Henry Miller on Writing

Henry Miller was inspired to write and to paint. His book, Henry Miller on Writing, is a desperate work of truth from a writer to anyone, but especially anyone who would like to know what it feels like to be a real writer. What it feels like to want to be a real writer. What it feels like to knowingly elect to take on pain and severe criticism and to surrender to the real voice inside you.

Recently, I was at the Strand Bookstore in Manhattan browsing as usual in the section where were revealed treasures of the writing art: writers on writing, collections of letters by noted writers and poets, essay collections. My most recent purchase was a collection of letters by the fervent American poet, Ann Sexton, thankfully reissued by her daughter-- a lovely book that I hope to write about here soon. Another book that caught my eye on this particular day was On the Pain of Others by Susan Sontag, a work that I will one day have, but I have such a large pile of books as it is that I must get to. The Strand is an amazing store, without question the number one used bookstore in New York City, currently they boast over 18 miles of books! Oh yes, one can find many current best-sellers there as well.

I could write about the Strand all day, and I will one day here, but my intention was to describe the setting a little that lead to my seeing Henry Miller on Writing in paperback on the shelf. The cover of the book looked so familiar. There was a bust of the famous writer on the cover (a bronze cast by Marino Marini) I believed that I once bought the book during the time I attended a couple of writing workshops and was grabbing as many books as I could on the craft by real writers. But I wasn't sure. So I decided not to buy it, to go home, and if it were not there, then I would rush back to the Strand. When I got home, I found the book hidden behind a row of other books. I was relieved, but couldn't understand why I had not read the book as I fanned the pages stopping at some gems that I'd want to read aloud. I must confess that I have started the book, but have a ways to go. Miller seemed to have a desperate passion about writing that will take a long time to fully comprehend.

As I read I was reminded of another book, a work of fiction, that conveyed a similar desperation, Martin Eden by Jack London. Martin Eden was London's most autobiographical work in which the leading character singleness of purpose was to conquer the art, to win recognition as a great writer. As Andrew Sinclair wrote in the introduction, "...it (Martin Eden) appealed to young writers determined to succeed by force of will and dedication, without benefit of innate talent." Oddly, a friend, a Russian chess grandmaster recommended Martin Eden to me. I had then become a chess master, and would get together with Anatoly occasionally to look at chess games. He told me that Martin Eden was a favorite novel in Russia (then the Soviet Union) especially among aspiring chess masters who would sacrifice everything for the art and passion of chess. The book made a deep impression on me. I have never forgotten the final sentence of the book, "And at the instant he knew, he ceased to know." "He ceased to know." That is poetry-- a more shocking sensation of what death may be I have not experienced. And I go back to the book every so often-- to see if the sentence is still there.

Henry Miller became famous when Tropic of Cancer was published. But it was a long road, a desperate road, that Miller trod upon alone finding himself, before writing Tropic of Cancer.

Henry Miller on Writing is filled with so many inspiring passages.

He wrote, "The world would only begin to get something of value from me the moment I stopped being a serious member of society and became-- myself."

When he would show some of his early tries at writing, Miller was told that he would never be a good writer. He tried to find his voice. He found it one day when he wrote about an experience of his mother leading him by the hand one day in his childhood. Miller wrote how reading the passage brought him to tears. He believed that this little piece should never be published, but to put in a drawer. He was amazed at how the writing just came out from inside him because he let it out.

To be continued.