the colossus of maroussi by henry miller

Dark forces are gathering across Europe, about to tear the continent apart in an unprecedented act of barbarity. So, it’s time to begin.It's the eve of World War II.

I’ve decided it’s time to begin with Proust, who’s one of those writers everyone seems to throw the name around, whose work everyone has apparently read, though not me. I’m thankful that there was a Henry Miller writing during those years that I’m so fascinated by, and I wonder if perhaps he could have existed at any other time, if Henry Miller invented those years or they invented him. They cheer us for saving them, and hope that we will save Europe from the war.

In the book everyone loves Americans and America. Of course his Greece is much like his Paris, pre-War, and though he speaks in a recognizably modern voice, he lives in a world very much lost to us, I’m quite sure, as we all come to look the same and live electronically. His travels, the people, the sights, all are generally used to illustrate larger points–the sort of explanations that leave me breathless, unable to continue, always visualizing myself lost in space, but floating with determination. The emphasis is on Miller’s own experiences, his own transformation, and he makes clear that he does take some artistic license–and then the book isn’t really about Greece at all it’s about Miller and his friends. It’s essentially a travel book recounting Miller’s year-long vacation in Greece, and a remarkable account in that there’s nothing in vaguely erotic, which is usually Miller’s big draw. From the moment I began it I was enthralled in that way only Henry Miller and Anais Nin have ever done me. So, judging by the book’s price, which was written in British pounds, I’ve been reading this book for two years. That’s characterized as a coping device as part of some disorders. It’s a bit foolish, but I seem very able to compartmentalize many parts of my life that way, so they exist in their own worlds uninterrupted. What I can handle, though, is something a lot of people have told me is not only strange, but also difficult: I’m generally reading between 20 and 30 books at a time, and I stretch out reading them sometimes over years. I have one of the most remarkably poor memories of anyone I’ve ever met.

The colossus of maroussi by henry miller