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Posts Tagged ‘Henry Miller

Was Henry Miller born to be a philosopher?

Note: Re-edit of “”I was born a philosopher…” (August 28, 2009)

Have you tried to read entirely a philosopher book? Even in a translated version? Unless at gunpoint and in jail?

(On the personal level, in the womb, I had never been told that I kicked; I might have barely stretched my legs and yawned in recognition of warmth and coziness. I was dragged out feet first. Once out, I barely kicked. I barely cried to express my discomfort. The physician left me for dead, and mother did her best to convince them that I actually served myself to her tits. I was 2 hours away of dying due to Typhoid fever in Africa, at the age of 5. Once released from hospital, from the cold chamber, I had to relearn walking )

I was born a philosopher. I was against life by principle; the notion of its futility.

People struggled around me and I refused to do any effort. If it appeared that I was making the effort it was simply to please someone else; deeply in I couldn’t care less.

You renounce the phantom of the spirit, once for all, and then the rest follows to the heart of chaos.

Deep inside me the moon shone; everything was sweet and smooth; way up it was total chaos and discordance.

In everything I did search for the extreme opposite, the contradiction. I differentiated between the real and the imaginary, the irony, and the paradox.

I was my worst enemy. I wanted to do nothing and I could have refused to do anything.

As a child I wanted to die; I wanted to give up; I didn’t see any sense for resuming the fight.

I was convinced that pursuing a life that I didn’t solicit would never bring me any proofs or substance; would not add or remove anything from nothing.

All the people around me looked grotesque or failures, especially those considered to have succeeded who were boring to make me cry.

It was not sympathy that guided me; it was a weakness in me who expected nothing but watching the spectacle of human miseries so that I might bloom.

I aided nobody for the sake of doing him good: I had not the courage to do otherwise.

Behavioral change seemed to me perfectly futile.

On and off a few friends would convert and I would feel a surge of vomit.

I had no need of God and neither did He.

If God did exist then I would calmly advance toward him and spit on his face.

What bothered me highly was that people would think good of me at first sight.

Maybe I had the virtues of loyalty, generosity, and fidelity but they were due to my indifference because I had the luxury of envying nothing and nobody.

I had but pity for people and things. I trained myself not to desire anything violently; I thought that I was independent and would grant wishes with my own volition. I wanted to feel free in thought and in action. I was rotten from the start.

Kids frequently rebel or feign to rebel; I cared less.

As far as I can recall my first impression is of cold, snow, and frost on the windows.

Why people do move to live in cold places: they are idiots and cowards. Anywhere people live in cold regions they work to their bones and preach to their offspring the gospel of hard work; which means the doctrine of inertia.

People of the cold regions have exposed by force the wrong ideas.  Nothing is done without thinking of tomorrow that never comes.

The present moment is but a bridge; they keep complaining and growling on that bridge; not a single intelligent being among the people of the cold region thought of blowing off that lousy bridge.

The people of the cold weather are proud braggers who never had the spirit of adventure. They have tormented spirits, incapable of living the moment.  They ransacked and ruined the world everywhere they set foot.

People think that I am a person of adventure. All adventures that I undertook were never planned and they were forced upon me and I had to endure them. The only real adventure is a march toward the inside of knowing oneself.

In several instances I was in the self discovery adventure but never prosecuted it to the end: I always found myself in the streets and bumping into the people crowding these streets.

I crisscrossed the world and no where else did I experience as much humiliation and degradation as in the USA.

I have not met a single person in the US who was really rich, really happy.  I tried hard to get out of the loop but I was from this land and the evil was in me.

Any event has its own contradiction.

The desire of all my life was parallel to life. Life didn’t awake any interest in me.

What did interest me later on was grasping the feelings and expressing them powerfully; the feelings and thoughts that I fail to express clearly irritate and bore me.

Note 1: This post is an abridged version of the first 10 pages of “Tropic of Capricorn” by Henry Miller.  I translated the pages from the French edition.  You may compare Miller’s style with mine. Sentences in parenthesis are mine.

Note 2:  I am different from Henry Miller. 

Miller was aware of his capacities, limitations, and emotional behavior since he was a kid; I was not that conscious of mines; I started self analysis way after I was 55 of age.

Miller was born in the cold North; I was born in hot Africa.

