write to obtain valid information, and these I try to satisfy. There are others, men and women who have just embarked upon a literary career, whose questions I find difficult or impossible to answer. (And is it my business to answer such questions, just because I am a writer?) It is my belief that each one must find his own solution to the problems which beset him, and he must find it in his own way. No man can possibly tell another what or how to write, nor how to combat the hostile, paralyzing forces which threaten to annihilate him. I feel like replying sometimes: “Why don’t you read my books again?”

  “But won’t you please glance at my manuscript? Can’t you give me a word or two of advice, at least?”

  No, I cannot. Even if I had the time and the energy for it, or the supposed wisdom, it would be useless. One has to believe wholeheartedly in what one is doing, realize that it is the best one can do at the moment—forego perfection now and always!—and accept the consequences which giving birth entails. One’s best critic is oneself. Progress (a bad word), realization (Cézanne’s bugaboo), mastery (the adept’s goal), these are achieved, as every one knows, through continuous application, through toil and struggle, through reflection, meditation, self-analysis, above all through being scrupulously and relentlessly honest with oneself. To those who protest that they are not understood, not appreciated, not accepted—how many of us ever are?—all I can say is: “Clarify your position!”

  We live in an age when art and the things of the spirit come last. The truth still holds, however, that through dedication and devotion one achieves another kind of victory. I mean the ability to overcome one’s problems, not meet them head on.

  Serve life and you will be sustained. That is a truth which reveals itself at every turn of the road.

  I speak with inner conviction because I have been through the struggle. What I am trying to emphasize is that, whatever the nature of the problem, it can only be tackled creatively. There is no book of “openings,” as in chess lore, to be studied. To find an opening one has to make a breach in the wall—and the wall is almost always in one’s own mind. If you have the vision and the urge to undertake great tasks, then you will discover in yourself the virtues and the capabilities required for their accomplishment. When everything fails, pray! Perhaps only when you have come to the end of your resources will the light dawn. It is only when we admit our limitations that we find there are no limitations.

  Here I must make a confession. Perhaps the true reason why the correspondence has become such a staggering problem is that I like nothing better than to write letters. It is almost a vice. I shall never forget how one day, upon receipt of an exceptionally big batch of letters, a friend of mine who had glanced through the mail, observed: “I see nothing here that demands answering.” The remark flabbergasted me. To be sure, this friend was a person who detested writing letters; now and then he would dispatch a postcard, couching his message in a telegraphic style which lacked even the semblance of warmth. (When I send a postcard, on the other hand, I feel so apologetic that I usually follow it up with a long letter the next day.) The point, however, is that where my friend saw nothing to worry about, I saw at least three days’ work.

  No, it is not indifference which prompts my desire to curtail incoming mail. It is something more, something quite other. Let me say, to make my meaning clearer, that the effect of a single letter is often sufficient to unbalance me for the rest of the day. My impulse is to answer such a letter immediately. Often I think it imperative to telegraph an answer. (If I were a millionaire I would certainly burn up the wires.) There are occasions when I find it difficult to believe that the person who has written me can wait for my reply. It sounds like sublime egotism, does it not? And yet…. Well, this is one of my failings, or delusions, if you like, this naive belief that the answer must be given immediately. But my nature is such that I am perpetually overflowing: my response is always disproportionate to the stimulus. To live more intensely, to participate more fully, to keep all channels of communication open—this seems to be my bent…. And then there is the remembrance of times past, when every effort I made to be heard proved to be nothing more than spitting against the wind.

  It is the person you most want to hear from who never bothers to write. The complacency, if it’s that, or the indifference, of such individuals is exasperating; it can drive one frantic sometimes. This sense of frustration can and does persist until the day one makes the discovery that he is not alone, not cut off, and that it is not important to receive an answer. Until the realization dawns that all that matters is to give, and to give without thought of return.

  Some whom I once vainly expected answers from I later discovered were in the same predicament I now find myself in. How wonderful it would have been, had I known it then, to write and say: “Don’t bother to make answer. I simply wanted you to know how indebted I feel to you for being alive and spreading creation.” Today I occasionally receive such messages myself. Such is the way of love, which uses the language of faith and absolution.

  Why, then, do I not stop thinking about those who put the pressure on me? Because of my own weakness, probably. Could there be this feeling of pressure if I knew for a certainty that I was giving my all? Always there is this residue of “unfinished business.” Always this feeling that perhaps my aid is indispensable. How silly of me to appeal to my tormentors for pity or consideration! I should not be trying to protect myself. I should be so absorbed in whatever I may be engaged in that I would have no mind for anything else.

  The answer which I am about to make is really an answer which I wish to make to myself. In my best moments I believe that my responsibility toward others begins and ends with the work of creation in which I am involved. It has taken me considerable time to reach such a decision. Like other men, better men than I, I have alternately been swayed by a sense of duty, a feeling of pity, a natural consideration for others, by a hundred and one different emotions. What precious hours I have squandered answering the thousands of pleas and inquiries addressed to me! I will do so no longer. From now on I intend to devote the best hours of the day, the best part of myself, to the best that is in me. That done, I intend to enjoy a few hours of leisure. Loaf in peace and tranquillity. Should I wish to paint—I often do when I am not in the mood to write—I will paint. But I will not answer letters! Nor will I read the books or write prefaces for the manuscripts which are hurled at me. I will do only what pleases me, what nourishes my spirit.

  This is my answer.

  If my words sound callous and unreasonable, ponder over them before you condemn me utterly. I have been giving thought to the problem a long, long time. I have sacrificed my work, my leisure, my obligations to friends and family in order to make answer where I thought answer was due. I no longer believe in making such sacrifices.

  If, however, you can propose a better solution, I shall not spurn it. I do not look upon mine as the perfect answer. It is the best I can give at the moment. It is from the heart, if that means anything. As for the doubting Thomases, to them no adequate answer can ever be made.
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  It is always possible, of course, to penetrate the thickest coat of armor. To those who question my sincerity let me suggest that they turn their attention to a book now out of print but obtainable if one really makes a search for it: The Maurizius Case, by Jacob Wassermann.* Pages 357 to 370, wherein is recorded the visit of Etzel Andergast to his favorite author, state the case. Etzel is in a dilemma, a tragic dilemma. But the author, Melchior Ghisels, is in an even greater dilemma. The situation, I may add, is not unique; there are many similiar ones to be found in the biographies of famous individuals. I cite this one because it seems classic. And because it is forgotten over and over again.

  True, now and then there is a desperate soul who believes he must see you or die. A delusion, of course, but I sympathize with such individuals. I have been on the edge of suicide a number of times, and I know what the feeling is like. The best remedy, however, is not to look to another for solace but to lay hands on a gun, a knife, or a bottle of poison. The fear of death cuts sharper than words.

  “God wants us to be happy,” said Nijinsky. Likewise an author hopes that in giving himself to the world he will enrich and augment life, not deny it or denigrate it. If he believed in direct intervention, he would be a healer and not a writer. If he believed that he had the power to eliminate evil and sorrow, he would be a saint, not a spinner of words. Art is a healing process, as Nietzsche pointed out. But mainly for those who practice it. A man writes in order to know himself, and thus get rid of self eventually. That is the divine purpose of art.

  A true artist throws the reader back upon himself, aids him to discover in himself the inexhaustible resources which are his. No one is saved or healed except through his own efforts. The only genuine cure is the faith cure.