Henry Miller - Aller Retour New York

Henry Miller

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ALLER RETOUR NEW YORK

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Aller Retour New York first published 1935

Via DieppeNewhaven first published 1939

First published in Penguin Classics 2016

Aller Retour New York copyright Henry Miller, 1935

Via DieppeNewhaven copyright Henry Miller, 1939

Cover photograph: Arrival at New York by Brassai (aka), Halasz Gyula Estate Brassai-RMN-Grand Palais. Photo RMN-Grand Palais/Jean-Gilles Berizzi.

ISBN: 978-0-141-39909-6

PENGUIN MODERN CLASSICS

Henry Miller (18911980) is one of the most important American writers of the twentieth century. His best-known novels include Tropic of Cancer (1934), Tropic of Capricorn (1939), and the Rosy Crucifixion trilogy (Sexus, 1949, Plexus, 1953 and Nexus, 1959), all published in France and banned in the US and the UK until 1964. He is widely recognized as an irreverent, risk-taking writer who redefined the novel and made the link between the European avant-garde and the American Beat generation.

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Being the account of a voyage to New York and back

exactly as recorded in a letter to Alfred Perls,

the distinguished Viennese French writer, who up

till now has held the record for letter writing.

Dear Fred,

I will probably take the Champlain, the boat I arrived on, because it is French and because it leaves a day earlier than necessary. I will bring the stocking for Maggy and anything else I can think of. Dont know yet about going to the Villa Seurat, but Hotel des Terrasses suits me down to the ground because its 13th Arrondissement and no eclogues. Make sure my bike is there. I am going to use it! And where is my phono? I am bringing back some of the famous jazz hits, the crooning, swooning lullabys sung by the guys without testicles. (The popular favorite is: I Believe in Miracles. Miracles! How American! Well shit, Ill explain all this in detail when I see you, and have a fine bottle of wine handy, a mellow one, a costly one. Here nothing but California vintages, or dago red, which is vile stuff. One must alkalize every day Ill explain that too, later.)

So, Joey, what are we going to do for a living, hein? Search me! But I feel that were going to live just the same. Anyway, I come The Jew who published my Glittering Pie in that revolutionary Dance Program got back at me by entitling it: I came, I saw, I fled. The expatriates are anathema to the Americans, particularly to the Communists. I have made myself heartily disliked everywhere, except among the dumb Gentiles who live in the suburbs and guzzle it over the weekends. With these blokes I sing, dance, whistle, make merry the whole night long. I have nothing in common with them aside from the desire to enjoy myself. To know how to enjoy oneself is something unknown here. Usually it consists in making a loud noise. At Manhasset one night Emil and I did the cakewalk himself could play, if he were drunk. I broke a few keys and every nail on my fingers. Went to bed with a Mexican hat three feet broad. It lay on my stomach like a huge sunflower. In the morning I found myself in the childs bedroom and beside me a little typewriter made of hard rubber which I couldnt write on, drunk as I was. I also found a rosary and crucifix awarded by the Society of the Miraculous Medal, Germantown, Pa. It was indulgenced for a Happy Death and the Way of the Cross.

I have had a lot of funny experiences, but few gay ones. When I get back to Paris I shall remember the evenings spent sitting on couches in studios with everybody talking pompously and callously about social-economic conditions with cruel lapses of Proust and Cocteau. (To talk of Proust or Joyce today in America is to be quite up to the minute! Some one will ask you blandly what is all this crap about Surralisme? What is it? Whereupon I usually explain that Surralisme is when you piss in your friends beer and he drinks it by mistake.)

Met William Carlos Williams the other night and had a rousing time with him at Hilers place. Holty arrived with two dopey brothers-in-law, one of whom played the piano. Everybody crocked, including Lisette. Just before all hands passed out someone yelled All art is local which precipitated a riot. After that nothing is clear. Hiler sits in his drawers, with legs crossed, and plays Believe It Beloved, another hit of the season. The janitor comes and raises hell he was an aviator for Mussolini. Then come the Dockstadter Sisters who write for the pulps. After that Monsieur Bruine who has been in America 39 years and looks exactly like a Frenchman. He is in love with a dizzy blonde from the Vanities. Unfortunately she got so drunk that she puked all over him while sitting on his lap. Hes cured of her now.

I mention these little details because without them the American scene is not complete. Everywhere it is drunkenness and vomiting, or breaking of windows and smashing heads. Twice recently I narrowly missed being cracked over the head. People walk the streets at night lit up and looking for trouble. They come on you unexpectedly and invite you to fight for the fun of it! It must be the climate and the machine. The machines are driving them screwy. Nothing is done by hand anymore. Even the doors open magically: as you approach the door you step on a treadle and the door springs open for you. Its hallucinating. And then there are the patent medicines. Exlax for constipation everybody has constipation! and Alka-Seltzer for hangovers. Everybody wakes up with a headache. For breakfast its a Bromo-Seltzer with orange juice and toasted corn muffins, of course. To start the day right you must alkalize. It says so in all the subway trains. High-pressure talks, quick action, money down, mortgaged to the eyes, prosperity around the corner (its always around the corner!), dont worry, keep smiling, believe it beloved, etc., etc. The songs are marvellous, especially as to words. They betray the incurable melancholy and optimism of the American race. I wish I were a foreigner and getting it from scratch. A good one just now is: The Object of my Affection is to change my Complexion Ill bring this along too.