Henry Miller on Writing

by Henry Miller

Some of the most rewarding pages in Henry Miller's books concern his self-education as a writer. He tells, as few great writers ever have, how he set his goals, how he discovered the excitement of using words, how the books he read influenced him, and how he learned to draw on his own experience.

Genres: Writing, Nonfiction, Biography, Philosophy, Essays, Literature, Classics

217 pages, Paperback

First published January 17, 1964

About the author

Henry Valentine Miller was an American novelist, short story writer and essayist. He broke with existing literary forms and developed a new type of semi-autobiographical novel that blended character study, social criticism, philosophical reflection, stream of consciousness, explicit language, sex, surrealist free association, and mysticism. His most characteristic works of this kind are Tropic of Cancer, Black Spring, Tropic of Capricorn, and the trilogy The Rosy Crucifixion, which are based on his experiences in New York City and Paris (all of which were banned in the United States until 1961). He also wrote travel memoirs and literary criticism, and painted watercolors.

Reviews

[Glenn Russell]

"The million words or so which I had written previously, which were intelligible words, mind you, well ordered, well connected, were as nothing to me - crude ciphers from the old stone age - because the contact was through the head and the head is a useless appendage unless you're anchored in mid-channel deep in the mud. Everything I had written before was museum stuff, and most writing is still museum stuff and that's why it doesn't catch fire, doesn't inflame the world."

Henry Miller recounts the event one afternoon at a New York theater that set off an inner explosion, blasting a hole to the innermost depths of his soul so that he finally had access to the lava and fires of his authentic voice as a writer.

"I had to learn, as I soon did, that one must give up everything and not do anything else but write, that one must write and write and write, even if everybody in the world advises you against it, even if nobody believes in you. Perhaps one does it just because nobody believes; perhaps the real secret lies in making people believe."

Henry Miller on persistence. In many respects, this is the first lesson for any writer at any point in their writing, rank beginner to seasoned veteran: rather than brooding or moping or gabbing about what you would like to write, gather your energy and sit down and write and write and write. Nothing happens unless you firmly plant your ass on the chair and write.

"Today, when I think of the circumstances under which I wrote that book, when I think of the overwhelming material which I tried to put into form, when I think of what I hoped to encompass, I pat myself on the back, I give myself a double A. I am proud of the fact that I made such a miserable failure of it; had I succeeded I would have been a monster."

Sometimes our failures teach us more than our successes. I recall a number of years ago writing a full-length novel. I read it over a couple of times and came to a realization: I'm not a novelist. Of all the creative endeavors I've engaged in over the years - playing renaissance music, performing street theater, mask acting, dance, writing prose poems, drumming - the time I spent writing that novel was, by far, my least satisfying artistic endeavor. Never again! As a creative artist and writer, much better to go with what you love.

"If I had long been reading the face of the world with the eyes of a writer, I now read it anew with even greater intensity. Nothing was too petty to escape my attention."

Brilliant advice for a writer in any literary form: pay keen attention to detail. As I've come to discover, this also goes for writing reviews: if you are having trouble writing about a book in general, overarching terms, dig deeper into the details, focus your writing on a key chapter or theme, or, digging even deeper, zero in on a series of the author's sentences and share your observations, feelings, ideas about those authorial words.

"Sometimes I would sit at the machine for hours without even writing a line. Fired by an idea, often an irrelevant one, my thoughts would come too fast to be transcribed. I would be dragged along at a gallop, like a stricken warrior tied to his chariot."

See! There were even times when the great Henry Miller struggled at his writing desk. I suspect the next time Henry sat down at his machine, he probably wrote for hours, deep into the night and maybe even the next morning.

"Thus, not so strangely, I developed a kind of painter's eye. Often I made it my business to return to a certain spot in order to review "a still life" which I had passed too hurriedly that day before or three days before."

Another gem of advice: refine and develop your sense of words and rhythm of language but also expand your sensual involvement with the world - the eye of an art critic, the ear of a music connoisseur, the grace of a dancer.

"Thus, whilst sedulously and slavishly imitating the ways of the masters - tools and technic, in other words - my instincts were rising up in revolt. If I craved magic powers it was not to rear new structures, not to add to the Tower of Babel, but to destroy, to undermine. The novel I had to write."

Learning technique and the rules of writing from literary masters is important but even more critical: developing your own voice and vision.

