Promenade Littéraire #17: Henry Miller, Le Havre, Seine-Maritime (76)

#17, Henry Miller, Saint-François. In Miller's novel Tropic of Cancer (1934) the protagonist arrives at the station in Le Havre. He climbs onto a horse-drawn cab to Saint-François, the site of most of the action in Le Havre in the book. He finds the place enchanting. Saint-François for a long time was the area of fishermen and brothels. This area is also the subject of a poem by Francis Carco and Pierre Mac Orlan's Quai des brumes, famously adapted into a Marcel Carné film with Jean Gabin and Michèle Morgan. Émile Danoën wrote a book about this area: Une maison soufflée aux vents (1951). And let's not forget Kaurismäki's film Havre (2011).

NYC #57: Henry Miller, Brooklyn Heights, Brooklyn

'HENRY MILLER

 

1891–1980

 

Raised in Brooklyn, the best-selling author
is noted for his imaginative, controversial novels
Tropic of Cancer (1934), which chronicles
his colorful life as an expatriate in Paris, and
Tropic of Capricorn (1939), which depicts his adult
life in New York city. Both books were banned
in the U.S. until 1961. Miller lived here
from 1924 to 1925.'

 

91 Remsen Street. What the plaque doesn't say is that Miller and his second wife June were evicted from here: in a fictionalized account of searching for this place and moving in, Miller's novel Plexus states that the place was way beyond the means of the narrator.

Jean-Paul Clébert: Paris insolite (1952; repr. (with photos by Patrice Molinard) 1954)

I sometimes think the internet – and I frequently ask myself how we previously managed to live without it – has made digression not only an art form but a necessity: the trouble is, how do you avoid infinite digression? I have no answers, it's just a query. After reading a relatively recent online article on the Nouvel Observateur website about the artist-tramp Marcel Bascoulard from Bourges – whose life was traumatised by his mother shooting his father dead and whose own life ended in his murder for reasons that still appear to be far from clear – I clicked on a link related to the (to me at least) unknown Jean-Paul Clébert (1926–2011), in which I read an obituary of the writer.

As Clébert's daughter Virginie notes below, the photo on the cover is – I find a little confusingly – not of Clébert but of Patrice Molinard. This, his first book, is apparently what surrealists called a 'roman aléatoire', or 'aleatory novel'. This particular edition, though, is from Attila (2009) and based on the 1954 edition, which was published by the Club du meilleur livre, and has been enhanced by the 115 photos by Molinard. Clébert dedicates the book to the photographer Robert Doisneau, the writer Robert Giraud, and Patrice Molinard.

Clébert – until he reached almost thirty – lived the life of a tramp, which made possible the many realistic descriptions in this work, which appears to be the result of numerous scraps of paper such as the backs of cigarette packets and on toilet paper. This no doubt explains the desultory, digressive, repetitive nature of the book, but make no mistake: this makes Orwell's incursions into the world of the tramp look positively weak and even rather silly. But Paris insolite is of its time and obviously a great deal of self-censorship was involved: although the book isn't so much liberally sprinkled with street slang (some inevitably now old-fashioned) as it is stiffened with it in virtually every sentence, the reader is spared any 'strong' language that now gaily adorns many perfectly 'normal' reads. In fact Henry Miller's claim that 'Après avoir lu votre livre, j'ai les tripes remuées' ('After reading your book, my guts turned over') seems a wild exaggeration.

Admittedly, towards the end there's a description of the disinfection of tramps' clothes in which the smell emitting from them being washed reads a little uncomfortably, although – squeamish readers may now wish to skip to the next paragraph – Clébert glides quite smoothly (and non-explicitly) over a paragraph where he says that 'sexual perversion knows no limits'. Here he's talking about the practice of some people dunking pieces of bread into the troughs of vespasiennes: the former men's toilets that have long since been replaced by the sanisettes designed for both sexes. Clébert doesn't even mention what the men did with these soaked pieces of bread a few hours later when they came to collect them, although wouldn't 'gustatory perversion' be more appropriate than 'sexual perversion'? Clébert was no doubt living at a time when these people didn't actually have a name, and although the current Petit Robert, reverso.com and Wiktionnaire don't list the term, I'd previously seen it in a recent online article on Les Inrocks website and promptly verified that this wasn't some kind of joke by checking it out on several other places online: they're called croûtenards.

But let's return to (relative) sanity. I couldn't understand what possessed Clébert – born of a comfortable family – to decide after the war, when he was in his very early twenties, to live among a number of tramps in and around Paris. Initially he says he isn't a tramp, that you have to be over forty and not own a toothbrush to be a tramp, but a little later much more of his truth comes out: freedom is choosing where to live, not throwing your life away working forty-eight hours a week to keep yourself and your family happy. No, that's not living.

