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Around the time he published some of his mostly famous works<\/em>\u2014Tropic of Cancer,<\/em> Black Spring,<\/em> and<\/em>\u00a0Tropic of Capricorn, to name a few<\/em>\u2014Henry Miller handwrote and illustrated six known \u201clong intimate book letters\u201d to his friends, including Ana\u00efs Nin, Lawrence Durrell, and Emil Schnellock. Three of these were published during his lifetime; two posthumously; and one, dedicated to a David Forrester Edgar (1907\u20131979), was unaccounted for, both unpublished and privately held\u2014until recently, when it came into the possession of the New York Public Library. <\/em><\/p>\n On March 17, 1937, Miller opened a printer\u2019s dummy\u2014a blank mock-up of a book used by printers to test how the final product will look and feel\u2014and penned the first twenty-three pages of a text written expressly to and for a young American expatriate who had \u201chaphazardly led him to explore entirely new avenues of thought,\u201d including \u201cthe secrets of the Bhagavad Gita, the occult writings of Mme Blavatsky, the spirit of Zen, and the doctrines of Rudolf Steiner.\u201d He called it<\/em> The Book of Conversations with David Edgar. Over the next six and a half weeks, Miller added eight more dated entries, as well as two small watercolors and a pen-and-ink sketch. The result was something more than personal correspondence and less than an accomplished narrative work: a hybrid form of literary prose we might call the book-letter. As far as we know, Miller never sought to have the book <\/i>published, and the only extant copy of the text is the original manuscript now held by the Berg Collection at the NYPL.<\/em><\/p>\n Edgar had come to Paris in 1930 or 1931, ostensibly to paint, and probably met Miller sometime during the first half of 1936. At twenty-nine, he was fifteen years Miller\u2019s junior. Edgar soon joined the coterie of writers and artists who congregated around Miller\u2019s studio at 18 villa Seurat. His interest in Zen Buddhism, mysticism, Theosophy, and the occult apparently helped energize Miller to embark on his own spiritual pilgrimage, and to articulate what he discovered there in his writing. \u201cI feel I have never lived on the same level I write from, except with you and now with Edgar,\u201d Miller confided to Ana\u00efs Nin. Miller left Paris in May 1939. Edgar eventually returned to the United States as well. Though the two men seem to have stayed in sporadic contact, they probably never met again. Except for a single letter from Miller to Edgar written in March 1937\u2014a carbon copy of which Miller saved until the end of his life \u2014no correspondence between them is known to have survived.<\/em><\/p>\n \u2014Michael Paduano<\/em><\/p>\n March 17, 1937 <\/em><\/p>\n Saint Patrick\u2019s Day<\/em><\/p>\n In the past I had many conversations, many discussions, with others\u2014and they were very important events in my life, and perhaps too in the lives of these others. Nothing is left of them but the aroma, the fragrance, the aura. They are in my blood, these heated conversations, but they are impossible to recall in any substantial form. If I make herein some feeble attempt to preserve the flame of our conversations it is partly for your own bene\ufb01t, mon cher Edgar.<\/em> I write these notes in anticipation of the day when you will open this little volume and marvel at your own lucidity, your own wisdom.<\/p>\n In talking to you I see always before me a man desperately seeking his own salvation. It is this primarily which has brought me back to you for renewed bouts. For in watching your struggle, in assisting at your salvation, I have taken strength and courage myself. In a way, then, all these conversations in the past, made so vivid now by our recent ones, had the same quality\u2014that of vital exchange. As I listen to you, or even listening to myself, I hear again the themes which only under these auspicious circumstances are brought to light. The eternal themes because the problems are eternal. No, Edgar, make no mistake. We solve nothing. That is, no more than Socrates solved anything, or Goethe in talking with Eckermann. No more than Buddha in communing with himself under the \u201chistoric\u201d banyan tree.