Tropic of Cancer and Tropic of Capricorn - Boxed Set by Henry Miller (2001-11-01)

If you enjoy writing full of amazing visuals, brash words, and honest diction don't leave this book out. It was left out of american publication for quite some time because it was tide up in obscenity trials, but if you've dabbled in books that search to understand sexual behaviors you shouldn't be surprised. There is a lot of stream-of-consciousness, so if that sort of plot-less writing bothers you steer clear, but it mainly depicts a man struggling to be a writer. Referenced in many other books and noted to be one of the greatest works of literature it's hard to pass by even if it's not your style.

After its publication in 1934, why was this book banned as obscene for 27 years? One big reason is probably the way Miller refers to women, often using the c-word.

Set in the 1930's, Paris, Tropic of Cancer describes how an expatriate artist (Miller) survives by taking advantage of patrons and their money, writing and, of course, getting laid.

It's plotless and definitely atypical.

This book is unlike any I have read before. It is really hard to tell if it is poetry or a novel...something of a mixture of the two. It mix's beauty and vulgarity. Philosophy with perverted sex. It is an intensly colorful "f**k you everyone" Completly unapologitic.

The story is simple, it basically chronicles the struggles of a young American writer living in Paris (as well as other parts of France throughtout the story, but mainly in Paris.) This man has strange happenings with slightly crazy women, prostitutes, rude Indians and other would be writers struggling to stay alive. Through most of the story the main character has two priorities; food and c*nt (as he puts it) in that order. Most of the time he is starving willing to eat anything, crusty bread or soup that is kept cool in the toilet when not being ate. That is as much as I'll say, the ending, I have to admit was a little disapointing, kind of abrupt, but the book is still easily worth reading and I still give it 5 stars.

Part memoir, part novel, part poetry and part philosophy. This is a book well worth your time that will shock you as it makes you laugh. But I hope you have the stomach for it.

Obviously the book is a masterpiece. Please don't read the store reviews to judge a book of this caliber.

The point of this review is just to give some notes about whether this particular Kindle version is worth getting. I was worried, because other cheap kindle editions have had major formatting errors.

This one, however, is 100% readable and fairly nicely formatted. There are a couple mistakes here and there, but nothing that would prevent this edition from being worth buying.

Tropic of Capricorn is the gretest book I have ever read. I read Tropic of Cancer first, and was interested and intrigued by it, but not until I read Capricorn would I truly call Miller one of the greatest American writers. Also banned from the U.S for 30 years, Capricorn goes beyong the sexuality and bitterness of one who has "given up" and lived for themselves as Cancer outlines autobiographically of Millers days in Paris. In Capricorn Miller looks to the roots of his childhood and life in New York and examines what made him the man he is and brought on his great change to "a new way of life". It has elements similar to Sherwood Anderson's Winesburg Ohio, which may be its greatest moments, as it tells small "grotesque" character studies of the people that shaped his life. Miller combines ideas of Eastern mysticism with the chaos of an ever industrializing world. Capricorn goes beyond linear writing to pursue a dreamlike atmosphere: one of admitted Surrealist and Dadsist influence, whose influence in turn can be seen in the later beat writing of Kerouac and Burroughs among others.

Some might call his writing 'self- aggrandizing' and 'self- absorbed,' but what would this book be without it? At the start of this novel, Miller has few things for which he can dignify his existence. This parallels with the avalanche of characters who cling to one thing or another to justify their own existence in order to push on (whether it be sex, religion, self loathing, etc.) Thank you Miller, what incredible insight!
For those who've got a problem with Miller's pretentious prose, you might consider the theme of the novel. Get over yourself long enough to learn from Miller's color of truth, not your own. This isn't your autobiography.
It's a fabulous book, but I have a suggestion to the reader: Instead of getting dismayed by Miller's tone, use it. Incorporate it into the theme of the book, and you won't be disappointed.

Honestly, I did not know some of the vocabulary Miller used, but apparently I did not need to! Despite my limitations, the work was intoxicating. The book is not about sex as some claim, but rather an example of art imitating life. At times, disgusting. At times, beautiful. A book to read to taste the spices of life or for some, a self help book for those wanting to learn ways to experience life more fully without disintegrating. Living is more than possible, it's unavoidable - Thank God.

Well. Though this book was difficult at times to plow through, overall it was worth it. Randomly throughout the book there were scraps of sheer genius, and the utter honesty and freedom was very empowering. Miller also disclosed some very interesting insights. If it weren't for the vague confusing tangents Miller sometimes went on, the book would be perfect. Overall, the passion and endurance of the book blew me over.

A 5 rating borders on the realm of pretension, and this is not a pretenious book. There's little smutty, arogant, or roughly anarchistic about it unless you fail to notice that Miller is explaining honestly every five seconds why things happen. This isn't entertainment, it's a man telling about life. He may be a rather course adventurer at his roots, but never so without us understanding. This is a good book to flip open and start reading, there's always a morose, yet trying to live, bit of philosophy staring you in the face. I imagine if you don't have that traveler's spirit and try to eat the whole thing from page 1 that you'll just be too full too quick. Leave it around, jump in on a passage from time to time. You'll be hard-pressed to find such a human miserable (...), who is, as he admits, happy.

...my spiritual liberation started with Henry Miller and _Tropic of Cancer_.

I always credit him with "saving my life" and don't think this an exaggeration. As a troubled, near suicidal 15 year old, I saw _Tropic of Cancer_ on the bookshelf of my next door neighbor's - whose dog I was walking while they were away - and dove in hoping to find what reports of the obscenity trial in the New York Times would lead me to find - I was 15 and anxious for "obscenity".

No doubt, I found obscenity, but mostly I found courage! gobs of it - and joy - the courage to be who I was and just go for it - everything and everyone else be damned!

For the next decade or so, not two weeks would go buy when I wasn't reading Miller: the Tropics, Black Spring, Sexus/Nexus/Plexus, The Colossus of Maroussi, Big Sur, and on and on, re-reading - but although they all recharged the joy (not to mention my vocabulary, he read the dictionary as a youth and remembered everything), nothing matched the impact of _Tropic of Cancer_.

Yes - Miller's pretentious, narcissistic and misogynistic, but he's also filled with a contagious spirit. His later works - particularly _Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch_ are more focused on true spirituality. By his late 50's he finally got the sexual obsession and misogyny under control, the earlier works are too focused on lust.

Great stuff for a 15 year old boy though! - wonderful and graphic sex scenes are interspersed with lyricism, erudition and the great joy of being alive ...no matter what...

I wouldn't hesitate to recommend this to any 15 year old or 50 year old...

I'm hoping Oprah will make this her next Book Club selection - if she thinks Dr. Eckhart Tolle's A New Earth is revivifying amid the sterility of modern life, she hasn't seen anything yet. Tropic of Cancer is nothing less than a bilgistic piece of ecstatic optimism. It comes as an electric shock when read in the context of the last century's deadening, pessimistic literature or in the context of our (generally) syrupy, self-conscious contemporary literature - or just in the context of day to day life as it has come to be practiced. And while most of the book seems satisfied with getting some mischievous laughs at the expense of Modern Civilization, the last 100 pages or so sustain a level of intensity that can stand beside anything written in English.

I love this book. I just picked it up one day about 10 years ago in a book store after reading the book title. After a 30 minute read I bought it. This book must be put in context with the complete works of Miller. The ugly passages of hate exist for a reason. I feel they are not always in reference to himself directly. There is so much beauty in the passages of this book. All this becomes clear once you read his other books. I mean we are talking about a man on the verge of spiritual collapse trying to begin a love affair with writing at a rather late age. But once he really feels the passion of life again after Paris you see in his books a dramatic difference. The Rosy Crucifixtion series is an example. Lots more character and story development take place after life starts to make sense again for Miller. Not that he had anything completely figured out in life, but I would say he is in love with living like never before at this point. The main reason I post this is to suggest reading other Miller books before making a final verdict on this most subversive title. Either way I love this writer. His passages can be some of the most beautiful ever written at times. Other times he takes up blocks of space to describe small events rather generically, pointing us to the beauty of simple everyday living done with a patient heart and a passionate eye. Check out Plexus if you have the chance.