And so he chose to live in squalid conditions, very occasionally earning a little money as a métreur-appartments measuring flats and occasionally getting a bite to eat from the tenants but no sexual treats as he had to work with a partner; selling newspapers; and perhaps making a little win on the lottery. He sleeps outside, in squats, flop houses, flea pits, friends' slummy rooms, anywhere he can. He eats unsellable or waste food products from Les Halles and other markets; from dustbins; he scrounges from friends who have a little money; and drinks a great deal, mainly cheap wine in grungy cafés where he can talk to his mates. But he never allows them to think for a second that he's writing a book, as they'd see him as an intellectual, and he doesn't see himself as such; worse still, he's not an existentialist, and he's absolutely categorical about that. He is of course right about concealing the fact that he writes: he'd be torn to pieces if not literally then certainly verbally, and no one would ever be candid with him again. Best just to be as he looks, one of the lads, and there aren't a great number of women in la cloche.

The earthy, honest, largely candid rather than posed photos of Patrice Molinard (taken a few years after Clébert wrote the book) don't merely decorate it but complement it, they often underline the comments that Clébert is making. And even though it was written long before the masses of tourists came, Clébert mentions with scorn the American tourists, along with for instance the bouquinistes who've put up their prices greatly to meet the new money. But essentially of course we are seeing here the flipside of a beautiful city as it was in the late forties: the miserable wooden shacks and houses in la zone, the faubourgs built on wastelands around the old fortifications of Paris; the brothels, and the street-walkers who work for less and less money as they age; the alcoholism, the drinking for the sake of drinking in the bars where the tramps were once welcome and could afford to drink.

Not, certainly, a book to view with nostalgia, but depicted here are Liberté, Egalité, and Fraternité within a world excluded from the tourist, where there are many immigrants – mainly arabs but also Jews and other Europeans – who form a part of the multicultural society within a society where there is not a word mentioned of racism.

A book of rare poetic beauty, a gem.

Robert Ferguson: Henry Miller: A Life (1991)

Robert Ferguson's Henry Miller is no hagiography: Miller is in general depicted as a person with a huge appetite for sex and with little care for the wives and girlfriends – or children created – that he leaves behind when his love affairs have reached their inevitable final climax.

Henry Miller was addicted not only to sex (especially with much younger women) but also to marriage, and tied a loose knot five times: with Beatrice, June, Lepska, Eve and Hoki, although the final marriage was merely one of convenience and the young Japanese woman had no intention of having sex with an old man, no matter how many gifts he bestowed on her or how many love letters he wrote.

Before, in between – and during – his marriages Miller also made good use of his libido. And he eventually made very good use of his experiences by transmuting them into explosive autobiographical fiction. But for many years – particularly in the thirties when he was in Paris – Miller was just struggling to get by, using his charm and flattery with anyone he met in order to bum money and/or find somewhere to crash for a few nights. But his relatively long and frequently fraught, poverty-stricken relationship with June, which began in America and ended in France, was closed by Anaïs Nin, the wealthy married woman who wouldn't marry him and who came to understand what a bastard he could be.

Inevitably, because Henry Miller's life was frequently distorted by the myth he lent to it by his exaggeration and his outright lies, some of the truth about Miller gets lost, and there has to be some reading between the lines. Towards the end of his life Miller really played to the gallery, and photos of the beautiful young Brenda Venus with her arms around a much older, cloth-capped man, or the same old man playing ping pong with a naked young woman are of course just set up for publicity, an attempt to stretch a legend to places which reality couldn't reach.

George Orwell briefly met the pacifist Miller in Paris on his way to fight in Spain and was told that his action was 'sheer stupidity'. Famously, Orwell wrote about Miller in the essay 'Inside the Whale', in which he sees him insulated against reality by all the blubber around him.

What is surreal is Miller's visit to Eudora Welty in Jackson, Mississippi, having previously informed her that if she needed the money anytime he could 'put her in touch with "an unfailing pornographic market"'. Ferguson says that Miller spent three days with Welty and her mother, although other (surely more credible) sources say her mother refused to see him and that Welty got some male friends together to attempt to entertain him but that he didn't seem interested in anything – plus, he wasn't at all interesting.

What is real, as Ferguson points out, is Henry Miller's influence on other writers. He mentions the admiration of Norman Mailer, Saul Bellow, John Updike and James Baldwin for such attributes as 'the courage and honesty of his sexual writing'. The Beat writers, on the other hand, were also attracted to his anti-Americanism, anti-materialism and his appreciation of eastern religions.

I've only ever read Tropic of Cancer and the very different novella The Smile at the Foot of the Ladder, but what now interests me is re-reading Cancer, and probably Tropic of Capricorn too, in the light of what Ferguson has shed on them being romans à clef.