Miller worked in all kinds of jobs when he was still adolescent; I did all that after I flew to the USA at the age of 25 and for over 20 years and during and after I earned a PhD in Industrial Engineering.

Miller experienced all kinds of humiliations and degradation while he was pretty young; I did experience these humiliations throughout my life and it is an ongoing process.

Miller was tall and athletic; I was not.

Miller was a sex maniac. I consider that males are denied erogenous parts and should Not feel any urge for sexual pleasure. Just a mental decision to please a girlfriend when in need.

Miller managed to be published and became quite wealthy; I am penniless.

What make the whole difference is being consciously aware of yourself when a kid.  Not many enjoy that kind of grace and awareness at such a young age.

I was barely conscious of myself as a kid and barely recall how I survived to live that long.

Actually, I am aware that I have No emotional intelligence, maybe due to lack of faked imagination,  and didn’t care to observe people, until in older age, out of a decision to connect to youth and be funny at my expense.

“A Devil in Paradise” by Henry Miller

Miller met an eccentric and picky Swiss/French man while living in Paris. The person lost his wealth and was dabbing in astrology and the occult. Anais was extending financial support to him and contacting people to meet him and get their horoscope analysed.

Anais unburdened herself and passed this hapless person to Miller.

Miller returned to Big Sur at the start of WWII and this astrologist walked the length of France to reach Switzerland, carrying 2 heavy suitcases containing just his books.

Years later, this person sent a letter to Miller and Henry accepted that he comes and join him at his house, for as long as he needs.

And Miller has to suffer this picky devil for many months.

Here as a few excerpts from the French translation of the book:

  1. We are what we think of. Mrs. Wharton stopped having a thought about any issue. She just thinks and live her belief system.
  2. The difference between l’homme adamique and current man is that the former was destined to paradise. The latter is doomed to creating his own paradise.
  3. L’homme adamique has lost faith in himself and his integral self. He seeks to know much more than being. And man began to divide in myriad of fragments.
  4. Practicing confidence and honest attitudes is the shortest route and the best way to comprehend the solid depth of the being. Observing and studying diversity and differences cannot lead but to divergences. We are lacking the simple knowledge by trying to comprehend and assimilate all the interactions.

Note: An interpretation is needed.

Before the advent of fast computation (computers), scientists had to select a single factor or independent variable to study the effect or trend on a dependent variable (data). Simply because the statistical analysis of the set of equations were too tedious to resolve manually.

In the last 50 years, the sophisticated statistical packages allow the study of many factors simultaneously according a well-designed experiments.

Consequently, we can now study the interactions of many variables and pinpoint the contributing factors that weight heavily in the trends at specific conditions.

Thus, before computers and sophisticated statistical packages, scientists and researchers could construct a world view model that was simple and straightforward.

This is no longer the case.

Every field of science has expert professionals who built their own world model since they had to account for the many interactions and particular conditions. The world has transformed into a multitude of diversified paradises because no single person can study and assimilate the complexities of a few fields simultaneously.

No single person can adamantly claim that he knows how the world function and under which conditions it may behave differently.

The importance of expert software systems is that you have got to input all the necessary conditions before the computer returns the proper equation or formula to apply. Otherwise, many professionals would be using general or short-cut equations that are not valid for the situation and condition of application

All Time top posts

I selected the posts that registered over 2,000 hits since Sept 18, 2008. Since then, I posted so far 4,900 articles.

Note that my articles on Sex and Nude are rare, but these key words draw the most browsing.

December 12, 2014,

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Katsimbalis, this MasterWork: A Zorba Greek type?

Katsimbalis picked up a simple flower off the road. By the time he finished his story, this humble flower had acquired an extraordinary dimension that no other individual could ever imagined. This normal flower stuck in the imagination of the audience: This flower is unique in its genre simply because Katsimbalis immortalized it, made it the receptacle of all the thoughts and feeling that flowers inspired him. This flower represented the entire universe.

The peasants are resting on the bridge. They on pilgrimage to the Virgin of Tinos. We landed in the port and ascended on the Acropolis, very drunk, exalted by wine and poetry. The night was black and hot. And cognac roared in our veins  We were sitting on the steps in front of the grand door. The bottle was taking tours and Katsimbalis recited poems.

And suddenly, Katsimbalis got up and screamed: “Do you guys want to hear the singing of the cocks (coqs) of Attica (area of Athens), you lousy modern dirty urban dwellers?”