I first read this book when I was 16. Today, I'm 30 but I still manage to read it every two or three years to remind myself to be true to my feelings. Miller's writings, in general, are autobiographical. Some of the events have actually occurred while some are his dreams/visions. However, all are real to the man and real to most anyone who truly knows themself. There's no candy-coating here. Some reviewers see only the sexuality of the book. While that's certainly a great portion of the book it isn't what the book is about. It's about being who we want to be and freeing ourselves from the reigns of "normality" and confinement. That's why it's so disturbing. He expresses himself through his character and the characters around him. He mocks society and himself simultaneously. He is truly "human". My one desire, if I should ever be able to fulfill it, would be to write a novel that's worth ten percent of what this one is. Miller is the best friend one could possibly want to have because he doesn't cover-up his intentions.

-
Synopsis: Tropic of Cancer unabashedly depicts Millers' escapades as a down-and-out writer in Paris during the early 1930s, "bumming around" Montparnesse with a colorful, earthy, and rebellious group of expatriates and artists.
Review: Miller is nourished by decay. He observes how the higher activities - love, sex, creation, fidelity, art - have lost their divinity, dignity, poetry. Sex seems to him dry and painful; work is absurd; death is meaningless, and literature is dead. The only sort of goodness we are now capable of is to blow ourselves to bits. But somehow Miller, despite his rage and pollution, seems innocent. His book seems a lament. His potency is founded in showing the cruelty and filth, but these would have no affect on him or us unless we also feel its opposites - kindness and purity. Whenever he records the ugliness of his surroundings, he has discharged them and their effects from his soul, as in a sort of exorcism. And this is why he appears an innocent soul. Because innocent souls have an unreasoned but keen taste for suffering, and nothing seduces them so easily as does the view of a martyr. In this instance, nature is the martyr; all of her processes polluted and corrupted by humans.
Miller's language is incisive, clear, potent, fresh...and new, a new sort of language, a language of the underworld translated into English. His fast-paced, absurdly wild and filthy existence is beautifully documented; there is something in the surrounding which reminds one of the film Casablanca, perhaps the charm of desperation.
He is prone to philosophies, and some readers will prefer the adventure to the contemplation. Also, his treatment of women is acutely unorthodox but should be further examined before being criticized.
Quotation: `I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive. A year ago, six months ago, I thought that I was an artist. I no longer think about it, I am...' (from the first page)
-

What is evidence of a great writer is what that writer can inspire in another. Judging from the other reviews, the poetry, exuberance, and electrified descriptions, why hesitate to buy this book? This book's power is in how it invigorates the life of the reader. It is the work of a saint and of the most unorthodox kind. It needs no intercessor or testimony from an academic. No, nothing but an open soul and a small hungry flame at the bottoms of the gut. This book gives the fuel for that tiny flame to engulf one's whole being. Read it.

I have before me a festering heap of vanity's excrement, the inbred issue of narcissism and self-importance.

Why, it's Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer, which has proudly been riding on a tenuous cloud of its own supposed "groundbreaking significance" since 1934. Here we have a "novel" which operates according to its own rules, besmirching its reader with a spackle of slapdash pseudo-philosophical musings seasoned with healthy (?) doses of prurient and vulgar descriptions of loveless sex acts and pithy, faux-nihilistic aphorisms for a few hundred pages until it (thankfully) terminates as senselessly as it began. It, as Twain might say "accomplishes nothing and arrives in air," and a rather fetid air at that.
But that's hardly the chief problem with our Tropic. No, you see, it clamors on, for page after page, demanding to be taken seriously despite an utter lack of focus, characters worth giving a damn about, a plot to speak of, or any of those other elements that make fiction worth reading in the first place. Instead, we, the hapless readers, get the tormented passions of a passionate, tormented "artist" as he reflects on art, philosophy, sex, human folly, and insects.

One can indeed, if one tries, imagine the entirety of Western culture flowing past our protagonist like a mighty river as he takes in such hallmarks as rancid butter, lice, slop jars, profanities and a variety of bad smells all floating by in resplendent cavalcade.

Now, when an author chooses to encompass the whole of life experience, including its more private, visceral, and grotesque elements in his or her prose, I've no problem. But if you're going to wallow, wallow with some semblance of style and verve! Make it funny or give your wallowing a wild and adventurous tint, and you'll at least be interesting. Instead, Tropic simply rolls around, doglike, in the gutter a few times and begs for your attention. Only this dog has fleas (god only knows what else), an "exciting" sex life, and barks out dozens upon dozens of woefully boring reflections on every impression that comes to its bourgeois little brain. Bad dog! Play dead.

One could be forgiven for envisioning the author as a smug, over-travelled fellow in his mid 20s (Miller was 43 at its publication) who, after having for too long fancied himself a man who carried out his existence on "the edge," decided to treat himself, and, incidentally, the world, to a noisome paean to his own self-indulgence. "But wait," Miller seems to cry, demonstrating his commitment by building a toppling bulwark out of the dull trash heap he's created, "I make no bones about my Tropic; it's necessarily self-indulgent, shallow, and puerile!" Very well, sir, I make no bones about it either. Take away the swearing, the dirty sex, the disease the bugs and what have you? A woefully monotonous non-narrative filled with the dreary reflections of this whiny "artist" that should have sunk into obscurity a long time ago. Yet this book continues to receive effusive praise for its daring vulgarity and capacity to disgust. But it has lost what power it ever had, withering in this era of desensitization, taking its place among a gaggle of similar works whose collective claim to fame lies in the dubious accomplishment of stirring up controversy.

I will not argue the point - Henry Miller is a fantastic writer, more a modern poet than a memoirist or novelist, I believe. His writing is completely unabashed, unbridled, triumpantly violating every taboo. He has the same bombasticness and authoritative voice as someone like Whitman, but if Whitman is life's celebrant, Miller is its misanthrope.

Reading Tropic of Cancer consistently put me in the foulest of moods. What drives this book ultimately is disgust and dissatisfaction, and all of Miller's talk of rot and vomit and stench and decay made my skin crawl. I completely understand why Miller is considered to be at the forefront of modern literature, he obliterates all known writerly conventions with this book. But while reading "Tropic" might be important, it's far, far from pleasant.

-
Synopsis: Tropic of Cancer unabashedly depicts Millers' escapades as a down-and-out writer in Paris during the early 1930s, "bumming around" Montparnesse with a colorful, earthy, and rebellious group of expatriates and artists.
Review: Miller is nourished by decay. He observes how the higher activities - love, sex, creation, fidelity, art - have lost their divinity, dignity, poetry. Sex seems to him dry and painful; work is absurd; death is meaningless, and literature is dead. The only sort of goodness we are now capable of is to blow ourselves to bits. But somehow Miller, despite his rage and pollution, seems innocent. His book seems a lament. His potency is founded in showing the cruelty and filth, but these would have no affect on him or us unless we also feel its opposites - kindness and purity. Whenever he records the ugliness of his surroundings, he has discharged them and their effects from his soul, as in a sort of exorcism. And this is why he appears an innocent soul. Because innocent souls have an unreasoned but keen taste for suffering, and nothing seduces them so easily as does the view of a martyr. In this instance, nature is the martyr; all of her processes polluted and corrupted by humans.
Miller's language is incisive, clear, potent, fresh...and new, a new sort of language, a language of the underworld translated into English. His fast-paced, absurdly wild and filthy existence is beautifully documented; there is something in the surrounding which reminds one of the film Casablanca, perhaps the charm of desperation.
He is prone to philosophies, and some readers will prefer the adventure to the contemplation. Also, his treatment of women is acutely unorthodox but should be further examined before being criticized.
Quotation: `I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive. A year ago, six months ago, I thought that I was an artist. I no longer think about it, I am...' (from the first page)
-

What is evidence of a great writer is what that writer can inspire in another. Judging from the other reviews, the poetry, exuberance, and electrified descriptions, why hesitate to buy this book? This book's power is in how it invigorates the life of the reader. It is the work of a saint and of the most unorthodox kind. It needs no intercessor or testimony from an academic. No, nothing but an open soul and a small hungry flame at the bottoms of the gut. This book gives the fuel for that tiny flame to engulf one's whole being. Read it.

I have before me a festering heap of vanity's excrement, the inbred issue of narcissism and self-importance.