"If I was unhappy in America, if I craved more room, more adventure, more freedom of expression, it was because I needed these things. I am grateful to America for having made me realize my needs. I served my sentence there. At present I have no needs. I am a man without a past and without a future. I am - that is all."

Good going, Henry. You "served your sentence" in the air-conditioned nightmare but you never were trapped by it or continually felt the need to react to it.

"There are huge blocks in my life which are gone forever. Huge blocks gone, scattered, wasted in talk, action, reminiscence, dream. There was never any time when I was living one life, the life of a husband, a lover, a friend."

One clear lesson I takeaway here: if you want to write - strike when the iron is hot. Don't postpone your writing to some future time. When you reach the future, you will be a different you, thus, if you write at all, your writing will be different.

"To discuss the nature and meaning of obscenity is almost as difficult as to talk about God."

The last chapter of Henry Miller on Writing is dedicated to writing and obscenity, reflections by the master you will not want to miss.

[Quân Khuê · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is a book to read, to re-read, to re-read again, if you are interested in writing. I have read this book almost every day, for nearly two months, one or two pages or a few paragraphs at a time. Now I will put it away on a shelf, knowing that I will come back to it.

[David Lentz · Rating 5 out of 5]

Henry Miller is one intrepid soul. For me this reading entailed discerning the echoes of the interior of a soul of a brother, a kindred spirit. He articulates creative impulses forged from the smithy of his own rough experience through years of rejection in America and poverty in Paris. Like so many other genius writers Miller was willing to give up every material comfort and to suffer in dire poverty for the sake of his art. He left America to live and suffer in Paris in search of his own artistic voice. You have to admire an artist who is willing to put everything on the line, including his own survival, in order to give all to his art. Having read most of his long masterpieces, it's clear from this reading that he recognizes only one kind of activity -- creation. "I had observed that those who were most in life, who were molding life, who were life itself, ate little, slept little, owned little or nothing." He is ardently engaged in an existential quest through which his writing is the vehicle of the journey. "In the mind-world ideas are the indestructible elements which form the jeweled constellations of the interior life." Miller is fully prepared to make every sacrifice for his art and finds that the risks and rewards justify it. "Everyone who lifts himself above the activities of the daily round does so not only in the hope of enlarging his field of experience, or even to enrich it, but of quickening it. Accept this view, and the distinction between failure and success is nil. And this is what every great artist comes to learn en route -- that the process in which he is involved has to do with another dimension of life, that by identifying with this process he augments life... He has to make himself a part of the mystery, live in it as well as with it." He says that he had two beginnings in America and Europe. In his first year in Paris "I literally died, was literally annihilated -- and resurrected as a new man." When Miller ultimately struggled at the outset after imitating other writers whom he admired, he comes to find that what he needed most desperately was his own voice to express his grief and abandonment and that is how he came to write. "Finally I came to a dead end which few men have known... to fail as a writer meant to fail as a man. And I failed... It was at this point in the midst of the dead Sargasso Sea, so to speak, that I really began to write... I began from scratch, throwing everything overboard. Immediately I heard my own voice I was enchanted: the fact that it was a separate distinct, unique voice sustained me... My life itself became a work of art. I had found a voice, I was whole again." As a writer he finds that "I am obliged to adapt myself to a struggle in a realm wherein I see nothing to sustain me but my own powers... Like every man I am my own worst enemy, but unlike most men I know too that I am my own savior." Heady stuff. He adds that "the more I wrote the more I became a human being. Miller seems to see the writer as a Dionysian figure. "Side by side with the human race there runs another race of beings, the inhuman ones, the race of the artists who, goaded by unknown impulses, take the lifeless mass of humanity and by the fever and ferment with which they imbue it turn this soggy dough into bread and the bread into wine and the wine into song." Nietzsche would approve. He views himself as the "madman who dances with lightning in his hands." After writing for seven years in America without once having a manuscript accepted and begging, borrowing and stealing to get by, finally he left the country. I have written this before and shall repeat it here: America treats her hacks like literary lions and her literary lions worse than dogs. Eventually Miller's devotion to his art pays off handsomely and his art becomes victor not only over his abject poverty but also even over death. "You have the dream for night time and the horse laugh for day time." Once he finds his own voice in his journey to find the meaning of his own existence, the writing becomes automatic. "I take down the dictation, as it were. If there are flaws and contradictions, they iron themselves out eventually. If I am wrong today, I am right tomorrow. Writing is not a game played according to the rules. Writing is a compulsive and delectable thing. Writing is its own reward." He sees his own writing as constituting a man telling the inexhaustible story of his own life. "With the endless burrowing a certitude develops which is greater than faith or belief. I become more and more indifferent to my fate as writer, and more and more certain of my destiny as man." Of course, he was persecuted and prosecuted for obscenity like James Joyce. On this subject Miller writes: "This is a mad world; man is most of the time mad; and I believe that in a way what we call morality is merely a form of madness, which happens to be a working adaptation to existing circumstances." And then he hits squarely upon his position as an artist working within the body of a human being: "That sex is a vital part of life goes without question... The gamut of human passion is almost without limits, reaching heights and depths unthinkable. Precisely because it embraces such extremes, passion is the very touchstone of our humanity, and perhaps our divinity also." If you desire a brief but deep dive into the life of one of America's real genius novelists, then I can't recommend this book more highly. If you write, then this book is must reading as it will take you years to discover first-hand by your art what Miller shares of his own lifetime of experience and his career as a novelist.