Katsimbalis voice was hysterics and nobody answered. He didn’t wait for any reply and he ran toward the cliff. He looked like a heavy black fairy in his black garment, he retracted his head backward and launched a terrifying sound of bugle: Cocorico! The cry spread across the city in the valley, twinkling with lights like cherries.

The echo ricocheted from hills to hills and rolled like a wheal on the walls of the Parthenon. And here one coq responding to Katsimbalis’ cocoricco, and another and another, rending Katsimbalis totally nuts.

Stooping like a bird ready to taking off and flapping his coat, Katsimbalis’ scream sounded as a volatile being slaughtered. Our blood froze and he kept screaming and the veins in his neck bulged to break.

And the coqs in the area responded to fill the air, a hysterical audience communicating their encouragement. The night was alive and trembling with the shouts of coqs. All Athene was wide awake and sharing with cocoricco, resonating everywhere, frantically filling the air and the mind.

The flavor of Katsimbalis’ monologue was that his conversation awakened echos, and these echos took longer to reach the ears. It was the game of lights reflected on opaque alabaster vase, a sky charged with storm, pregnant with resonance, the significance of which emerged after a long time…

The first time I met Katsimbalis was a night he was returning to his hometown Amaroussion. I didn’t have to say a thing that night: I was listening, under the spell of the charm of every phrase he said. It was as if he was writing a book for your intention, reading it out loud, and acting it. Katsimbalis is enjoying his monologue and is happy to see you entrapped. And as though afterwards, he tears the book apart and throw the pages in the wind.

I was God to Katsimbalis, a sublime comedy. Physically, he resembled a bull, the tenacity of a vulture, the agility of a leopard, the tenderness of a sheep, the timidity of a pigeon.  Katsimbalis head was oversized, and it appeared to me to be typically Athenian. The hand a tad small compared top the body, a tad too delicate. A man of vitality, powerful, capable of brutal gestures and rude words, an attitude that disseminated warmth, all the softness of a woman.

Katsimbalis had this element of the tragic that enhanced his mimics ability. He had this appearance of talking of himself all the time without egotism: He was indeed the person the most interesting who he knew.

Eating was a passion and drinking lots of resina. He would say that resina was good for the reins, for the liver, for the lungs, for the bowels, for the spirit… Good for man.  Katsimbalis never believed in moderation, in common sense, or anything that led to inhibition.

Despite a sick arm, a dislocated knee, a bad eye, a disorganized liver, rheumatism pains, arthritic troubles, migraine…  Katsimbalis was still a lively character who survived several wars, life in the trenches… Katsimbalis knew how to dwell on details and they stuck in the memories of the captive audience.

Note 1: Extracts from the book of Henry Miller “The Colossus of Maroussi

Note 2: Katsimbalis can be considered a masterwork, not just his monologues, but mainly his personality.

Everyone of us may exhibit a masterwork characteristics for a short duration, a moment… in his behavior or a field of specialization.

Fact is, a masterwork is a long story of assiduous work, repetition, and persistence in doing particular behavior, but the masterwork shines for moments, and in occasions of being out of the conventional wisdom and common sense consensus.

Where are these Gods: Created to humanize Man, at the proportion of human comprehension…?

Thousands of years before the emergence of Greece civilization, the Near-Eastern civilization has evolved within the same process as Greece, from people-centered Gods to the emulation of abstract divine mythology.

The ancient Gods of the Near-East (Levant), and its inheritor the Greek civilization, cut-out a world to man’s dimensions. The Gods were tailor-made to human proportions and comprehension, invented by the spirit of the human.

It was the God that humanized the people and allowed them to sense the real life, before all was demolished at the alter of grandiose drunken power of dominion.

The Gods of this civilization crumbled at the moment man decided to invent an abstract mythology, with a reality too vast for human comprehension.

The current western civilization, as before it in Greece and the Near-East, keeps creating myths, but a living God is nowhere included.

The current world mythology is an abstract model, dis-humanized, knead with the ash of illusory materialism.

We do our best to prove that the universe is a huge void, a task made plausible by our empty logic.

We are after perpetual conquests, and what we conquered had the smell and taste of death.

