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I feel that America is essentially against the artist, that the enemy of America is the artist, because he stands for individuality and creativeness, and that's un-American somehow.

Henry Miller

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Henry Miller
Age: 88 †
Born: 1891
Born: December 26
Died: 1980
Died: June 7
Essayist
Novelist
Painter
Writer
New York City
New York
Genri Miller
Henri Miller
Phineas Flapdoodle
Stands
Somehow
Enemy
American
Artist
America
Creativeness
Feel
Individuality
Feels
Essentially

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Honest criticism means nothing: what one wants is unrestrained passion, fire for fire.
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The man who is forever disturbed about the condition of humanity either has no problems of his own or has refused to face them.
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If you are well off and can afford to spend ten or twenty-five dollars a day to hire some patient soul to listen to your troubles you can be readjusted to the crazy scheme of things and spare yourself the humiliation of becoming a Christian Scientist. You can have your ego trimmed or removed, as you wish, just like a wart or bunion.
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There is something else to be said about this immediate, spontaneous way of working, and that is this: in such moments, one is playing at the game of creation.
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To be cured, we must rise from our graves and throw off the cerements of the dead. Nobody can do it for another - it is a private affair which is best done collectively. We must die as egos and be born again in the swarm, not separated and self-hypnotized, but individual and related.
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The learning we received only tended to obscure our vision. From the day we went to school we learned nothing on the contrary, we were made obtuse, we were wrapped in a fog of words and abstractions.
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Sex is one of the nine reasons for reincarnation... The other eight are unimportant.
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Surrealism is merely the reflection of the death process. It is one of the manifestations of a life becoming extinct, a virus which quickens the inevitable end.
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A book is a part of life, a manifestation of life, just as much as a tree or a horse or a star. It obeys its own rhythms, its own laws, whether it be a novel, a play, or a diary. The deep, hidden rhythm of life is always there - that of the pulse, the heart beat.
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In the attempt to defeat death man has been inevitably obliged to defeat life, for the two are inextricably related. Life moves on to death, and to deny one is to deny the other.
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It is the American vice, the democratic disease which expresses its tyranny by reducing everything unique to the level of the herd.
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It isn't the oceans which cut us off from the world - it's the American way of looking at things.
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We are dancing in the hollow of nothingness. We are one flesh, but separated like stars.
Henry Miller
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I have always looked upon decay as being just as wonderful and rich an expression of life as growth.
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Her fluency was marvelous. She would say things at random, intricate, flamelike, or slide off into a parenthetical limbo peppered with fireworks-- admirable linguistic feats which a practiced writer might struggle for hours to achieve.
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To the man whose senses are alive and alert there is not even the need to stir from one's threshold.
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Everything was for tomorrow, but tomorrow never came. The present was only a bridge and on this bridge they are still groaning, as the world groans, and not one idiot ever thinks of blowing up the bridge.
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Los Angeles gives one the feeling of the future more strongly than any city I know of. A bad future, too, like something out of Fritz Lang's feeble imagination.
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have you ever seen a genius out there looking for a job? it's the saddest thing in the world. no one will hire him. there is only one place where he is always welcome- at the bottom.
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What have we to offer the world beside the superabundant loot which we recklessly plunder from the earth under the maniacal delusion that this insane activity represents progress and enlightenment?
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