[Lorenzo Muccioli · Rating 4 out of 5]

Volete imparare a scrivere? Allora tenete a portata di mano una siringa piena di sedativo e una bella camicia di forza, perché colui che può insegnarvi la difficile arte è un tizio completamente fuori di cocomero, una pazzo come non se ne vedevano dai tempi del nido del cuculo. Il personaggio in questione è Henry Miller, controverso autore di Tropico del Cancro e Tropico del Capricorno, il testo di riferimento Una tortura deliziosa (Minimum fax, 2007), collage disorganico di pagine sul mestiere dello scrittore. Voltiamo la copertina, dalla quale il nostro sogghigna enigmaticamente, e iniziamo a leggere: bastano una manciata di pagine, e già l’istinto ci suggerisce di afferrare questo signor Miller, questo invasato, e di scaraventarlo in una cella di isolamento. “Voglio ammazzare libri, scrittori, editori, lettori – esordisce, con gli occhi iniettati di sangue -. Scrivere per il pubblico, per me non significa niente. Quel che mi piacerebbe sarebbe scrivere pèr i pazzi e per gli angeli”.

Pazzia torbida attorcigliata nelle spire di un violento istinto omicida. Un dualismo micidiale. Ma se volete imparare il mestiere, non dovete aver paura: quel che faremo sarà infilarci il grembiule dei bravi scolari e lasciare che lui, il professor Miller, zompi sulla cattedra e sbraiti i suoi deliri. I pazzi, ricordatevelo, non si chiudono in sanatorio; dai pazzi ci si va a lezione. E allora eccoci qua, al banco, seduti composti, col il taccuino e l’astuccio d’ordinanza. Cos’ha da dirci il professor Miller? Prestate attenzione, perché dal gran concerto di ragli e grugniti che fuoriesce dalle sue fauci è possibile discernere un’analisi scrupolosissima di quelli che sono gli esordi di ogni scrittore: Miller glorifica il travaglio dell’autore partoriente e la sua gestazione, ci parla del sudore e del liquido amniotico versato prima che l’utero poetico si laceri e venga al mondo il capolavoro. Miller sa quanto può essere difficile iniziare a scrivere: “Mi pare che fu nel 1922 che scrissi il mio primo libro. Era un tomo colossale e sbagliato dal principio alla fine. Era assurdo e patetico. Fu una sconfitta schiacciante ma mi mise ferro nella schiena e zolfo nel sangue”. E’ tutto vero, e chi ci ha provato lo sa. Il professore potrà anche essere fra i più scordati e deliranti, tuttavia non è di quelli che imbeccano la gente con facili illusioni: la sua è la verità schietta e brutale, cruda come un quarto di bue schiaffato violentemente sul tavolo del macellaio: “Non si diventa artisti dalla sera alla mattina. Prima devi farti schiacciare, devono essere annullate le tue opinioni contraddittorie, devi essere eliminato in quanto essere umano per rinascere come individuo”.

