Quotes About Henry Miller

I read Henry Miller's 'Nexus,' 'Sexus' and 'Plexus' the summer after I graduated from college. It cemented my decision to spurn any and all careers.

I like the one about the little soulworms that fly out of the nest for the resurrection.

Imagination is the voice of daring. If there is anything Godlike about God it is that. He dared to imagine everything.

When into the womb of time everything is again withdrawn chaos will be restored and chaos is the score upon which reality is written.

This is not a book in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty... what you will.

This is not a book in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty... what you will.

There's something perverse about women...they're all masochists at heart.

I am of the order whose purpose is not to teach the world a lesson but to explain that school is over.

For the moment I can think of nothing— except that I am a sentient being stabbed by the miracle of these waters that reflect a forgotten world.

When into the womb of time everything is again withdrawn chaos will be restored and chaos is the score upon which reality is written.

At the opera, the music makes no sense; here in the street it has just the right demented touch to give it poignancy.

I even like your deceit, your treachery. It seems aristocratic to me.

There's only one good aspect to it, says Joe. You may get his job. And if you have any luck, maybe you'll fall down the elevator shaft and break your neck too. We'll buy you a nice wreath, I promise you that.

How very like Zen is this from Whitman: "Is it lucky to be born? It is just as lucky to die." In summarizing his pages on Whitman, Bucke makes, among others, the following statements: In no man who ever lived was the sense of eternal life so absolute. Fear of death was absent. Neither in health nor in sickness did he show any sign of it, and there is every reason to believe he did not feel it. He had no sense of sin.

Thyroid eyes. Michelin lips. Voice like pea soup.

Are we not all victims of fear and anxiety precisely because we lack faith and trust in one another?

The oranges of Bosch's Millennium . . . exhale this dreamlike reality which constantly eludes us and which is the very substance of life.

Nowhere have I encountered such a dull and monotonous fabric of life as here in America. Here boredom reaches its peak.

The poverty of language, which is to say the poverty of man's imagination or the poverty of his inner life, has created an ambivalence which is absolutely false.

I was a ripe prey for the alligator of ecstasy.  

There was an odor about him which I could not help but be aware of. It was a mélange of bay rum, wet ashes and tabac gris , tinctured with a dash of some elusive, elegant perfume. Later these would resolve themselves into one unmistakable scent—the aroma of death.

He was an incurable dandy living the life of a beggar. And living wholly in the past!

Perhaps you can visualize him saying a thing like that! Myself it's not clear what his idea of me was, or at any rate, it's clear that I was just pure idea, an idea that kept itself alive without food.

Eres cáncer y delirio», me dijo por teléfono el otro día.