I got into an argument with a friend a few days ago over the controversial work of Henry Miller. The whole subject of the debate was whether or not his books could and should be listed in a “Quality Literature” section of a book store. I was strongly against that idea and I was trying to prove in a very puritan, “mother of twelve”, “I’m going to church every Sunday” way that his texts have so few connections with literature and so many with pornography that the choice of the book store manager should be simple: put it right between the Hustler and the Penthouse. My suggestion was met with such virulent protests by my lady friend that for a few moments I was genuinely afraid for my life: how dare I compare such trivial publication meant to amuse the masses with the subtle mélange of metaphors and vivid descriptions which stand at the cornerstone of Miller’s books? Subtle as an ax I thought, but let it drop numb onto the ground since I was not in the mood of facing the fiery hungry beast which I saw lurking in her eyes.

I continued my attack from completely different angle, trying my luck on what I thought to be a softer side: it shows women in a very unfavorable light, to say the least. I love making women laugh, because their laughter tickles my overgrown ego which in turn lets me know I am very funny individual. Women enjoy this to the extent they would like to take me to bed and let me do a lot of nasty things to them. On the contrary, this time my friend’s crystalline cascade of laughter was nothing more than the perfect reflection of my complete impotency. In just a matter of seconds I shrunk in her eyes to the size of an ignorant child who needs to be set down and lectured on the subject of baby origins. The same light shines equally onto both men and women, she said, the only difference being that the stories are told from a man’s point of view. The level of depravation which this light unravels depends strictly on the reader’s taste and stomach. Only a complete hypocrite would resent Miller’s work as a whole and not once admit that some of it appealed to him/her to some extent. And she continued on the same path for many more minutes, not noticing on my face that I was already desperately waving the white flag.

That day she accepted my complete and unconditioned surrender and we moved on discussing about other things. Little did she know that I was secretly planning my revenge. But for a guaranteed success I needed to sharpen my weapons with fresh new arguments and for those I needed to go to “the source”. So after we parted I entered the closest book store, walked up to this cute lady clerk and grinning like an idiot addict buying his drug dose for a whole year, I asked where I could find Henry Miller – like he was actually there, relaxing in an armchair, in one of the book store’s many rooms. Belletristic, third row, on the right as you enter, forth shelf from the bottom and she did not flinch, wink or smile as she said that – overall she gave no room for further giggles and I suspect she would have had the same emotionless reaction if I would have asked for a complete study of aerodynamics. So to protect my self esteem I immediately labeled her in my mind as an uptight provincial girl who doesn’t read much and has not interest in sex whatsoever.

The only Henry Miller book they had that I haven’t already read was Opus Pistorum aka Under the Roofs of Paris. I grabbed my copy, paid for it and in less than an hour I was back home, relaxing on my couch and stabbing the first phrases of the book with my critical eye. I was already worked up to a frenzy by the book’s history provided the editor on the back cover. What I was holding in my hands had been written by Henry Miller in LA in 1941-1942 as he was trying to financially help a friend who owned a book store: the book’s sales were meant to support Milton Lubovitski enterprise. Due to its dense and explicit pornographic content Opus Pistorum was secretly sold to some Hollywood celebrities of that time and only surfaced to the level of public knowledge much later (published for the first time in the US in 1983). I was delighted to think that I could have chose no better source of arguments meant to help me even the score of the earlier debate.

The book wastes no time at all in introducing you to its main feature: the rawest, purest and most direct form of written pornography anyone can ever hope to find. All other elements usually associated with storytelling are completely neglected or superficially developed at best. There is only a shadow of a story linking the events and after a few pages you realize there is actually no need for it. The characters are just sketched and names are used like labels meant to help you stay on track and realize what’s going on once all body parts get mixed up. And the settings are primitive and heavily lacking details, much like you’d expect from a written play. After such evaluation you could think that Opus Pistorum has offered me a large and serious enough arsenal to win the “mindless pornography vs. quality literature” fight, but after reading the whole damn thing my conclusions were somewhat… unexpected.

Yes, the book is brimming with sexual organs and interesting ways of using them. It’s meant to satisfy almost any kind of sexual fantasy ranging from your regular orgy to the ones including a midget and a donkey – no, there is no actual donkey, but it does come close. And yes, you might want to consider skipping over some of the depicted scenes if you posses a tender stomach and also believe that sexual intercourse must benefit from the cover of darkness. But on top of all this, no, it does not lack literary quality.

That’s because in my opinion the quality of the written word must be measured in the power of making the reader imagine with crystal clarity the scenes described, making him understand the feelings of the characters and having the resources to constantly surprise him. Judging by this set of values Opus Pistorum is a masterpiece. I have rarely encountered more vivid depictions of events in which none of the human senses is neglected. As a result the images that will spark inside your imagination will make X rated HD motion pictures seem like poor joke. I have also never read a book that has offered me such a mixture of emotional extremities like this one did. I can guarantee that you will find yourself sickened, aroused, curious and amused in the same time and you will wish to turn the page, but you will sometimes feel too mentally exhausted to do so. The book is with every word a constant challenge to moral and ethical values and although it might not have the strength to reshape them, it at least makes it clear that the set you posses does not universally apply.  On top of all this, on several occasions the book made me laugh – honestly there are some good quality humor pills inside of it that will easily put a smile on your face.

So as you can see, I had to change my mind: pornography does not exclude literature. It is hard to make them go hand in hand since the first must lack exactly the same amount of subtlety as the other one posses, but under a talented writer’s touch they can blend together in an extravagant experience. There is only one problem: the quality of a pornographic text is also related to the quality of the reader. So if you ask me how good is Opus Pistorum, I’m just going to have to ask you in return: how good are you at imagining things?

This ending note I must reserve to my lady friend: thank you for being patient and stubborn enough to prove me wrong and guide me out of my own ignorance. You are now part of a very tiny group of people and without you I’d pass as an illiterate hypocrite. Now you must promise me we will discuss Opus Pistorum at our next meeting. :p