Why, it's Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer, which has proudly been riding on a tenuous cloud of its own supposed "groundbreaking significance" since 1934. Here we have a "novel" which operates according to its own rules, besmirching its reader with a spackle of slapdash pseudo-philosophical musings seasoned with healthy (?) doses of prurient and vulgar descriptions of loveless sex acts and pithy, faux-nihilistic aphorisms for a few hundred pages until it (thankfully) terminates as senselessly as it began. It, as Twain might say "accomplishes nothing and arrives in air," and a rather fetid air at that.
But that's hardly the chief problem with our Tropic. No, you see, it clamors on, for page after page, demanding to be taken seriously despite an utter lack of focus, characters worth giving a damn about, a plot to speak of, or any of those other elements that make fiction worth reading in the first place. Instead, we, the hapless readers, get the tormented passions of a passionate, tormented "artist" as he reflects on art, philosophy, sex, human folly, and insects.

One can indeed, if one tries, imagine the entirety of Western culture flowing past our protagonist like a mighty river as he takes in such hallmarks as rancid butter, lice, slop jars, profanities and a variety of bad smells all floating by in resplendent cavalcade.

Now, when an author chooses to encompass the whole of life experience, including its more private, visceral, and grotesque elements in his or her prose, I've no problem. But if you're going to wallow, wallow with some semblance of style and verve! Make it funny or give your wallowing a wild and adventurous tint, and you'll at least be interesting. Instead, Tropic simply rolls around, doglike, in the gutter a few times and begs for your attention. Only this dog has fleas (god only knows what else), an "exciting" sex life, and barks out dozens upon dozens of woefully boring reflections on every impression that comes to its bourgeois little brain. Bad dog! Play dead.

One could be forgiven for envisioning the author as a smug, over-travelled fellow in his mid 20s (Miller was 43 at its publication) who, after having for too long fancied himself a man who carried out his existence on "the edge," decided to treat himself, and, incidentally, the world, to a noisome paean to his own self-indulgence. "But wait," Miller seems to cry, demonstrating his commitment by building a toppling bulwark out of the dull trash heap he's created, "I make no bones about my Tropic; it's necessarily self-indulgent, shallow, and puerile!" Very well, sir, I make no bones about it either. Take away the swearing, the dirty sex, the disease the bugs and what have you? A woefully monotonous non-narrative filled with the dreary reflections of this whiny "artist" that should have sunk into obscurity a long time ago. Yet this book continues to receive effusive praise for its daring vulgarity and capacity to disgust. But it has lost what power it ever had, withering in this era of desensitization, taking its place among a gaggle of similar works whose collective claim to fame lies in the dubious accomplishment of stirring up controversy.

I will not argue the point - Henry Miller is a fantastic writer, more a modern poet than a memoirist or novelist, I believe. His writing is completely unabashed, unbridled, triumpantly violating every taboo. He has the same bombasticness and authoritative voice as someone like Whitman, but if Whitman is life's celebrant, Miller is its misanthrope.

Reading Tropic of Cancer consistently put me in the foulest of moods. What drives this book ultimately is disgust and dissatisfaction, and all of Miller's talk of rot and vomit and stench and decay made my skin crawl. I completely understand why Miller is considered to be at the forefront of modern literature, he obliterates all known writerly conventions with this book. But while reading "Tropic" might be important, it's far, far from pleasant.

I couldn't help but notice that my review has stirred-up some real controversy. It's encouraging to see young kids still arguing about the classics just as I did when I was a lad. Even if the argument is over something as superficial as "authorship" (ha-ha). But I yield to the intellectual authority of Mr. Uhh. I stand corrected. ARTHUR Miller was the author of Tropic of Cancer, and HENRY Miller, Tropic of Cancer. Tropic of Cancer (it's true) is one of the great modern masterpieces of our century. While some modern masterpieces have gone by the wayside, Tropic of Cancer stands with Barry Ginsberg's great beat poem "Bark!" and Tom Clancy's "Electric Magic Bus Test" and Jack Kerouac's "Higway 61" as a psychedelic dream epic of grand proportions. I'm grateful to my daughter, Margaret, for suggesting that I read it. Thanks for the point of clarification, Mr. Uhh. Arthur Miller it is!

Reading this book was amazing. Henry Miller was not a pornographer. Even though he often related sex-capades in a detailed and sometimes sexist fashion. All he did was pull out all the stops. He gave us his breath , his Paris (his reality). The sex in it is too real to be trashy. He not only tells you about his life, he gives it to you with a half cocked grin and wink, tells you to "Do anything but let it produce joy, Do anything but let it yield ecstacy!", and then goes on to show you how. That is what you want in a writer isn't it? Someone who wasn't afraid to give up corporate america (how could he not?). Someone who wants You to live the good life too. Yeah, a visionary he was, and this book is telling us all to lighten up.

Obviously this is a classic. I really don't know what to say. The book is wild. It is entertaining, thought provoking, it takes you on a personal journey. If you love reading, especially the greats, this is a must-read. This review does not do the work justice, sorry!

I read tropic of cancer (for the first time) about three years ago, i was only 17, a time when i felt i was alone in the world, filled with rage and uncertainty. I was hooked inmediately, the parisian passages through whic miller drives you in are crude and so full of life. Nevermind the sex (though the sex scenes are good) miller's life philosophy is what is so intriguing, so provocative. To some people it may seem sick, the idea of being such an anarquist, such a bohemian writer. This book was not meant for best seller lover audiences, it was meant for true literature lovers, iconoclasts, existencialists, philosphers, i could go on. The point is this book isn't for everyone, ironically Miller being an american despises the american way of life (this better shown on tropic of capricorn), america is too selfcentered, too materialist, too conservative, too bourgeois for Miller. Miller opened my eyes too the hypocrisy of the world, too cynical. Read Tropic Of Cancer (don't do if you're uptight), i just can't stand and see how people underestimate Miller for being too crude, too talker, go and read Davinci Code please and let be a true author for true literature enthusiasts.

i read this book after i had read tropic of cancer. i personally find miller much more enjoyable in his story telling mode which is the first part of the book. his perceptions of life are unique and at times hilarious. these are the parts of this book and of cancer that i enjoyed the most. it is when he enters the world of revelations that he loses me.

this book also gives the reader much more insight to henry miller the writer. the closing portion of this book explains his following of the dada movement. this explains the irrationality and the sexuality of many parts of both books.
with all that said, the first 100 pages of this book are remarkable and well worth reading. never will you meet a more interesting and funny group of characters or situations. the latter part of the book returns to this format and we meet miller's friend macgregor. now that is an experience!
you can't even try to understand miller until you have read tropic of capricorn. it is worth the trip.

Miller’s erudite -- yet absurdist -- style reached its climax in this work. It’s perhaps pointless to comment on a book that declares in its first few lines that it is not a book but “a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art”. Indeed, while Miller comments brilliantly on just about every aspect of the human condition, he implies an insult, a ridicule of the structured classic schools of philosophy that pretend to achieve the same.

Read it and experience the insult for yourself.

Tropic of Cancer may be a bit too vulgar for some. It takes your morals, values, and taboos then rightfully tosses them out the window. It is the story of the darker side of life in Frnace. His writing illuminates nightmares, recurring themes of bugs, sex, hunger, vulgarity etc. This may sound terrible but his language is amazing. This novel is 100% original, and his style is unmatched. I give it 5 stars for his descriptive talents and the vividness of the story.

French words which have diacritical marks are not properly rendered.

No linkable TOC.

Paragraphs broken up nicely though (looks logical, like a regular physical book might look).

5 stars for content.

2 stars for formatting and lack of linkable TOC. fix these two issues and i'll rate it 5 stars.

The Millerian tendency to reconceptualize life's quotidian meanderings is amplified by the continuous and deliberate attempt to shock the reader into surprising epiphanies concerning the value of intimacy, however unclean, and its potential to yield unexpected, great wisdom -- though often at the cost of great psychic pain and philosophical and psychological doubt that reaches to the core of modern identity.
Also, the sex is great.

Miller rants in a rare infectious dribbling of honesty. At times brilliant, at times a drag, but "a beau jeu beau retour," so I kept reading. We find an entertaining fill of whores and half-wits, garnished with frozen stools, the clap, and seasoned with strangely welcomed and altogether fitting mad nonsense. Writing armed with rhythm, the mind's ear can almost hear "Parlez-Moi d'Amour" spilling from a Parisian brothel gramophone. We find sex and despair, the human condition, an artist's hunger and constipation... fitting subjects spoken in appropriate voice. All in all, a decent read.