Henry Miller wrote in in book “The Colossus of Maroussi”: “The most vivid impression that Greece (of the 1938-39) affected me was that this culture behave according to man’s dimensions. Greece is the land of the Gods: And the ancient Gods may have died long time ago, but their presence is still felt

Before landing in Greece, I have been walking blindfolded, hesitant. I was proud, smug, satisfied of my urban false life. The light of Greece opened my eyes and dilated my entire well-being. I have not written a word or read a daily during this year-long visit to Greece as I promised myself, but I managed to restitute the divine character of Man, a citizen of the world.”

The western civilization has broken the umbilical link between what is man and what is divine. This schism in the nature of man is the key to the ever decline and inevitable destruction of western culture. This current civilization has stopped believing that man may ever become a God.

The western civilization can talk its head-off of creating a New World Order, but it will never materialize, until all people are respected and their dignity revised under the angle of the universe.

New World Order means that all people, regardless of ethnicity, are viewed in this vital intricate interconnection that the world is reduced to the dimension of Greece, (small enough to include all the people as citizens, enjoying the same human rights and dignity…)

Otherwise, man will keep creating mythical Gods with this tacit purpose of destroying the species of mankind.

To desire is Not to wish. To desire is essentially to become who we are, and this desire cannot be done without discovering the truth through actions (Maeterlinck). What is needed is to attain a balanced coordination between vision and action, to be ready to accept the proper human proportions, and be ready to give whatever you had received so far.

The Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius wrote:
“Live a good life. If there are gods and they are just, then they will not care how devout you have been: They will welcome you based on the virtues you have lived by. If there are gods, but unjust, then you should not want to worship them.

If there are no gods, then you will be gone, and will have lived a noble life that will live on in the memories of your loved ones.”

“I was born a philosopher…” (August 28, 2009)

(In the womb, I had never been told that I kicked; I might have barely stretched my legs and yawned in recognition of warmth and coziness. Once out, I barely kicked. I barely cried to express my discomfort.)

I was born a philosopher. I was against life by principle; the principle of its futility. People struggled around me and I refused to do any effort. If it appeared that I was making the effort it was simply to please someone else; deeply in I couldn’t care less.

You renounce the phantom of the spirit, once for all, and then the rest follows to the heart of chaos. Deep inside me the moon shone; everything was sweet and smooth; way up it was total chaos and discordance. In everything I searched for the extreme opposite, the contradiction; I differentiated between the real and the imaginary, the irony, and the paradox. I was my worst enemy. I wanted to do nothing and I could have refused to do anything.

As a child I wanted to die; I wanted to give up; I didn’t see any sense for resuming the fight. I was convinced that pursuing a life that I didn’t solicit would never bring me any proofs or substance; would not add or remove anything from nothing.  All the people around me looked grotesque or failures, especially those considered to have succeeded who were boring to make me cry.

It was not sympathy that guided me; it was a weakness in me who expected nothing but watching the spectacle of human miseries so that I might bloom. I aided nobody for the sake of doing him good: I had not the courage to do otherwise.  Behavioral change seemed to me perfectly futile.  On and off a few friends would convert and I would feel a surge of vomit. I had no need of God and neither did He. If God did exist then I would calmly advance toward him and spit on his face.

What bothered me highly was that people would think good of me at first sight. Maybe I had the virtues of loyalty, generosity, and fidelity but they were due to my indifference because I had the luxury of envying nothing and nobody.  I had but pity for people and things. I trained myself not to desire anything violently; I thought that I was independent and would grant wishes with my own volition. I wanted to feel free in thought and in action. I was rotten from the start.

Kids frequently rebel or feign to rebel; I cared less. As far as I can recall my first impression is of cold, snow, and frost on the windows. Why people do move to live in cold places: they are idiots and cowards. Anywhere people live in cold regions they work to their bones and preach to their offspring the gospel of hard work; which means the doctrine of inertia. People of the cold regions have exposed by force the wrong ideas.  Nothing is done without thinking of tomorrow that never comes. The present moment is but a bridge; they keep complaining and growling on that bridge; not a single intelligent being among the people of the cold thought of blowing off that lousy bridge.

The people of the cold weather are proud braggers who never had the spirit of adventure. They have tormented spirits, incapable of living the moment.  They ransacked and ruined the world everywhere they set foot. People think that I am a person of adventure. All adventures that I undertook were forced upon me and I had to endure them. The only real adventure is a march toward the inside of knowing oneself.

