| THIS IS A READ-ONLY ARCHIVE FROM THE SORABJI.COM MESSAGE BOARDS (1995-2016). |
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Here's the first chapter: "Hunt's Station vanished from maps years ago, and faded from memory before that, even. Isn't captured on any road signs either, except those so weary and so weather-whipped you can't read them...or trust them. The towns next door barely remember their neighbor. To them Hunt's Station isn't a town at all but a rumor of a town -- like an older step-brother you've heard stories about but never met. To get to Hunt's Station, you either have to be born to it or unlucky. The town squats off a logging trail off a washboard, which is off an exit of an exit to a two-lane road that sees maybe twenty cars a day...fewer on weekends. One way in, one way out. Hunt's Station is a place where the rumble of heavy trucks lulls the men to sleep most nights and keeps the women awake...where black heartwounds fester and dark springs mutter in the deep woods...where soot-peppered goblin snow, misshapen and rock-hard, prevails till June...where old-time fiddlers coax timber rattlers into their fiddles and banjo pickers blister the strings till their fingers bleed...where the air is always tarnished by smoke from Fire Town...where men limp and are missing fingers...where ghost rails coil into town and just stop...where you swear the raincrows can talk and sometimes, even, run the town. No babies have been born in Hunt's Station for nearly twenty years; and all the dogs and cats are so old they don't chase each other anymore. When the schoolhouse burned a few years back, the town didn't rebuild. No one complained. And the churches -- once there were a half-dozen in town -- have either burned or been spurned and abandoned. In Hunt's Station, the women's faces burn with fierce beauty carved by decades of betrayal and sadness; touch one of those sharp, saint faces, take away a bleeding hand. Those women...they put on their old gray dresses to waltz together in the pouring rain. They always stop to listen to the whine of a distant train, no matter what they're doing. They smile and nod at crow gossip, but shudder at the remembered moan of a full-moon owl. Not a one of them cries anymore -- those rivers dried long ago -- but most of them play fiddle...sobbing fiddle...fiddle that wails with the cries of too many babies left unborn. You can see it as they play, fiddle cradled between chin and shoulder. The skin tightens over keen cheekbones and smolders fever red as the fiddle bow dips and the fiddle bow saws. And when they close their eyes, those deep wells of sadness, they cross over the line...and they're on Lonesome Standard Time." The book's like a Tom Waits story in prose. Totally awesome. |
Kinda boring, her writing is so god damned descriptive which is good but at the end of the page you often forget what the hell she was describing. The book is just that though "Collages". a short book about a woman, she is painter, and the painter "paints "collages" of her circle of friends. It's beautiful at times, and sexy as well, but not as rewarding as I had hoped. |
Desription is a tricky thing. There's a writer I like, Stephen Millhauser, who goes insane with detail. But he does it in a way that's almost religious, like he's reciting a litany. But in anyone else's hands, the things he describes (like the board for the game of Clue in one story) would be utterly boring. But, um, didja like that chapter I posted? |
I have to agree half heartedly about Anais. I think she took to much from Henry, I have book called the Henry Miller Reader. Basically it's divided into four sections..People, Places and two others I forget. tlak about elaborate, senusal description. Henry pulls it off and the initial idea still manages to stick. Anais lost me a lot and I found myself going back to the previous page. Henry is one of my favs right now as is Richard Brautigan. Right Now I am Reading his tri-combo book Trout Fishing in America/In Watermelon Sugar/The Pill versus The Springhill Mine Disaster. It's pretty good, very surreal. I highyl recommend his book "The Abortion a Romance" God he is so playful and funny with his words. He plays with them much like my cats tangles with my underwear and socks on the floor. Henry on the other hand, I have to admit that there are very few authors that can draw a hard on from me or draw a laugh outloud...He does both (as Richard makes me laugh outloud) I recommend a book often over looked by Miller fans. Its called Under The Roofs of Paris. He was given a dollar a page to write a dirty story. Oh my gawd, even though some of the things he describes doing would be considered rape and incest, it's such a turn on, he even goes as far as peeing inside these various women and such, regardless, READ IT, keep it by the bed, enjoy....my wife agrees with me even though initially you might hesitate due to the reality of some of the scenarios, in a fantasy setting the are hot |
I didn't like "Tropic of Cancer." The only redeemable part of the book was the three or so pages where he talks about reveling in his inhumanity. The rest was rather uninteresting. And mildly offensive. But my favorite thing by Miller is that weird essay/prose poem found in old editions of "The Wisdom of the Heart" called "Finale." Have you read it? |
Are his other books as good as IWS? |
I am surprised about Tropic of Cancer it's one his best books, Also, there is Sexus, Plexus and Nexus a three book series, i have only finished Sexus, which is fantastic, except i got to the end and realized I was missing about 80 pages. So actually the store got my new copy in today. He is so rich, so sexually charged, so intense at times, so transient, he is aboslutely my fav, but then again I am very hard to offend so what do ya know. Have you ever seen the movie henry & june? It's really great. A friend has an orginal painting of his, and he has a museum and gallery in Big Sur, where he lived out the last 20 years of his life, much like Brautigan did...it's supposed to be absolutely beautiful, my wif ean di wann make the drive soon. |