"Tropic of Cancer" is more than a novel, in the ordinary sense, like some of these other review say. As an author, it has changed the way I see novels can be written, or structured (or not structured). True, there's not really a plot in the traditional sense, but plots are overemphasized these days anyway. That's all we seem to care about, like sitcoms and dramas on TV. Nothing, it seems, is allowed to stew in its own juices, is allowed to be a work of art--like this book. One might say that Henry Miller did to writing what Jackson Pollack did to painting. He broke it wide open; the way people talk and think are not perfect, they're not always in the proper tense, or eloquently worded. And should we care? I always believed that the aim of literature was to capture reality, our consciousness, otherwise we have something a little more fluffed up than a screenplay. And only literature is the closest art-form to consciousness that we have.

Richard Beckham II, author of "Frog in the Pot" and "The Tale of Mu" both available on the store.com. Frog in the Pot The Tale of Mu

For such a literary place, Paris is actually the setting for very few novels that should be considered 'essential reading'. 'Tropic of Cancer' is one of the few. I have studied Paris oriented literature for many years and I have rarely enjoyed reading a novel as much as "Tropic of Cancer", an account of day-to-day life of a penniless man roaming about the French capital. Ignore reviews that suggest this book is too explicit or pornographic. Miller's body of work carved a new path in literature, and this is book is his best representative of that body of literature. The other great Parisian writers: Roman Payne (author of "Crepuscule"), Raymond Queneau ("Zazie in the Metro") who depict the French capital in their books, seem to owe a considerable debt to the great Miller. Worth reading a couple times!

I believe that this book will probably never be fully understood and appreciated for what it is, and therefore cannot be completely summarized in a review such as this.

However with that said, this book has the power to change one's perception on life itself.

In my experience, to truly understand Henry Miller, one must first forget nearly everything that has been taught in our modern way of thinking and instilled in every other man, woman and child since the dawn of civilized man, and learn to think freely(which unfortunetly, is no easy task, and will probably remain the reason for this book being misunderstood for many generations to come). The reader must then not focus on the words, which many a time appear to be no more than ramblings, but on the meaning that they hold. Then, and only then, may one realize the ideas that the author is trying to convey in his parables.

I have never read a book with a more profound impact than this one and will continue to always keep at least one copy in my possession.

I first read this as a freshman in high school because someone gave it to me and my english teacher suggested that I dont read it. But I did, and I was shocked and sorta disguised with it until I read it agin some odd years later. True it is a perverts book, but it is also the bible of the lovers of life. If you hate life READ IT, if you are intimidated by sex READ IT, if you are disguised with Burroughs etc READ IT, if like Whitman READ IT, and if you are a parent and concerned with your child GIVE IT TO THEM AND HAVE THEM READ IT

For everyone who thinks this is a "trashy" book, I urge you to take a second look at it. It is very well written, and when you don't take the language and some of the material to heart, it's a great story. All I heard about this book is that it was filthy, but the people who find it filthy don't understand that it's about someone's life. Truth be told, if the average person wrote a book about their life, it would most likely be deemed "filthy". Don't believe the naysayers, read it with an open mind.

"For there is only one great adventure and that is inward, toward the self, and for that, time nor space nor deeds even matter" (4).

Miller's two tropics - CANCER AND CAPRICORN- are essentially manuals for the creative life. They present Miller's transformation from lay-schmuck working in the belly of the beast that is the American economy - jobs such as his position with the Western Union Telegraph company, which he refers to as the "Cosmococcic / Cosmodemonic Telegraph Company" - to his evolution as en expatriate writer living in Paris. The books are really designed to be read together to magnify the metamorphosis, the rite of passage. While CANCER chronicles the latter portion of Miller's experience abroad, the prequel, CAPRICORN, written five years later in 1939, is the more developed and more seminal of the two and elucidates with much greater detail the affects of his epiphany.

Most artists will immediately recognize the struggle Miller endures. Married to the "wrong" woman and with a young child in tow - a relationship which he finds stifling to his creative development - Miller faces tenable employment situations to support this life. Those jobs he does find do little to allow him to prosper; rather he finds himself as a cog on a wheel of Hell. His transformation from the morass of what society deems sound and true is painful. Anyone who has ever made such sacrifices to pursue the unspoken dreams to create from what grows inside of them will sympathize with Miller's dilemma. To pursue a life of an artist is frightening enough: to do it behind the rancorous veil of the American dream is horrifying. Miller recognizes the banal existence of modern America with its machines, its backward corporate policies, its worship of the unthinking and mechanical and he also knows he must break from its fetters.

Part of Miller's disenchantment with America is organic to his being just as much as it is experiential. As a child, Miller feels a unique disassociation with his peers and even his family. This self-possessed knowledge of his unique intelligence leaves Miller with a feeling of disorientation. As an adolescent, he sees his drunken father convert to piety when wooed by the charisma of a local minister. Miller, Sr. then falls from grace when the minister is called to another location and as a result of this perceived abandonment, cycles back to his earlier state of crapulousness. The event seems to have intimated to Miller the importance of being self-reliant upon a constant wellspring of inspiration so that disappointment in other people does not interrupt the flow of creativity.

Miller describes the evolution of the artist as riding "on the ovarian trolley." In fact, those very words are what preface CAPRICORN. For Miller there are really two births the artist experiences before his final descent into a world riddled with isolation, hunger and anticipation. Of course, there is the physical birth but this is more a symbolic representation than Miller's actual recognition of his square-peg, round-hole emotional relationship with the world at large: this is the first stage of birth. The second stage comes years later out of the "Land of F@ck" as Miller coins it, the place where the "spermatozoon reigns supreme" (198). These phrases, as they would first seem (and were seen for many years that the book was banned from U.S. publication), are not some sordid and gratuitous account of Miller's perceptions of the world or his conquests. Rather, he uses the extended metaphors and kennings to give the reader an understanding to the visceral almost primordial conditions from whence the artist arises. For Miller, spiritual ascension is a process biologic as well as intellectual.

"Once this fact is grasped there can be no more despair. At the very bottom of the ladder, chez the spermatozoa, there is the same condition of bliss at the top, chez God. God is the summation of all the spermatozoa come to full consciousness. Between the bottom and the top there is no stop, no halfway station" (199).

There is an almost funereal quality about Miller's cognizance here: this idea of exploring one's complete "ANNIHILATON" before metaphysical resurrection. Miller understands the need for an eradication of the former self before the rebirth of the artist as he moves from the "terra firma" to the "terra vague." Along with this laying waste of the individual comes the erasure of connections to the self: friends, family, lovers - all abandoned to pursue the freedom to express unhindered utterance*. To this point, Miller's use of "Tropic of" in the titles of CANCER and CAPRICORN now begins to make more sense as he asserts himself to be on the boundary between this land of the physical and the spiritual; the place where men aspire to be God for a period of time just before the flash-point of creative impulse.

He brings the idea of the "ovarian trolley" full circle when he talks about the importance of discovering Dostoevsky - this being the first glimpse of a man's soul - and then later in a book called CREATIVE EVOLUTION by Henri Bergson. He carries the latter book with him everywhere and extols its virtue upon any man or woman who would hear the new standard version on the gospel of solitude.

TROPIC OF CAPRICORN should be standard reading for anyone in the arts, for any artist who has ever felt the pang of isolation, who truly believes in the necessity of sacrifice, a higher calling and commitment to one's creative endeavors. Miller's importance to world literature is vastly underrated and in many cases. Writers are simply too intimidated to face the truth in what he espouses. Miller operates as an Overman and as such, it is right that he should pose a certain condition of tremulousness in his readership: he has forged his own society, he has forged his own being into something closer to what history had intended for him since his first phone call into the horn of the fallopian. This is discomfiting for most and is intended to show how the application of introspection for an artist can lead to becoming an acolyte of unconventional philosophy: how a writer emerges as "e pluribus unum." Henry Miller's doctrine is reserved for the initiate, the mad few who choose separation from the masses as a means for creative growth. Miller's epitaph should simply be, "My name? Why just call me God - God the embryo."

© 2005-06 Edward J. Carvalho

NOTES:
* A phrase I have incorporated from listening to many extemporaneous speeches of creative rebellion from Squawk Coffeehouse co-founder, Lee Kidd.

WORKS CITED:

1.Miller, Henry. Tropic of Capricorn. New York: Grove Press, 1961.

