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 … More