<\/p>\n We are solving the business of solving! <\/span>Therein lies an illusion which is not only satisfying, but activating.<\/p>\n I hear you saying often: \u201cNo, but freedom is not that at all\u2014it is just the opposite, in fact!<\/span>\u201d<\/p>\n And as you burst out with it I hear the cogs creaking and the chains slipping. I hear all my other friends in the past speaking with equal conviction, equal ecstasy, in the act of discovery. I believe that in these moments a very real movement, a forward push, is made. It is for these moments solely, whether as contributor or inspired listener, that I come back to the joys of conversation, which it seems to me is an art involving spontaneous creation, or else nothing.<\/i><\/p>\n I see you often coming toward me out of the all-enveloping fog of the cloister, with the little notes you so frantically made in your room still clinging to the lapels of your coat. I see you coming toward me full of vital questions.<\/p>\n \u201cLook, I want to ask you something \u2026\u201d My dear Edgar, I know you want to ask me everything. I know that, for the time being, I am playing substitute for God. And if I am giving you back now a reflection of your enthusiasms it is nothing more than the little Bible which you have created in me through the act of revelation.<\/p>\n So many times, in listening to you, I have had the feeling that the word neurosis<\/em> is a very inadequate one to describe the struggle which you are waging with yourself. \u201cWith yourself<\/i>\u201d\u2014there perhaps is the only link with the process which has been conveniently dubbed a malady. This same malady, looked at in another way, might also be considered a preparatory stage to a \u201chigher\u201d way of life. That is, as the very chemistry of the evolutionary process. In the course of this most interesting disease the conflict of \u201copposites\u201d is played out to the last ditch. Everything presents itself to the mind in the form of dichotomy. This is not at all strange when one reflects that the awareness of \u201copposites\u201d is but a means of bringing to consciousness the need for tension, polarity. \u201cGod is <\/i><\/span>schizophrenic,\u201d as you so aptly said, only because the mind, whetted to acute understanding by the continuous confrontation of oscillations, finally envisages a resolution of conflict in a necessitous freedom of action in which significance and expression are one. Which is madness, or, if you like, only schizophrenia. The word schizophrenia<\/em>, to put it better, contains a minimum and a maximum of relation to the thing it defines. It is a counter to sound with \u2026<\/p>\n So where are we? <\/span>Why at the \u201cBouquet d\u2019Alesia,\u201d at exactly that segment of the bar which you asked me to examine closely before answering definitively the question about \u201cgrowth and decay.\u201d In those eighty-five centimeters of the synthetic marble bar God took out his compass and drew a magic circle for us. \u201cThe bar is both alive and dead,\u201d He said, in his usual jovial way. \u201cGoing toward death as functional concept; vitally alive as atomic compost. Alive-and-dead as bar to man and man to bar. Without extreme unction no birth, no death. Caught at 12:20 midnight in the stagnant flux of introspection \u2026 Pose another problem!<\/span>\u201d<\/p>\n There was a button to be sewed on the sack coat, pockets to be mended, a fire to be made. The answer today before yesterday\u2019s questions still caught in the typewriter roller. What to do? <\/span>A lait chaud tout seule<\/i>! <\/i>[\u201c<\/span>Just a hot milk!\u201d A more literal translation, which Miller plays on in the following two sentences, would be: \u201ca hot milk all alone!