Of course this is from someone who never got "Catcher in the Rye" and it appears that I am in the minority. I had problems getting through this book (same as with Catcher) - is it because I spent my life reading primarily non-fiction? The book was banned in the US due to the profanity and sex. -- But that was the 1930's. Today, it is laughable and in all probability would offend no one. Anyway, I am trying to hit as many of the classics in literature as I can in an attempt to broaden myself.

What to say about reading Henry Miller's work? They are like stumbling, drunk, through a dark, seedy alley when suddenly the prose turns into some of the most elegant and energetic copy you've seen-- then, like the drunkard having a brief lucid moment this flash of genius passes leaving you waiting for the next great passage.

This is an earlier and longer work than Quiet days in Clichy (1934 versus 1956) even though both novels cover some of the same events. To me, his prose was much more developed in his later work.

This book was a little rough around the edges but definitely still worth the read.

It all depends I guess on how one can stomach literature. Some will immediately discard this and they have a point, because this novel is extremely obscene and explicit. However, if we can look beyond al the c**t words, there is something here to ponder over. I thought long and hard over Tropic Of Cancer and I cannot help but feel its brilliant, despite its drawbacks. Some of the passages in this novel are sheer genius, and I've drawn on a lot of these quotes over the years. There's a lot of beauty in here too, not in the way Miller writes about Paris or woman, but about the characters, especially the Henry Miller one. Henry Miller seems to thrive in this world, he makes it innocent and moral. He makes you want to go there and find out for yourself. Tropic Of Cancer is an inspiring novel. Definately worth it.

I have to admit part of what attracted me to the book and held my attention was keeping in mind the time period it was written in. I was a bit shocked even by today's standards and I can see why it was banned for many years. Just for having the balls to write a book of that brashness in that time period; it is worth checking out.

When it comes to storyline, I was less interested in his large lessons on life he was trying to teach than the story itself. I choose to read it simply as a tale of a traveler and glossed over the muddy insights. In my opinion they didn't seem to have a place.

I have a friend who has hitch-hiked across America, and at times hopped freight trains to travel. Needless to say she's had some unusual experiences. When reading this I thought of her and her stories.

i was working in a half-way house for the chronically mentally ill and was reading Tropic of Cancer during down time. a really manic resident snatched it out of my hand in the crowded kitchen one day and began to read it outloud. quickly all the schizophrenics and manics looked at me like i was really nuts. that alone should stand as an endorsement.

Tropic Of Capricorn is certainly not for everyone. The first time I read it I was quite put off by it. But years later I was drawn to read it again and suddenly found it full of meaning.

Most people speak of it as a book about sex, but really it's a book about spiritual awakening. It is not an easy read. It holds your face in the mud and asks you to see God. It's a book that makes you feel experiences, it wears you down, and then takes you into moments of satori.

Miller does write prose like it was poetry. It's difficult to compare him to another writer, but Lawrence Durrell does come close. (It isn't ironic that both were good friends!)
Tropic of Cancer is very heartful. There isn't anything Miller leaves hidden about himself. But it's his style that really grabs the reader.

someone had to make the world spin a little faster and henry did it. there's a reason for the vernacular and it's here in henry's prose. thankfully someone put the right twist on the titty of society and came down off the high horse of so called literature. his works are earthy and real, there's a smell, a dangerous smell to them. he's smashed around a bit by the fred ward portrait of him on screen but he does ok otherwise. put yourself in his position, a man with a few francs in his pocket, slumming it in paris, i'd hitting up anais nin for lunch and blowing a bit more on hookers too.

Capricorn is an absolutely unique and shattering novel. Miller's ability to write with great cynicism and bitterness about modern life and then instantly plunge to the deepest depths of the philosophy of being is astonishing. At times speaking in a kind of psychobabble, a line or two of this prose/poetry is sometimes enough for one sitting. A bitter novel about the death of the spirit amidst the inevitable continuation of life, Tropic of Capricorn is Miller's masterpiece and one of the twentieth century's greatest works.

I'm sure this novel was shocking in 1934, but I wasn't shocked or offended by it at all - I was just bored. I have to believe the only reason this book is famous is because it was banned. I found the incoherent rambling style to be tedious, uninteresting and painfully boring to read. Have you ever been to a party where you're sober, and some really drunk idiot wants to talk to you about politics or philosophy? Blah blah blah blah blah. This book is kind of like that.

Since closing this book i have had a burning desire to travel to Paris...but not the modern day Paris; the 1930's Paris. Miller describes vividly the vibrant and jubilant Parisian atmosphere with it's incredible melange of aspiring artists, authors, whores, philosophers and down-and-out nobodies. Tropic of Cancer is also a fascinating intro-respective piece of literature as Miller reveals his own feelings towards the city and the many extraverted characters with whom he associates. Though miserable at times, largely due to his eternal struggle for food, Miller seems to adore this depraved, humble existance and does not allow his distressing financial situation to affect his rapturous spirits.

This is an amazing book. Miller is funny, erotic, obscene, and philosophical in all the right ways. Read him and get a glimpse of life's real possibilities. This Great American Bum is the real founder of the International Revolution. I don't think anyone can walk away from Miller's Tropic of Cancer the same person as when they arrived. Would Kerouac's "On The Road" have been possible before this book? Or Cain's "The Wards of St. Dymphna"? I don't think so!

This book was way ahead of it's time. Written in the 1930's and banned for almost 30 years, it sounds like something written only yesterday.
Miller is an amazing writer with real vision, insight and madness. The James Joyce of America. The book grabs you and holds you from page one. It's a true masterpiece.

This was the first book that I read by Miller and it changed the way that I looked at literature forever. It is uncanny how he can seem to always use the best words to describe his adventures in Paris, making an average story enchanting that would be boring being told by anyone else. Beutifully written as if it is one big poem, which makes up for the complete lack of structure. I personaly hate structure anyway. To sum it all up: The best book I have ever read.

It's fascinating and a wonderful read but most people won't enjoy the anti-America commentary and many women find the graphic sexual content offensive. It is also not a masterpiece as far as a plot. For the most part it doesn't really have one. I, myself, throughly enjoyed reading it for about 3/4 of the book but after awhile I began to lose interest in the character.

If you're not one for profanity and very on-the-edge themes, then this is not the book for you. The "C" word gets bantered about quite a bit and yet I found myself strangely attracted to the prose. In places it is just beautiful and Miller's words flow like water over stones. There's something actually relaxing about the WAY he writes, not about the subject material. Still, I understand why this book has the place it does in then literature canon.

I read this book after rave reviews from my free spirited friends and have to say that from a voyeuristic perspective it is perhaps interesting and allows us to see into a world we could view no other way.

However, I know a handful of guys who live like this today and I see nothing romantic or artistic about them. They are just people avoiding responsibilities and gorging themselves on other people's resources.

I recommend that you read the experience don't live it.

Henry is in love with words, his own words. Like a squinty eyed gunslinger who is impressive until you realize that he's an just an extra in a Clint Eastwood movie with a gun full of blanks, Miller is full of his own bluster and bravado that after a short while seems little more than a pose. Tropic of Cancer is a tedious exercise in misanthropy in which women are all c**ts and a mans' worth is judged by the size of his johnson and his bank account, ie how much the main character can sponge. The novel is a fictionalized autobiography about an American expat writer living in Paris. It's rambling, occasionally brilliant, swaggering, mysogonistic, anti semitic and ultimately dull, dull, dull. Not much happens. The novel is more concerned with character observation and commentary on humanity, female genitalia and the bohemian expat lifestyle which on the face of it, might sound interesting. But the main character is a loveless (except for himself), misanthropic, self absorbed sexist jerk who about whom I couldn't give a damn. He's a typical modernist anti-hero who flaunts social convensions and norms and "suffers" for his art. Of course he hangs out with a bohemian crowd, screws a lot of prostitutes all the while making fun of the "friends" from whom he mooches meals, and his wife who sends him money from America. The great number of incredibly unerotic (unappealing and mechanical) sex scenes just made me numb. Miller makes sex into something that's more like trophy hunting than anything actually enjoyable. Perhaps at the time this dissipated lifestyle may have been the heighth of hip, now it seems a pathetic and irresponsible macho pose. Ultimately the main character is a slumming parasite, an annoying dillitente: his lifestyle is almost pointless. The prose is sometimes brilliant, but Tropic of Cancer is the type of book that is more fun to talk about than actually read, the kind of book that would increase your coolness factor with certain literary types. That Norman Mailer gives this book ridiculously high praise should give you an idea of the tired macho posturings to be found therein. It gets old quick.

i've read several books of henry's,but it's the very best coz i'm moved by what he said,so frank so grey so sentimentaland so good. sometimes i jsut forget he wrote it so long time ago,his work is everygreen,so to speak.

this was an intersting book. it wasnt really great, as a matter of fact, parts of it were in turn confusing and boring as well. however, it wasnt really bad either. i kept going back to it so i could finish it. all in all, this book requires a great deal of patience. get it and enjoy, but dont feel bad if you dont cause you are really not missing out on anything spectacular.

