Henry Miller was a prominent American fiction writer, famous for his autobiographical and surreal fiction. He was a bronco known for his profligate lifestyle of alcohol and prostitutes. From America he emigrated to Paris to indulge in an aesthetic journey. His books were labeled pornographic and were once banned in the United States.
There is very little philosophy in his writing, although it is in line with his writing on drama, opera, and music. There are a small number of tropes in the writing of him. Most days, he is either drunk or a womanizer. Alcohol and women are a frequent leitmotif in his writing. He has little respect for the women he meets and treats them like rancid sardines.
What would be your philosophy of life? It is one marked by chaotic nihilism and anarchy. Use profane language. He is unable to turn his sexual escapades into lyrical, poetry-like prose. Do you have a brother of mind? There is no sublime sensuality in his writing and his writing is marked by the coarse and the vulgar.
There is no literary depth in his writing. One is met with a feeling of discomfort when continuing with their writing. His writing is caught up in a male fetish of sadistic nihilism. He is an escape artist who doesn’t want to face the realities of life. Women are an obsession for him and he is trapped in the trauma of an oedipal arrest. One meets the existentialism of a reprobate mind. Culture for him is a personalized evangelistic filth. He is trapped in the ethos of self-pity and the pseudonarcissism of an inflated ego. He has too much confidence in his writing skills. There is no catharsis in his sexual experiences with women. After the big bang and masturbation, the curtain falls.
There is no personal satisfaction in his writing. He is a misogynist who ejaculates ugly semen on paper. He’s an outlaw caught up in the blasphemy of his own self-created shit. His relationship with men is clouded by domination and self-centeredness. He is a supreme egoist who is cloaked in a shell of despicable malevolence. Reading it one is forced to sink on the shores of degraded nihilism. He engages the words in a virulent storm of circumlocution. From the plateau to the top, he traverses like a locomotive phallus in self-proclaimed anguish. There is very little literature and his writing is equivalent to that of a whoremonger. He is dissatisfied with life. His feelings are those of a short-sighted petty criminal. He does not take the reader to sublime heights of dizzying elevation. His narration is also fragmented and does not follow any order of thought. I would like to label him as a prostitute writer.