\u201d] <\/span>Always, when cogitating and recogitating, a<\/em> lait chaud<\/i>. Always tout seule <\/i>when answering the final question which is for tomorrow. What happened? <\/span>I mean\u2014today<\/i><\/span>? <\/span>Why tomorrow. A lait chaud<\/i>! <\/i><\/span>Being God imposes difficulties, godlike ones to be sure. For one thing there is neither Time nor Space. Then again there are no beds, no holes to be mended. Everything moves on casters on a waxed floor. There is no end to the floor\u2014no wall, no exit. It seems to me we are now safely and snugly at home. No, not quite either. The missing blanket is a bit wrinkled at the foot of the missing bed. God is so snugly ensconced that he begins to have imaginary, and of course very very trifling but very very real aches and pains. He is like a sound and healthy man with an amputated leg just before the winter rains set in. He wants a real leg so that he will have an excuse for complaining. Now, as every scientist will tell you, the real leg, of course, is in the brain. That\u2019s why it can hurt even when it\u2019s missing. But God has no arms and legs, neither has he a brain, so the difficulty must lie elsewhere. It lies exactly, if my memory serves me right, a league and a half northeast of Neptune. The only real <\/i>difficulty here, however, is in distinguishing north from south, and east from west. God knows that Himself, even though he is without a brain, and that<\/i>, that alone, is the reason why He is troubled.<\/p>\n \u201cDonnez-moi de la monnaie, s\u2019il vous pla\u00eet.\u201d <\/i>[Give me some change, please.]<\/p>\n PLEH<\/i>\u2014not PLAY.<\/p>\n Home with Expression and Significance \u2026 The lucidity of Keyserling is amazing.\u00a0<\/span>(The fire could be a little brighter, even if not warmer.) So is it with Krishnamurti.\u00a0<\/span>What was that again about Memory\u2014the unlived residue? O<\/span>r some such thing. (Wonder if that bugger Henry Miller is starting another volume of work.)<\/p>\n No, often Henry Miller is already in bed planning the next day\u2019s adventure. Henry has the faculty of knowing when to call it a day. He says ofttimes, just before falling off to sleep, \u201cif I croak during the night it will be perfectly all right.\u201d Dying peacefully with his boots on. That\u2019s the way Henry takes it. You can do more than just so much each day, but on condition that you lose no time thinking about it.<\/p>\n Just so I make a sort of mental and spiritual progression each time I meet you and we have it out. I learn by your mistakes and am fortified by your discouragement.<\/p>\n You profit then by your friend\u2019s misfortune? <\/span>Oui, c\u2019est \u00e7a! <\/span>Je ne me blame pas. Content, tr\u00e8s content, moi. Tout s\u2019arrange dans la vie pour quiconque sait d\u2019en profiter. Je ne me trompe jamais. Toujours droit et en avant. Avant et apr\u00e8s\u2014il n\u2019y a que \u00e7a. Bien sure, il y a aussi des hypoth\u00e8ques\u2014c\u2019est \u00e0 dire, des ennuis. Comme c\u2019est beau, les ennuis! <\/span>Comme la pluie septentrionale! <\/span>La terre tourne.\u00a0<\/em>Et nous aussi. L\u2019on tourne en place. Chaque minute compte. Chaque minute fait quelque chose irrem\u00e9diable. C\u2019est bon, \u00e7a. Tout juste. La vie se pr\u00e9sente \u00e0 nous en mille aspects. Chaque aspect a son valeur, son moment, pour ainsi dire. Faut en profiter. Il n\u2019y a pas \u00e0 plaindre. Faut jouir. Faut faire l\u2019amour avec les sacr\u00e9s moments qui sont vraiment sacr\u00e9s. C\u2019est tout, mon ami. Absolument tout. Pourtant, il y a quelque chose \u00e0 ajouter \u2026 C\u2019est pourquoi je ne m\u2019arr\u00e8te pas. Je continue \u2026 Je laisse la parole \u00e0 Dieu. Il sait beau parler. Son m\u00e9tier, quoi! <\/span><\/em>[You profit then by your friend\u2019s misfortune? Yes, that\u2019s right! I don\u2019t hold it against myself. I\u2019m content, very content. Everything in life works out for whoever knows how to enjoy it. I never make a mistake. Always straight and