I'm astounded at the reputation this book has garnered. There is very little here that I would call good writing. As a novel it lacks conflict, plot, and character development. I can understand the shock it must have caused at the repressive time it was published, but beyond that there is nothing very interesting here. The narrator is a fairly disgusting character whose opinions of the world are anything but illuminating. This book is neither good writing nor good pornography.

It might be filth and shame, but these fictional confessions of
sort are funny and highly poetic. There's no need of plot or character
development to really enjoy the story right from the start. Henry Miller
may seem like trash to some because of the miserable theme in the novel,
but the way is told is very colorful and truly unique.

wow. reading henry miller is like taking an amazing roller coaster rider while on ecstasy. his writing is intoxicating, it would make a truck driver blush. miller transports you back to a world that we've only seen colored be history. his style is abrupt his sentences infinite and his poetry beyond compare. this is a work of literature in the true sense. constantly testing the limits of imagination and self examination. highly recommended. read this book and pass it onto others!!

Out of pure, unapologetic life Miller wrote Cancer. There's not much to say about the book- It says everything it needs to by saying it all. While reading this book one can actually feel Miller ripping all the dead weight from his soul; dont be offended. He says what he says not to surprise or arouse, but because he doesnt care what you think.

This book often made me very angry, and i would put it down for a month because i would feel too disgusted with what i had read. On the other hand, some pasages, chapters even, are beautifully written. Nonetheless, the overly brutish sexual adventures of Miller described in the book are often too much to bear.

This book is not worth the price being advertised here. I have seen this edition of Cancer in used book stores for five or six bucks. This is not a collectible edition, in my opinion, it's just a cheap old hardback. Miller and Durrell and many others have gone through editions in this sort of el cheapo standard hardback form, with the black stuff on part of the cover, as if the thing were dipped in oil. I can't believe book hawkers are attempting to foist this thing off on unsuspecting booklovers as something really valuable.

I was pretty disappointed by this book because I was expecting to be bowled over with language and philosophy. The philosophy was OK but not great and it was buried in a non-plot story. The language, when used for philosophy was OK, but the rest of the time it was either tired and pedestrian or just plain potty mouth.

The "story" revolves around the heart-broken author, who is down and out in Paris. His life entails bumming enough money to score food, women and a place to sleep. Naturally, as a down and outer, he constantly complains about the system without ever having the guts to do anything about it. I was really surprised that his character never did anything given his vitriolic nihilism towards just about everything. The irony of the character is that despite hating society and everything in it, he must beg in order to exist in it. I would have never guessed that Miller was such a chicken anarchist.

This book won its mark of importance because of its symbol of freedom of speech and I am fine with that, but it just felt a little contrived the way he threw around the C word and his degradation of women. There are only so many ways to describe cold-hearted sex and after you get the idea, Miller, if it is autobiographical, keeps on bragging.

There were many times I felt like I was reading "On the Road", but without all of the good times and the passion. They both have a strong counter culture current, but OTR is down and happy while TOC is down and miserable. If you have to pick one, go with OTR. I would much rather hang out, philosophize, party and travel with JK than HM.

In my opinion, it is essential that any budding writer read any Henry Miller book they can find. One of my personal favourites is Tropic of Capricorn. The amazing joy that i find in his words constantly dumbfounds me. To me, this book is not so much about a story, but about the genius of this man who so succsessfully marries prose with poetry.

This book is widely regarded as an American classic. It's on many "must-read" lists. I decided to check this out and there are two things I can definitely say about it:

1) Henry Miller is a master of language
2) The book is EXTREMELY BORING

Miller paints such a vivid picture with words. The only problem is there's nothing interesting to describe. People sleep around and talk about doing things but never do them. And they complain about the copious amounts of sex they have. The characters are losers who do nothing. A waste of time.

Miller's writing style and use of language are worth two stars. The rest of it is worthless.

For the information of Mr Patrick Inglis; Death of a Salesman was written by Arthur Miller, and not Henry. No wonder he was surprised by the sudden shift of literary technique. 'Cancer' is one of the 20th Century's greatest books, in my opinion.Ground breaking and provocative.And for anyone who is upset by the language....you don't have to read it out loud!

Henry Miller's acclaimed `Tropic of Cancer' was a scandalously provocative novel when it was first published in France in 1934, though it has hardly maintained any of its initial shock value. However, that is not what is primarily disappointing about it; the novel also isn't very good, contrary to popular opinion. Miller sets out to portray a group of American expatriates in Paris and their various sexual exploits and feeble attempts to be artists. His writing is not very compelling, nor are his characters. At best, `Tropic' can be read as a kind of time capsule of the 1930's, when artistically oriented bohemians thought free love and sexual-backstabbing is cool. However, it certainly doesn't hold up to a number of far less ambitious books about the period, including Hemingway's `Moveable Feast,' or practically anything by Gertrude Stein. Through a new fusion of sex and artistry (not even coming close to the technical virtuosity of Joyce), Miller somehow found a niche for himself in the cannon of `great' literature. New readers of the book will probably be disappointed.

Henry Miller is pure New Invention. This Autobiography is more imagination, than any story weaver could conjure. This and Tropic of Capricorn are pure MAGIC. Best to read this at age 17, next best to read this while you're still alive! Buy as many books as you can find, and give them to everyone. It will challenge a lot of people.... who cares!

I would rather give this a 6 1/2, but I can't. Anyway, I have to admit that I wasn't too impressed with his musings on artists and their place in the world. Instead I was more impressed when he showed what an artist could do. His descriptions were brilliant, true, but his arguments just made me roll my eyes.

Miller writes like poetry. His brutal honesty, rantings, and sexual deviation are not for the weak. This book is like a bible to me. I can pick it up, turn to any page and find something that inspires me to feel or think in a way I usually would not.

i like it but i know that most of the writing is sexist and/or misogynistic and/or racist and should not be taken to heart. i feel that most people who read this have the same mentality as Miller so if someone tells you this is their favorite book, run!!

I was looking forward to reading this book, but unfortunately most of it was self indulgent filler with absolutely no payoff. Sure, blinding light would occasionally cut through the floating gray clouds of endless paragraphs, but for the most part this book seemed more like a literary endurance test. The beginning piqued my curiosity, but reading the rest of the book made me feel like I just wanted to get my money's worth. I think the most depressing thing about the book was toward the end when Miller was quoting the surrealists, ha ha, and I loved those quotes and it made me want to explore Breton and such, but they stood in harsh contrast to Miller's own writing. Miller seems like an interesting name dropper, a coach of literature that isn't so hot on his own two feet; but then again, I haven't read all of his work, but I'm wondering if it's worth the effort. Henry Miller seems to touch upon things that have already been done better by other writers: Dostoevski was a better rambling, ranting madman writing in a common vernacular; Rimbaud executed the dynamic between bitter nihilistic despair to innocence and hope better; and Lautreamont was much more obscene and capable of creating perfect, surreal, jarring imagery.

This is the most bodaciously beautiful bundle of booty I have ever read. Sometimes, I like to take a warm bubble bath and baste my body while I read this book. Surprisingly surreal, excitingly eloquent, and intriguingly intoxicating. A rollercoaster ride of pleasure and pain, this book is lugubrious and lascivious all at once.

this was the kind of book that i did not want to finish because i hated to see it go. as for those that see it as chauvinistic, that it is, but amusing and if you can take things objectively it is not offensive in the slightest. he is a great writer, but he is one that you either fall in love with or hate. if you decide the latter, stick to chuck palahniuk, this is for the thicker skinned and stronger minded people.

If you enjoy the wandering character piece type of literature, then this is certainly a must read. Miller touches on the deepest and rawest parts of the human condition, as he traverses the state of being.