Chi ve lo fa fare di starlo a sentire? Ritenete che sia solo un cretino chiassoso e megalomane? Non credo proprio, signori miei, non credo proprio. Egli conosce a memoria Goethe, Dante, Shakespeare: eppure balla nudo sui loro cadaveri, e scimmiotta con voce affettata i loro capolavori: “Così sebbene imitassi diligentemente e supinamente i metodi dei maestri – arnesi e tecnica in altre parole – i miei istinti si ribellavano. Se agognavo a poteri magici, non era per preparare nuove strutture, non per aggiungere qualcosa alla Torre di Babele, ma per minarla. Il potere di espressione che i miei idoli mi avevano dato, l’avrei usato per imprecare e bestemmiare”. Eresia e dannazione…e non è finita, no, non ancora. Guardiamo oltre, rovistiamo nell’immondezzaio, scivoliamo lungo la faringe di questo scrittore inumano, tocchiamo la sua coda da drago e i suoi canini a sciabola: “So di venire dai fondatori mitologici della razza. L’uomo che leva la santa bottiglia alle labbra, l’ingenuo che scopre che tutti i cadaveri puzzano, il frate che solleva la tonaca per pisciare sul mondo, il fanatico che fruga le biblioteche in cerca del Verbo – tutte queste persone si fondano in me, tutte fanno la mia estasi”. Il tutto nel segno di un solo, imprescindibile ordine: sempre darsi da fare, sempre tirare testate contro il muro, mai appollaiarsi pasciuti e beati su un monte di cuscini. “A tavola parlo del lavoro come se fossi un Balzac – si rimprovera il professore -. Sempre di quel che ho intenzione di fare, mai di quel che ho fatto”. Chi si abbandona al genio “dell’impalpabile, dell’inesistente” commette il peccato più aberrante che esista. Scordatevi i laboratori di scrittura creativa stile Giovane Holden (la rinomata scuola, ben inteso): chi vuole imparare a tenere dritta la penna deve prepararsi agli sbucci e ai cazzotti nei reni. Il nostro Miller, del resto,non scherza; egli sputa in faccia ai suoi alunni, costringe chi non lo ascolta a dolorose sedute ginocchioni sui ceci, mentre chi si attiene ai suoi comandamenti è ricambiato con sonori schiaffoni. La scrittura è una flagellazione incessante, un castigo feroce, masochismo allo stato puro: brandire la penna è come tenere in mano un porcospino o un tizzone ardente. Una tortura, certo: ma alla quale fa da contrappunto la più languida voluttà. “Che deliziosa tortura, questa fissazione di scrivere! Sogni da manicomio misti ad attacchi di soffocamenti, immagini tozze, architettura barocca, logaritmi cabalistici, frasi portentose (‘che nessuno – disse il pinguino – guardi cotesto uomo con favore’)”. Per giungere, infine, ad un’apoteosi magnifica, la deflagrazione galattica della supernova, l’ascesa al cielo dopo il martirio, dolore lancinante che prorompe in orgasmo mistico: “E poi, come quando l’uragano perde forza, la scrittura fluiva come una canzone, calma, sicura, con il fermo splendore del magnesio. Un monaco in saio color zafferano che celebra l’opera dell’Omniscente”. Il premio, dopo tante sofferenze e tanti spasimi, è questo. Nulla di più nulla di meno. A voi fare due conti e stabilire se il gioco valga la candela. Intanto la lezione si conclude, e il professor Miller evapora come un gas filiforme. Andate in pace, e addio. Anzi no, aspettate, un’ultima nota: per chi non s’accontentasse dell’antipasto, e volesse il menù al completo, c’è anche Parigi – New York: andata e ritorno, libro ritrovato del nostro canceroso docente di scrittura, mandato alle stampe poco tempo fa dalla Minimum Fax. Deliziatevi un po’ come credete meglio.

[Lynda Felder · Rating 5 out of 5]

There’s no way to summarize the magnificent writings and incredible ideas in this book. Here are a few passages.

from “Why Don’t You Try to Write”

The little phrase — Why don’t you try to write? — involved me, as it had from the very beginning, in a hopeless bog of confusion. I wanted to enchant but not to enslave; I wanted a greater, richer life, but not at the expense of others; I wanted to free the imagination of all men at once because without the support of the whole world, without a world of imaginatively unified, the freedom of the imagination becomes a vice.

from “Reflections on Writing — the Wisdom of the Heart”

Knut Hamsun once said, in response to a questionnaire, that he wrote to kill time. I think that even if he were sincere in stating it thus he was deluding himself. Writing, like life itself, is a voyage of discovery. The adventure is a metaphysical one: it is a way of approaching life indirectly, of acquiring a total rather than a partial view of the universe. The writer lives between the upper and lower worlds: he take the path in order eventually to become the path itself.