In several instances I was in the self discovery adventure but never prosecuted it to the end: I always found myself in the streets and bumping into the people crowding these streets. I crisscrossed the world and no where else did I experience as much humiliation and degradation as in the USA.  I have not met a single person in the US who was really rich, really happy.  I tried hard to get out of the loop but I was from this land and the evil was in me.

Any event has its own contradiction. The desire of all my life was parallel to life. Life didn’t awake any interest in me. What did interest me was grasping the feelings and expressing them powerfully; the feelings and thoughts that I fail to express clearly irritate and bore me.

Note 1: This post is an abridged version of the first 10 pages of “Tropic of Capricorn” by Henry Miller.  I translated the pages from the French edition.  You may compare Miller’s style with mine. Sentences in parenthesis are mine.

Note 2:  I am different than Henry Miller.  Miller was aware of his capacities, limitations, and emotional behavior since he was a kid; I was not that conscious of mines; I started self analysis way after I was 55 of age.  Miller was born in the cold North; I was born in hot Africa.  Miller worked in all kinds of jobs when he was still adolescent; I did all that after I flew to the USA at the age of 25 and for over 20 years and during and after I earned a PhD in Industrial Engineering. Miller experienced all kinds of humiliations and degradation while he was pretty young; I did experience these humiliations throughout my life and it is an ongoing process. Miller was tall and athletic; I was not. Miller managed to be published and became quite wealthy; I am penniless.  What make the whole difference is being consciously aware of yourself when a kid.  Not many enjoy that kind of grace and awareness at such a young age.

Henry Miller’s purely porno book

I am reading a French translation of “Opus Pistorum” by Henry Miller and I still don’t know what opus pistorum means but the book is plainly porno.  (A comment reminded me that it means The Work of the Miller).

The epilogue explains how this book came to be published.

Henry Miller visited Larry Edmunds’ library in Hollywood (California) in 1940. Miller had spent many years in Paris and knew very few people in California.

Milton Luboviski was partner in the library and used to offer Miller some money and places to bunk.  By 1941 Luboviski started selling porno manuscripts for clients in the movie industry such as Joseph Mankiewicz, Julian Johnson, Daniele Amfitheatrol, Billy Wilder, Frederick Hollander, and Henry Blanke

Henry Miller proposed to write short porno stories that should sell for one dollar per page; Luboviski was to keep the rights of the stories.

After a few months the stories were gathered in a book that Miller titled “Opus Pistorum”.  Luboviski typed 5 copies in 1942 and sold four of them and he saved the original.

When in need of money and had multiple exotic personal experiences and can write with humor then writing porno manuscripts is a legitimate business.

I will offer a few excerpts and will skip the porno details. Miller calls his tail or prick John Thursday (Jean Jeudi).  The opening pages set the tones of the porno short stories.

“I have been living in Paris for so long that I’m no longer surprised of anything.  Paris is not like New York; you don’t need to deliberately seek adventures. Life flushes you out in unbelievable locations and all kinds of incredible surprises track you down. I am visiting a shop and the 13 years old girls is masturbating her dad and then sucking ravenously his tail…”

“Billie and Jean are American Lesbian living in Paris.  Billie dresses as men and act like one; she does second rate aquarelles to maintain Jean and relax her nerves.  Billie allows Jean to have sex with men because she is not purely lesbian.

Billie visits Henry (Alf in the stories) to get to an understanding with respect to Jean; she knows that Jean has been visiting Alf. Alf satisfies Billie’s worry that his intention toward Jean are not honorable; in return Billie sign an agreement by satisfying Alf’s sexual desires.

Billie refuses categorically the anus way because it is pervert.  Alf is fucking her vigorously the normal way but Billie is showing signs of boredom: Billie is drawing on the wall during the intercourse with a pencil and her rouge stick. Alf is upset and use force to enter Billie in the anus.  Alf managed this feat because Billie adopted man reactions instead of showing her claw or attempting to kick in the balls.  Billie threatens Alf with calumnies and hollering, but to no effect. Alf did not manage to get Billie to reach orgasm but at least Billie will no longer visit him without female bodyguards.”

“Her asshole agitates; it is alive; it contracts and breathes. You might not discover the secret of the universe through that path, but it is far more exciting than observing your own navel.”