onward. Before and after\u2014that\u2019s all there is. Of course, there are also debts\u2014that is, hassles. But what beautiful hassles! Like septentrional rain. The earth rotates. And so do we. We rotate in place. Each minute counts. Each minute is something irrevocable. It\u2019s good that way. Just right. Life presents itself to us under a thousand aspects. Each aspect has its own value, its moment, so to speak. You have to enjoy it. There\u2019s nothing to complain about. You need to have some bliss. You have to make love with sacred moments which are truly sacred. That\u2019s all there is to it, my friend. That\u2019s absolutely everything. And yet, there is something more to add \u2026 That\u2019s why I don\u2019t stop. I keep going \u2026 I give the floor to God. He knows how to speak beautifully. It\u2019s his job!]<\/p>\n \u201cIn the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with <\/i>God, and the Word was <\/i>God.\u201d The word was not a noun, or an adjective, or a preposition, or a conjunction <\/i>(quel horreur!<\/span><\/em>), but it was a Verb<\/i><\/span>. You can see how God must be in the Verb\u2014it\u2019s so perfectly natural, so spontaneous and autochthonous. God does not come home each evening, after a hard day at the factory, and knock out words. Ah no! <\/span>Pas lui! <\/span>Il sait mieux faire que \u00e7a. <\/em>[Ah no! Not him! He knows better than to do that.] <\/span>You see, God doesn\u2019t permit himself to get fatigued. He is awake twenty-four hours of the day, and each day he is becoming more and more wide awake. It\u2019s his nature to be that way. Homer nods now and then\u2014God never! <\/span>Voila une petite diff\u00e9rence tr\u00e8s impressionante. Faut pas ignorer cela.<\/em> [This little difference is very striking. Don\u2019t overlook it.]<\/p>\n Et comment \u00e7a se fait que le bon Dieu ne s\u2019endort jamais?\u00a0<\/span><\/em>[And how is it that the good Lord never falls asleep?]\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Parce-qu\u2019il se mefie de tous les mots qui ne sont pas des verbes. De pref\u00e9rence il se sert du \u201cpresent participle,\u201d comme on dit en anglais. Oui, il n\u2019aime pas beaucoup le pass\u00e9 parfait, ni le subjonctif. Il se dit toujours = en anglais naturellement = \u201cI am doing this \u2026 I am doing that \u2026 I am having a good time.\u201d Oui, il rigole tout le temps. Il ne sait jamais ce que se sera demain, ni ce que s\u2019est hier. Oui, un drole de type, lui. Il s\u2019en fout toujours. <\/em>[Because he is suspicious of all words that are not verbs<\/i>. He prefers to use the present participle<\/i>, as we say in English. Yes, he doesn\u2019t really like the past perfect, nor the subjunctive. He\u2019s always telling himself = in English, naturally = \u201cI am doing this \u2026 I am doing that \u2026 I am having a good time.\u201d Yes, he\u2019s always joking. He never knows what it will be tomorrow, nor what it was yesterday. Yes, he\u2019s a funny guy. He never gives a damn.]<\/p>\n Et pourtant, il fait du progr\u00e8s. Oui, c\u2019est merveilleux ce qu\u2019il a fait dans le temps\u2014sans vouloir rien faire. L\u2019on se demande parfois s\u2019il l\u2019a bien fait pour lui-m\u00eame, ou pour nous. Moi je crois qu\u2019il a fait tout pour lui-m\u00eame. Je crois, moi, qu\u2019il est tout \u00e0 fait narciste. \u201cL\u2019univers, c\u2019est moi!<\/span>\u201d il se dit toujours. Et il a raison. Parfaitement raison. Il s\u2019y connait, ce type l\u00e0.\u00a0<\/em>[And yet, <\/i>he makes progress. Yes, it\u2019s marvelous what he\u2019s accomplished in time\u2014without wanting to do anything. One sometimes wonders whether he has done it for himself, or for us. Personally, I think he\u2019s done it all for himself. I think he\u2019s a complete narcissist. \u201cI am the universe!\u201d he\u2019s constantly telling himself. And he\u2019s right. Perfectly right. The guy knows what he\u2019s talking about.]<\/p>\n
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