From “Work Schedule 1932 – 1933″

COMMANDMENTS

1. Work on one thing at a time until finished.
2. Start no more new books, add no more new material to “Black Spring.”
3. Don’t be nervous. Work calmly, joyously, recklessly oln whatever is in hand.
4. Work according to Program and not according to mood. Stop at the appointed time!
5. When you can’t create you can work.
6. Cement a little every day, rather than add new fertilizers.
7. Keep human! See people, go places, drink if you feel like it.
8. Don’t be a draught-horse! Work with pleasure only.
Discard the Program when you feel like it — but go back to it next day. Concentrate. Narrow down. Exclude.
9. Forget the books you want to write. Think only of the book you are writing.
10. Write first and always. Painting, music, friends, cinema, all these come afterwards.

[Jade · Rating 5 out of 5]

yes, i said to myself, i too love everything that flows: rivers, sewers, lava, semen, blood, bile, words, sentences. and so i make bold to say that no matter how vile, filthy, scabrous, scatalogical or obscene a book may be, if it serves life, if it aims at the cancer which is eating out the heart of the world, it is a good book, a righteous book, a holy book!

[Shane · Rating 4 out of 5]

A Saint, Sinner, or Great Writer?

Miller continues to defy the conventions of “literary writer.” He is easier to cast into the slag heap of pornography for his “Tropic” books and the Rosy Crucifixion trilogy, but in reading this collection of extracts from his various works, including those two vilified collections, one begins to wonder whether a prophet lurks within. His erudition and insights are deep, there is no obscenity in this book, and he calls into question what we take to be traditional literature.

 
Miller had a late but tortuous start in writing. In his words: “I wrote for seven years in America without once having a manuscript accepted. I thought that a man, to be a writer, must do at least five thousand words a day. I thought he must say everything all at once—in one book—and collapse afterwards. I didn’t know a thing about writing As a foreigner in Paris, without friends, I went through an even worse ordeal. The naive English critics, in their polite, asinine way, talk about the “hero” of my book (Tropic of Cancer) as though he were a character I had invented. I made it as plain as could be that I was talking in that book about myself. I used my own name throughout. I didn’t write a piece of fiction: I wrote an autobiographical document, a human book.”

 
In fact, he writes only (and best) about himself. He believes in creation over literature. And he believes in living life to the fullest from its happiest to its seamiest, and then recording it. Yet he spent a lot of time procrastinating on the first Tropic book he was going to write, and there are plenty of brilliant stream of consciousness passages in this book written before he actually got down to the act of writing Tropic of Cancer. However, when he was writing Plexus, the second book in the Rosy Crucifixion trilogy, he says, “Huge blocks—particularly the dream parts—came to me just as they appear in print and without any effort on my part, except that of equating my own rhythm with that of the mysterious dictator who had me in his thrall.” A Voice would possess him and spew buckets of words at him without a break, he says.

 
He is drawn to the great teachers: “For me the only true revolutionaries are the inspirers and activators, figures like Jesus, Lao-tse, Gautama the Buddha, Akhnaton, Ramakrishna, Krishnamurti, men who have experienced life to the full and who give life—artists, religious figures, pathfinders, innovators and iconoclasts of all sorts.” His take on literature, on the other hand, is: “A man writes to throw off the poison which he has accumulated because of his false way of life. He is trying to recapture his innocence, yet all he succeeds in doing (by writing) is to inoculate the world with the virus of his disillusionment.” Wasn’t his Tropic books about that? And about transcribing that Voice spewing buckets at him – wasn’t that also writing?

 
He is a the supreme egotist: “I have absolutely nothing to show for my labors except my genius. . I am a cosmological writer, and when I open my trap I broadcast to the whole world at once.”

 
Miller holds special opprobrium to those who tried to classify his writing as Obscene, for his work was banned in the USA for many decades, and for some years in Europe as well. “Nothing would be regarded as obscene, I feel, if men were living out their inmost desires. The cattle breeder may write his pamphlets and treatises; the physician may detail his psychopathic case histories; the anthropologist may describe his researches into the sexual habits of primitive peoples—but the writer who is interested purely in creative literature, the writer who would likes to describe the life about him fully and freely, is forbidden to speak.” Obscenity in art is a technical device intended to awaken and usher in a sense of reality, according to Miller.

