Others (including the protagonist) believe this is expressing the true essence of actual life. Some reviews seem to think this is a book is a celebration of life, instead it seemed to me a desperate striving for somethinness as the alternative is too fearful to consider. There is a lot of crude language (mostly C#&T, but a lot of S#&T and F#&K), which many may find crude and uninteresting, if not offensive. The book is permeated with an unstated fear of death, and worse, complete non-existence. Here the character expresses a desire to unmake modern capitalistic society, but has no idea what to do instead. This has much of the feel of James Joyce, but lacks a magic I always get from Joyce. Joyce-Like with desperation instead of magic
If you are not prepared for the monstrous vision of Miller you won't be able to find the roses in the dung heap, and thus you will be unable to question your own desire for roses in the first place. Miller lifts the sheets and describes the decay, the despair and the rot of humanity. This is NOT a novel for the weak, the timid, the easily shocked or those that believe art exists (or should exist) without shadows. It is dazzling, sharp and extremely dangerous. Miller's prose dances on the edge of the cracked mirror of Modernism. The novel is a cry in the dark a delirious shout in the void.
IT is the brazen, tortured soul of a man going through an existential crises in Paris. “When into the womb of time everything is again withdrawn chaos will be restored and chaos is the score upon which reality is written.”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 one of those amazing books that does violence to your system (think Lolita, Naked Lunch, Ulysses) but still leaves you gobsmacked by its brilliance. A madman who dances with lightening in his hands
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