Highly recommended.

Reading 'The Tropic of Cancer', as with other of Miller's, is not essentially about a 'story' per-se but about falling in love with literature. I would find myself, mid- through, the book wanting to toss it away; as much he would - at times - annoy me with his never ending sentences and paragraphs ... yet i am glad I did not, becuase through his words one learns a very important lesson:- that to live and joy, despite all the tradegy and comedy of life.

I read this book for my book club- our theme being banned books. We read this book on a recommendation from a friend and all came to the same conclusion- NEVER TAKE THE ADVICE OF THIS FRIEND AGAIN!

The book was basically a long train of thought. It takes us through the ideas and ramblings of a man living in Paris. There is no actual plot and the characters are in and out of his ramblings with no logic.

I have to say that there were certain themes to the book we picked up on. There was a lot of sex, food and going to the bathroom. The author/narrator was selfish and spent a lot of the book talking about how he got out of work, but still managed to eat and sleep with women.

I did not enjoy this book at all and I'm surprised that it has such high reviews on the store, as I usually agree with most of the stars a book is given. I would not recommend this book if you are looking for a read that will provide a well thought-out plot with in-depth characters and a strong message.

looking back during the period of time when Miller wrote this may have invoked more of a edgier feel for thebook. analageous to hearing lenny bruce today, miller doesnt shock or hold the attention for me these days. more of a description of life in brooklyn and manhattan and a distance from some of the sexual stuff would have this book a better read.

An entertaining book! Miller is probably the most cynical person in the universe. Only problem I had with the book is that this author rants on in a mystical sort of way every now and then, and then it spans a few pages at a time. I found these "rants" incomprehensible, I did not care for them.

I bought this because James Frey said it was such an influential book for him, but I just couldn't get into it. It has stood the test of time -- so maybe this is not the review you should count on to purchase!

Henry Miller's "Tropic of Cancer" was a biographical novel of his years as an ex-pat in Paris. It includes tremendously creative, wonderful writing, but in the light of retrospection much of it is reduced to gratuitous pornography. When it was written in the 1930s, Miller's graphic sexual content was considered avant-garde, shocking and artistic. It was banned for this reason until 1961. This was the best thing that could have happened to Miller and the book, creating a cause celebre. But reading it in 2004, it is rather incoherent and, if it came out today, it would not hold up to scrutiny the way Hemingway and Thomas Wolfe stand the test of time. Miller's "cancer" appears to be a cancer of the soul. His descriptions of Parisian life in the 1930s - the whore houses, the scum, the thieves, liars and morally corrupt - describe an eating away of goodness, the way real cancer eats away at bone, skin and body. Reading Miller, one wants to shout, "Get this man to a church." Liberals would excoriate this sentiment as judgment, which of course has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the one thing that could have saved Miller from his moral atrophy is and always will be the Lord Jesus Christ!
STEVEN TRAVERS
AUTHOR OF "BARRY BONDS: BASEBALL'S SUPERMAN"
(...)

I read this book as I found it in the used paperback section of the "classics" section of our local used book store. It was horrible. I read everyday, and have covered many books in my lifetime, and this novel ranks in the top 5 worst books of all time list. It was not a deficiency in writing ability, which I could have forgiven, but the taste level and subject matter of the content of the book. If someone recommends this book to you, it probably means they are a sadist that gets particular joy in the harm of women. Seriously, do not waste your time.

Henry Miller?s "Tropic of Cancer" was a biographical novel of his years as an ex-pat in Paris. It includes tremendously creative, wonderful writing, but in the light of retrospection much of it is reduced to gratuitous pornography. When it was written in the 1930s, Miller?s graphic sexual content was considered avant-garde, shocking and artistic. It was banned for this reason until 1961. This was the best thing that could have happened to Miller and the book, creating a cause celebre. But reading it in 2004, it is rather incoherent and, if it came out today, it would not hold up to scrutiny the way Hemingway and Thomas Wolfe stand the test of time. Miller's "cancer" appears to be a cancer of the soul. His descriptions of Parisian life in the 1930s - the whore houses, the scum, the thieves, liars and morally corrupt - describe an eating away of goodness, the way real cancer eats away at bone, skin and body. Reading Miller, one wants to shout, "Get this man to a church." Liberals would excoriate this sentiment as judgment, which of course has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the one thing that could have saved Miller from his moral atrophy is and always will be the Lord Jesus Christ!

This book is an abomination of literary work. How anyone could call it a "masterpiece" is a mystery to me. Tropic of Cancer caught my eye with the promise of "raw" writing and honest depictions. In the beginning of the book I was intrigued by this unfamiliar style of writing and crude honesty. However, the reason for its rarity soon became apparent. The reader gets an increasingly dull repetition of a topic that ceases to be of interest after the first few pages. This specific style used only one blunt, crass method to get the point across. "That sweet Danish ass" is an almost gentlemanly remark when compared to some others. The same thing was said over and over, and nothing in the literary sense improved in the entire book.

Another problem was the lack of character development. Henry, the main character, was stuck on a mindless and pathetic path that led NOWHERE! There isn't a hint of something of any merit in this book. He lived his life as a parasite on others, simply finding new hosts so he "could afford to be rid of a less pleasant one". He gave the impression that he had no aspirations of getting anywhere in life and was content to be a useless bottom-feeder. This apathetic lifestyle was not at all admirable, and I went from being barely interested in Henry's life to despising it. He uses the excuse that "everyone's course is set" and there is nothing he can do about it. What a lame excuse to be waste of a human.

I have never in my life been so unsatisfied or had such a difficult time in finishing a book, and I would never recommend this book to anyone. How Tropic of Cancer got on so many "To Read" lists I'll never know. It is a boring, vulgar piece of literature.

Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller. Not recommended.

In his 1960 introduction to Tropic of Cancer, Karl Shapiro said, "I call Henry Miller the greatest living author because I think he is," ". . . as a spiritual example he stands among the great men of our age," and ". . . he [Orwell] predicts that Miller will set the pace and attitude for the novelist of the future. This has not happened yet, but I agree that it must." Shapiro does not support any of these points in his essay, and nothing about Tropic of Cancer supports them, either.

Tropic of Cancer consists of 318 pages recounting Miller's experience as an American expatriate in Paris and expounding his personal philosophy, often in ways that are rambling and painfully nonsensical. Miller's stories about his friends are tedious, pointless, and catty; like Miller, they seem to have been talentless hacks whose belief in their own artistic abilities makes them artists and writers, as though believing is being. Miller writes, "A year ago, six months ago, I thought I was an artist. I no longer think about it, I am"--which is the type of arrogant pretentiousness he mocks in virtually all of his acquaintances.

When they are not creating, or talking about philosophy or creating, Miller and his circle seem to spend nearly every moment picking up women (and disease). They rarely use a neutral term such as "woman" when there are so many obscene, demeaning words with which to objectify the gender. The women that Miller and friends find are invariably portrayed as stupid, drunken, irrational, loose, sly, deceptive, and good primarily for one function, which Miller turns into a squalid, cold, joyless act. In spite of all the vice and the "living," no one seems to be having fun, and some characters, notably Fillmore, find themselves nearly trapped into the bourgeoisie life.

Miller expresses contempt for the machine, the industrial age, and money--although he schemes to keep 2,800 francs from Fillmore's mistress and revels in having so much in his pocket. Often hungry, Miller obsesses about food and relies on his friends to support him. When he describes his Indian friend Kepi as ". . . a scrounger, a sort of human tick who fastens himself to the hide of even the poorest compatriot," he could be talking about himself as he bitterly complains about those of his friends who are stingy with money, accommodations, food, and wine.

Miller's logic about the working world is facile; he writes, "If you want bread, you've got to get in harness, get in lockstep." On the surface, this is true, but it never seems to occur to him that, if you want bread, someone must cultivate, raise, and harvest the wheat and produce the other components; someone must transform these components into bread; and someone must deliver it to the shops and cafes. In other words, if most people weren't in "lock step," Miller could choose to starve or set himself to produce bread, joining the world in harness. He makes his choice clear, then whines about it. He may despise those who support him, whether they are friends or workers, but that is perhaps because he, a misanthrope who finds fault with everyone but himself, needs the very people he denigrates (including "the grocer, the baker, the shoemaker, the butcher, etc.--all imbecilic-looking clodhoppers"), a reliance which he resents. He hates the machine and the machine mind, but offers no alternatives.