 
Miller’s other target is Morality. “This word morality! Whenever it comes up I think of the crimes which have been committed in its name. There exists one morality for peace times and another for war. In times of war everything is permitted, everything condoned. That is to say, everything abominable and infamous committed by the winning side.”

 
I have quoted extensively from Miller in this review because his profundity is the highlight of this book. I wrote down many of these little gems for reflecting upon later. They are the thoughts of one who loved life and lived it in all its dimensions. And to quote him one last time: “If it isn’t literature, call it what you like. I don’t give a damn.”

[ink · Rating 1 out of 5]

this guy is actually my enemy

[Abdulaziz · Rating 5 out of 5]

Cures vertigo.

[Laura · Rating 5 out of 5]

I bought this book in an airport on my way to Arizona and read it in one day. Heavy stuff with the autobiographical tone of the book and emphasis on seemingly random pieces of his life, but I loved it. I was offended by his treatment of women, but I felt that finally someone wasn't walking on eggshells. i was young when I read it, but I still remember quotes and have dog eared pages. It's a book I've recommended highly, but have never been able to part with it long enough to loan it out. "He and I are so alike, it is like looking at myself in a cracked mirror." Profound and utterly dirty. Read it.

[Sasha · Rating 5 out of 5]

Though it appears a short book, this is NOT a quick read. With every turn of the page, I found myself pausing to think, re-read, make notes. The excellent insight and incredible interpretations of the everyday were not to be read, but rather digested. A favorite for sure.

[Elliott · Rating 5 out of 5]

Essential for not only the writer and artist, but also the reader in all of us. In one section he refers to his own creative life as, "hurtling toward the stellar flux." Passages that are filled with a density of groundbreaking diction as well as a mystic quality that is quintessentially Henry Miller. If you like his work, want to live a creative life or breathe air and can read then read this book.

[Neslihan Elagöz · Rating 5 out of 5]

just perfect

[Clifford · Rating 5 out of 5]

While reading the books that this collection was taken from is the best way to experience Mr. Miller, this collection is excellent for the beginner or for the Miller fan. It allows those inclined to write (who shouldn't be inclined to write!?) to find those words of advice and encouragement in one place. This book could have been twice as long, but remains short enough to catch Miller's burning intensity while catching a fire within one's self.

[Josef Lindell · Rating 3 out of 5]

Bitvis magisk autobiografisk bok om Millers tankar kring författande och livet som helhet. Bitvis långsam, lösryckt, repetitiv och svårläst.

Inga skrivtips, inga regelgenomgångar, inga livsråd. Bara öppna tankar om livets varande.

Blev väldigt inspirerad av Millers syn på vad en författare är och hur han såg på sin livsgärning. Vill själv våga släppa lös som han gjorde, våga lyssna på den inre rösten kring vad man innerst inne vill skapa utan någon hänsyn till form, stil eller kulturella önskningar eller krav utifrån.

Visste ingenting om mannen innan jag blev rekommenderad den här boken om författande. Men jag är glad att jag läst den.

[Jess · Rating 3 out of 5]

This was a little difficult for me to sink my teeth into. The thing about Miller's writing that I usually enjoy is the ebb and flow of it, the descriptive passages of life punctuated by the more philosophical and metaphysical musings, which stand out like gleaming heads-up newly-minted pennies on the sidewalk to be picked up and put in your pocket for your restless fingers to play with while you're walking or waiting for the subway. This book is a collection of all intense passages, and without that context of the descriptive life passages to ground them, they can overwhelm. There's a lot of great stuff in here but I think Miller is meant to be enjoyed in his rambling wholeness instead of excerpted so finely.

[Ben · Rating 5 out of 5]

I carried a dog-eared copy of this collection of Henry Miller's writings on writing around with me for years. I had underlined big chunks of virtually every page. The man is eminently quotable and his prose is incredibly meaty.

My ex-girlfriend's cat peed on my first copy and I immediately went out to buy another one.

I left the second copy on the counter at a Korean grocery in Portland. I had taken it out of my bag to make room for a 6-pack of PBR tallboys and forgot to put it back in. I went back to retrieve it later but it was gone. Either that, or my attempts to communicate what had happened to the proprietor were unsuccesful. I have yet to purchase a third.

