Henry Miller - NEXUS

Even so. The years that are left you are yours. If there's something you really want to do there's still time.

Miller, he said, almost woefully, there's no creative urge in me. All I ask is to get out the trap. I want to live again. I want to get back into the current. That's all.

What's stopping you?

Don't say that! Please don't say that! What's stopping me? Everything. My wife, my kids, my obligations. Myself, most of all. I've got too poor an opinion of myself.

I couldn't help smiling. Then, as if to myself, I replied:

Only we humans seem to have a low opinion of ourselves. Take a worm, for example—do you suppose a worm looks down on itself?

It's terrible to feel guilty, he said. And for what? What have I done?

It's what you haven't done, isn't it?

Yes, yes, of course.

Do you know what's more important than doing something?

No, said Reb.

Being yourself.

But if you're nothing?

Then be nothing. But be it absolutely.

That sounds crazy.

It is. That's why it's so sound.

Go on, he said, you make me feel good.

In wisdom is death, you've heard that, haven't you? Isn't it better to be a little meshuggah? Who worries about you? Only you. When you can't sit in the store any more, why don't you get up and take a walk? Or go to the movies? Close the shop, lock the door. A customer more or less won't make any difference in your life, will it? Enjoy yourself! Go fishing once in a while, even if you don't know how to fish. Or take your car and drive out into the country. Anywhere. Listen to the birds, bring home some flowers, or some, fresh oysters.

He was leaning forward, all ears, a broad smile stretched across his face.

Tell me more, he said. It sounds wonderful.

Well, remember this ... the store won't run away from you. Business won't get any better. Nobody asks you to lock yourself in all day. You're a free man. If by becoming more careless and negligent you grow happier, who will blame you? I'll make a further suggestion. Instead of going off by yourself, take one of your Negro tenants with you. Show him a good time. Give him some clothing from your store. Ask him if you can lend him some money. Buy his wife a little, gift for him to take home. See what I mean?

He began to laugh. Do I see? It sounds great. That's just what I'm going to do.

Don't make too big a splurge all at once, I cautioned. Take it slow and easy. Follow your instincts. For instance, maybe one day you'll feel like getting yourself a piece of tail. Don't have a bad conscience about it. Try a piece of dark meat now and then. It's tastier, and it costs less. Anything to make you relax, remember that. Always treat yourself well. If you feel like a worm, grovel; if you feel like a bird, fly. Don't worry about what the neighbors may think. Don't worry about your kids, they'll take care of themselves. As for your wife, maybe when she sees you happy she'll change her tune. She's a good woman, your wife. Too conscientious, that's all. Needs to laugh once in a while. Did you ever try a limerick on her? Here's one for you...

There was a young girl from Peru,

Who dreamt she was raped by a Jew,

She awoke in the night,

With a scream of delight,

To find it was perfectly true!

Good, good! he exclaimed. Do you know any more?

Yes, I said, but I've got to get back to work now. Feel better now, don't you? Tomorrow we visit the darkies, eh? Maybe some day next week I'll ride out to Bluepoint with you. How's that?

Would you? Oh, that would be dandy, just dandy. By the way, how is the book coming along? Are you nearly finished with it? I'm dying to read it, you know. So is Mrs. Essen.

Reb, you won't like the book at all. I must tell you that straight off.

How can you say that? He was fairly shouting.

Because it's no good.

He looked at me as if I were out of my mind. For a moment he didn't know what to say. Then he blurted out—Miller, you're crazy! You couldn't write a bad book. It's impossible. I know you too well.

You know only a part of me, I said. You've never seen the other side of the moon, have you? That's me. Terra incognita. Take it from me, I'm just a novice. Maybe ten years from now I'll have something to show you.

But you've been writing for years.

Practising, you mean. Practising the scales.

You're joking, he said. You're over modest.

That's where you're mistaken, I said. I'm anything but modest. I'm a rank egotist, that's what I am. But I'm also a realist, at least with myself.

You underrate yourself, said Reb. I'm going to hand you back your own words—don't look down on your-self!

O.K. You win.

He was heading for the door. Suddenly I had an impulse to unburden myself.

Wait a moment, I said. There's something I want to tell you.

He trotted back to the table and stood there, like a messenger boy. All attention. Respectful attention. I wondered what he thought I was about to tell him.

When you came in a few minutes ago, I began, I was in the middle of a sentence in the middle of a long paragraph. Would you like to hear it? I leaned over the machine and reeled it off for him. It was one of those crazy passages which I myself couldn't make head nor tail of. I wanted a reaction, and not from Pop or Mona.

I got it too, immediately.

Miller! he shouted. Miller, that's just marvelous! You sound like a Russian. I don't know what it means but it makes music.

You think so? Honestly?

Of course I do. I wouldn't lie to you.

That's fine. Then I'll go ahead. I'll finish the paragraph.

Is the whole book like that?

No, damn it! That's the trouble. The parts I like nobody else will like. At least, not the publishers.

To hell with them! said Reb. If they won't take it I'll publish it for you, with my own money.

I wouldn't recommend that, I replied. Remember, you're not to throw your money away all at once.

Miller, if it took my last cent, I'd do it. I'd do it because I believe in you.

Don't give it another thought, I said. I can think of better ways to spend your money.

Not me! I'd feel proud and happy to launch you. So would my wife and children. They think very highly of you. You're like one of the family to them.

That's good to hear, Reb. I hope I merit such confidence. Tomorrow, then, eh? Let's bring something good for the darkies, what?

When he had gone I began pacing up and down, quietly, containedly, pausing now and then to gaze at a woodblock, or a colored reproduction (Giotto, della Francesca, Uccello, Bosch, Breughel, Carpaccio), then pacing again, becoming more and more pregnant, standing still, staring into space, letting my mind go, letting it rest where it willed, becoming more and more serene, more and more charged with the gravid beauty of the past, pleased with myself to be part of this past (and of the future too), felicitating myself on living this womb or tomb sort of existence ... Yes, it was indeed a lovely room, a lovely place, and everything in it, everything we had contributed to make it habitable, reflected the inner loveliness of life, the life of the soul.

You sit there with your thoughts and you're king of the world. This innocent remark of Reb's had lodged in my brain, given me such equanimity that for a spell I felt factually knew what it meant—to be king of the world. King! That is, one capable of rendering homage to high and low; one so sentient, so perceptive, so illumined with love that nothing escaped his attention nor his understanding. The poetic intercessor, in short. Not ruling the world but worshiping it with every breath.

Standing again before the everyday world of Hokusai ... Why had this great master of the brush taken the pains to reproduce the all too common elements of his world? To reveal his skill? Nonsense. To express his love, to indicate that it extended far and wide, that it included the staves of a barrel, a blade of grass, the rippling muscles of a wrestler, the slant of rain in a wind, the teeth of a wave, the backbone of a fish ... In short, everything. An almost impossible task, were it not for the joy involved.