Seemingly incapable of sincere feeling, Miller finds human emotion amusing. When a friend says, "A boy can break your heart . . . He's so damned beautiful! And so cruel!" Miller writes, "We had to laugh at this. It sounded preposterous. But Collins was in earnest." When an acquaintance to whom he owes money dies, he writes, "At any rate, he was killed in an automobile accident shortly after my arrival, a circumstance which left me twenty-three francs to the good."

Shapiro claims that Miller is a poet, but his attempts at poetic and philosophic ramblings often make little if any sense. Speaking of buildings and statues, Miller says, " . . . they must be saturated with my anguish," the kind of bad metaphor in which he frequently indulges. He describes artists such as himself as the "inhuman ones." "I am inhuman! I say it with a mad, hallucinated grin, and I will keep on saying it though it rain crocodiles. Behind my words are all those grinning, leering, skulking skulls, some dead and grinning a long time, some grinning as if they had lockjaw, some grinning with the grimace of a grin, the foretaste and aftermath of what is always going on." Whenever these attempts at poetic philosophy appeared, rambling on for pages, I found myself yearning for a return to his insipid stories about prostitutes, disease, friends, and hunger.

Tropic of Cancer is perhaps the worst book I have ever read (and I did promise myself that I would read Tropic of Capricorn). Shapiro says, "There are not many of these emancipated beings left in our world [emancipated from what? --DLS], these clowns and clairvoyants, celebrants of the soul and of the flesh and of the still-remaining promise of America." If Miller, with his whining, his criticism, his holier-than-everyone attitude, his "art," his two-dimensional view of people, and his obsession with excrement, is the "greatest" of these souls, may I never meet the least.

Note: If there were a 0 stars option, Tropic of Cancer would have earned it.

I read this book on the advice of a friend who said it was an american literary masterpiece. To my surprise I found the book boring and devoid of any value. Miller spews out a self-absorbed diatribe intermingled with profane and tedious nonsense.

After a while I thought - why am I wasting precious time on this book?

There are other far better literary works.

Horrible book!! Terrible language!! I would not recommend this book to anyone! It is absolutely awful. Very sorry I ordered it; big mistake. I deleted it almost as soon as I got it, once I realized how gross it was. Not recommended at all!! However, the store.com service is top notch as usual.

The author is a whiner.

Moreover, the activities described range from vile to depressing. Lots of ugly prostitutes and venereal disease.

Definitely a template for Jack Kerouac's work.

Don't expect titillation. I can't think of a strong reason to read this work. I read it and Lady Chatterley's Lover after hearing the pair discussed on NPR and feeling that these were novels that a literate man should read.

Should an unpleasant book of questionable worth be _banned_? I don't think so. Caveat reader!

This book is a disjointed, drug-induced, self-indulgent pile of garbage. Apparently some feel that novelty (meaning pointlessly crude with filthy language) is equivalent to great writing. It is not. My review has nothing to do with prudishness or agreement with the book being banned at one time. I've read numerous classic novels - some as difficult to follow as this one. But, to say this book is a classic (not to mention one of the 10 most important or best of all time) is downright ridiculous. It is nothing more than random ramblings of someone with food and sex on their mind, sounding like a teenager with raging hormones, rampant appetite and overly indulgent parents (in this case, overly indulgent publisher). The only thing worth praise as classic is the sales job his agent made to get this crappy book published. It might be a good idea to ban it again from libraries, not because of the filth included within, but the absolute lack of talent demonstrated by the author. And he wrote another book, too? Too bad.

I read this book as part of my bookclub. We had decided to read something that had been originally on a banned book list. After reading it, I can see why it was banned...Awful! The book is very dirty and often seems to lack a focus and real plot. I struggled to get through it. When I arrived at my book club discussion, I found out that every single one of the other members had quit reading it before the half way point. Nobody could get interested in it.

famous for being banned, not for being well written. It's dated and tired. It may have been revolutionary and fresh when it came out, but a book that brakes every rule for the sake of braking them and not for the furthering of the novel is dated once the rules change. Sex is no longer taboo, but bad writing still is.

It's like being forced to listen to a crazy person with Tourette's who is screaming stream-of-consciousness nonsense at the post office. Around page 80 a slight story starts to emerge. It's not a great story but at least it makes more sense than the first 80 pages.

I lost count of the number of times I read the "c" word (I tried to write it out but the store wouldn't let me print the review because that word is considered "obscene"). Oh the irony. I am not a prude at all but I read that word more times in this one book then I've read in all the other books I've read in my lifetime combined. This is not a compliment towards the book. Not at all.

I really should not review this book. I have not read it. I downloaded the sample to my Kindle2, only to discover that none of the actual book is in the sample. The sample is entirely a portion of Anais Nin's preface to the book. I have no idea what Miller's writing is like from this sample. I refuse to buy a book when the sample contains none of the book.

this so called 'classic' work of henry miller's is extremely overrated, and as i was reading it i noticed that i had to force myself to concentrate numerous times. when people rave about how great it is and how trailblazing it was, i wonder if they read they same book i did, or if i'm living in a parallel universe of some kind. the only redeeming quality i found in it is miller's genuine rebelliousness and anarchic nature, although at times even this got a little tiresome and monotonous. the sex scenes are no longer shocking or thrilling, only annoying and at times unpleasant to read, because miller is so misogynistic and chauvinistic. the problem with all of his work, although some of it has undeniable value if only as a literature of revolt, is that he tries to be too many things at once and it comes off looking phony and contrived. for example, from reading "time of the assassins" you would think that miller was a rimbaudian/poetic outcast his whole life, and he goes on and on about how striking the similarity is between himself and rimbaud. (i, for one, felt like saying "don't flatter yourself, dude"). then read a collection of his essays, and he'll babble about how all of his friends loved him, and how he was just one of the guys. any close reading of his work makes it apparent that he was simply an arrogant narcissist with a ridiculously inflated view of himself. it's fine to think highly of yourself, but past a point it becomes simply delusional, as it clearly did with miller. he thinks that during his lifetime he grasped every experiential truth life had to offer because screwed women of all kinds every which way he could, and yet his capacity to translate it into the abstract with style is nothing to write home about. every other paragraph you'll find poor old henry trying gallantly to communicate the meaning of life, and then three paragraphs later he'll say (as he did in "the wisdom of the heart") that "life needs to be given a meaning because of the obvious fact that it has no meaning." all great men are contradictory and this does not take away from their value or importance one bit, but the problem is that in miller's case he was not a great man at all, and so his endless contradictions and oxymorons only serve to take away from the small value that his books had in the first place. i share his hatred of authority and established values and share his love for the surrealist/modernist rebellion against literature, but i guess i'm classicist enough to expect even the most nihilistic and revolutionary author to have just a tiny bit of talent. read his work for the admittedly refreshing anti traditionalism and astute critique of conventional morality, but do not buy into the hype.

Be warned! This book is not about science!

I don't know know who this Henry Miller fellow is but he doesn't know anything about geography. Imagine my surprise when I purchased this book--expecting to read about the earth's different latitudal circles--and discovered it has nothing to do with the Tropic of Cancer or any other latitudal lines! In fact, the so-called "author" can't even seem to WRITE in a linear fashion! I've heard that this "author" has a book about the Tropic of Capricorn out but I'm willing to bet that that one has nothing to do with latitude either!

This book is filthy. I had to take a shower after I read it. Why doesn't he get a job? Why does he have to live in France? Why doesn't he save his money instead of investing it in alcohol and hookers? So many questions. People just think this book deserves a place on the same shelf as say James Michenier because it was banned. It was banned because it's a bad book!

I read this book as I found it in the used paperback section of the "classics" section of our local used book store. It was horrible. I read everyday, and have covered many books in my lifetime, and this novel ranks in the top 5 worst books of all time list. It was not a deficiency in writing ability, which I could have forgiven, but the taste level and subject matter of the content of the book. If someone recommends this book to you, it probably means they are a sadist that gets particular joy in the harm of women. Seriously, do not waste your time.

Definitely not my type of book. TO TO much description and no plot...or it is spread out between several chapters. I skimmed through the last several chapters then didn't even finish the book to see how it ended. I felt like it was trying to read a deranged mind, it doesn't make sense to one that isn't deranged?