[Philip Bellew · Rating 5 out of 5]

If you're an aspiring writer, this is the one to read. Miller's command of language is awe-inspiring.

[Kate · Rating 5 out of 5]

A Gift from Shannon on my fortieth birthday, purchased at The Henry Miller Library in Big Sur. Lucid and deep...

[Peetza · Rating 5 out of 5]

A great book for aspiring writers.

[Sabrinac · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is a collection of Miller's essays and theories on writing and being a writer. If anything, it's a musing on the metamorphosis of the human spirit when faced with the desire to create. Honest to god, I bought this book about five years ago and could not get through the first 30 pages. I was a garbage person at that time, and don't think I could have ever gotten through it had I not done the Artist's Way twice. I guess what I'm saying is I think you have to be ready for this book in order for it to take. That said, it's equal parts philosophy and instruction manual for how to surrender yourself to creative life or being obscene, things I am very, very well versed. I dunno if this can make anyone a better writer or really even teach them how to write. It can, however, instruct a nobody on the sacrifices and rituals necessary to evolve into a writer, god given talent or none.

[Kent Winward · Rating 4 out of 5]

The selections were a little uneven and not always as focused on writing as the title would have you believe, but Miller remains wonderfully Miller, a distinct and often misunderstood voice in literature.

[S.L. Myers · Rating 5 out of 5]

I really liked it.

[Anima · Rating 5 out of 5]

“what is my weakness, the desire to devour all”
henry miller

[Charlotte Marsden · Rating 4 out of 5]

Alright. Got me writing again, I owe the book something. Though I did end it five minutes early. That was the true ending. That was my truth. I just couldn’t bear to read his letters anymore about war, the morality of Jesus Christ, and writings on chemical weapons

[Peter Schutz]

Peter Schutz On Henry Miller On Writing

[Jack Hambly · Rating 2 out of 5]

I was hoping that this would be tips on improving your writing style from the author. Instead, some editor went through Miller's bibliography and grabbed up passages about writing, and threw them into one volume.

[Ben Palpant · Rating 2 out of 5]

Is it fair to write a review of a book that I never finished? Perhaps not. I certainly would not want it done to my books. But I reached the halfway point and have decided that I get his drift. And I think “drift” is the right word for it. Even though I found a few good lines periodically, he strikes me as a man spinning wildly in a river’s eddy. According to Wikipedia, “In fluid dynamics, an eddy is the swirling of a fluid and the reverse current created when the fluid is in a turbulent flow regime. The moving fluid creates a space devoid of downstream-flowing fluid on the downstream side of the object.” So it seems to me that Henry Miller has very little to offer those of us who are downstream from him. Certainly nothing to oxygenate our waters.

This book was never meant to be a logical argument since it is a collection of his writings on writing, but it seems to me that Henry Miller cared less for sound thinking and more for explosive self expression.

“Every evening, when I take the garbage down, I think of myself standing out on a high hill in resplendent whiteness. It is no sacred heart that inspires me, no Christ I am thinking of. Something better than Christ, something bigger than a heart, something beyond God Almighty I think of – myself” (p. 89).

That seems to sum up what I’ve read so far. He reminds me of the anarchist in The Man Who Was Thursday, by GK Chesterton. If you are reading Henry Miller on writing, put it down and pick up Chesterton instead.

[Brendan · Rating 5 out of 5]

Re-read, 02/2021: Despite the fact that this contains no new material, this collection of Miller’s writings on writing is great; having these pieces all in one place gives an overview of his career path and development as an artist you won’t get elsewhere.



Considering that the bulk of Miller's best writing deals with the story of how he set out to become a writer, a collection of his work dealing with writing can do little wrong, in my book. There are truly few other writers who could discuss the act of writing who I'd really want to read.

[Rosa Ramôa · Rating 5 out of 5]

Henry Miller
Estados Unidos
1891-1980*

"Ninguém avança pela vida em linha recta"...

"O Espírito do Homem é Como um Rio que Procura o Mar"...

"Parecemos estar hoje animados quase exclusivamente pelo medo. Receamos até aquilo que é bom, aquilo que é saudável, aquilo que é alegre. E o que é o herói? Antes de mais, alguém que venceu os seus medos"...