“Alexandra converted into Catholicism and her priest confessor initiated her to worshiping the devil too.  Alexandra got deeply involved in mysticism and exotic cults and confessed to Miller that devils would appear in her dreams pretty alive. All the devils were gorgeous young men; a few had three sexual functioning tails; one would be inserted in the mouth, another in the cunt, and the third would enter the rectum and extends to sniff the tail in the mouth…

Miller or (Alf in the stories) participated as witness to one of the devils’ worshiping sessions. The priest entered in his normal ceremonial attire; he was also wearing a red hat with two corns.

A lady undressed and lied on the officiating table; the priests slaughtered a coq and let the blood drip and smear the naked body.  A wood statue of the devil was carried inside with a tail ejecting red wine when activated by sucking. An orgy followed and led by the priest.  It was not outrageous or out of the normal since no human sacrifices was offered.”

“Toots confessed that she was initiated by a Chinaman.  Toots is very articulate and precise in her language: I figured out that the man was an old tiny Chinese who owns a Laundromat, leg bowed, chest curved inside…I even pissed in her asshole

“You cannot take a walk with Arthur without incredible events happening.  Arthur usually tones down his stories to sound credible but the realities are far more hallucinating.

I am trolling with Arthur and he picks up a woman wallet off the street. It contains no money but a picture of a beautiful blonde lady called Charlotte.  We decided to knock at her door nearby: we needed a free drink and whatever other sexual freebies that might come along.  A kid’s voice answered.

We are facing a midget woman. She works in circus and is taking a well deserved rest.  Charlotte brings us whiskey and we serve from the bottle as we need.  Charlotte is beautiful; her thighs are “pawable“; her behind and bosoms are normal with respect to her stature; I look at Arthur and I realize that he is having the same thoughts…

One day Charlotte visited Arthur; he was not home and she left him a note.  Arthur joined me and he was very agitated. He is curious how midget woman are, but he is apprehensive of going solo.  We visited Charlotte; a monster German shepherd, big as a house attacked us; Charlotte attached the molosse in another room.

Arthur wants to know all the particularities of midgets and how different they are from normal people. It turned out that they are as different among themselves as normal people are among normal people; the hardest problem is finding tiny shoes.

The tails of the giant men were as big as the baseball bat that Charlotte uses. They had sex with Charlotte with exaggerated fever; Alf kept apprehensive that his tail might do serious damages, but Charlotte was pretty flexible and accommodating.  The monster dog got too excited and got released from his prison and chains. The dog raped Charlotte as a piston sliding at 100 miles an hour. The two men watched for a couple of minutes and then they figured out that the dog will be very famished after the exercise and they left in a hurry”.

Sam Backer is a rich American businessman trying to conquer Paris openness to sex.  Sam has already experienced with Tania, an adolescent with plenty of expertise but he doesn’t know it.  Alf present Sam to Alexandra, Tania’s mother. Sam would like to meet the mother and he hits off with Alexandra.

Now Sam is confused; he is worried about this innocent Tania and how to arrange things.  Tania is playing her big game as the totally passive inexperienced girl.  Alf had plenty of sexual parties with both mother and daughter and knows all about them but he is not going to inform Sam and exacerbate the situation.  Sam had told his wife Ann (intent on playing the tourist all the way), that he was playing poker with Alf while Alf was polishing Ann that night in his apartment.  Now Ann has rented a “garconiere” to meet people; she is falling for Billie who has been selling Ann erotic aquarelles.

Alf and his friends Sid and Ernest made Ann drunk and took nude pictures of Ann fornicating with them and with half a dozen strangers.  Tania had enticed Sam to have sexual intercourse with his own daughter Snuggle who has become a very experienced bitch by associating with Tania.  Sam got hold of Ann’s horny pictures and has lost it.  Sam is fucking simultaneously his wife and daughter and planning to invite Paris to an orgy party. After the party, Sam intends to beat up harshly Ann and Snuggle and send them packing to the good old USA.

Note: One night, I got up at 1 a.m. and could not go back to sleep because of a bout of sneezing. I read “opus pistorum” for three hours. I did not finish the book that morning. For 24 hours, I lived with a hard on and could not sleep, though I felt weak and needed to get some sleep. Miller would have described my walk as “a limping gait” throughout the day.


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