Miller - The air-conditioned nightmare

Henry Miller at Big Sur, CaliforniaSpring, 1944

T HE THOUGHT of writing a book on America came to me in Paris some years ago. Atthat time the possibility of realizing my dream seemed rather remote, for in orderto write the book I would have to visit America, travel leisurely, have money in mypocket, and so on. I hadnt the slightest notion when such a day would dawn.

Not having the means to undertake the trip, the next best thing wasto live it imaginatively, which I proceeded to do at odd moments. This preliminaryjourney began, I recall, with the inheritance of a huge scrap-book which oncebelonged to Walter Lowenfels who, on the eve of his departure from France, invitedme to assist at the burning of a huge pile of manuscripts which he had spentyears in producing.

Often, on returning to my studio at midnight, I would stand at thetable and register in this celestial sort of ledger the innumerable little itemswhich constitute a writers bookkeeping: dreams, plans of attack and defense,remembrances, titles of books I intended to write, names and addresses of potentialcreditors, obsessive phrases, editors to harry, battlefields, monuments, monasticretreats, and so on. I remember distinctly the thrill I had when putting down suchwords as Mobile, Suwanee River, Navajos, Painted Desert, the lynching bee, theelectric chair.

It seems a pity now that I didnt write an account of that imaginaryjourney which began in Paris. What a different book it would have been!

There was a reason, however, for making the physical journey,fruitless though it proved to be. I felt the need to effect a reconciliation with mynative land. It was an urgent need because, unlike most prodigal sons, I wasreturning not with the intention of remaining in the bosom of the family but ofwandering forth again, perhaps never to return. I wanted to have a last look at mycountry and leave it with a good taste in my mouth. I didnt want to run away fromit, as I had originally. I wanted to embrace it, to feel that the old wounds werereally healed, and set out for the unknown with a blessing on my lips.

On leaving Greece I was in a serene mood. If any one on earth werefree of hatred, prejudice, bitterness, I thought it was myself. I was confident thatfor the first time in my life I would look upon New York and what lay beyond itwithout a trace of loathing or disgust.

It turned out that the boat was stopping at Boston first. That wasunfortunate perhaps, but it was an excellent test. I had never been to Boston and Iwas rather pleased that Fate had played a trick on me. I was prepared to likeBoston.

When I came up on deck to catch my first glimpse of the shore line Iwas immediately disappointed. Not only disappointed, I might say, but actuallysaddened. The American coast looked bleak and uninviting to me. I didnt like thelook of the American house; there is something cold, austere, something barren andchill, about the architecture of the American home. It was home,with all the ugly, evil, sinister connotations which the wordcontains for a restless soul. There was a frigid, moral aspect to it which chilledme to the bone.

It was a wintry day and a gale was blowing. I went ashore with oneof the passengers. I cant remember any more who he was or what he looked like,which is significant of the state of mind I was in. For some unknown reason westrolled through the railway station, a lugubrious place which filled me with dread,and which instantly revived the remembrance of similar stations in similar cities,all painful, harrowing recollections. What I remember most vividly about this Bostonrailway station were the enormous piles of books and magazines, looking just ascheap, vulgar, trashy as of yore. And the womb-like warmth of the placesoAmerican, so unforgettably so.

It was a Sunday and the mob was out, reinforced by groups of rowdystudents. The spectacle nauseated me. I wanted to get back to the ship as fast aspossible. In an hour or so I had seen all I wanted to see of Boston. It seemedhideous to me.

Returning to the boat we passed bridges, railroad tracks,warehouses, factories, wharves and what not. It was like following in the wake of ademented giant who had sown the earth with crazy dreams. If I could only have seen ahorse or a cow, or just a cantankerous goat chewing tin cans, it would have been atremendous relief. But there was nothing of the animal, vegetable or human kingdomin sight. It was a vast jumbled waste created by pre-human or sub-human monsters ina delirium of greed. It was something negative, some not-ness of some kind or other.It was a bad dream and towards the end I broke into a trot, what with disgust andnausea, what with the howling icy gale which was whipping everything in sight into afrozen pie crust. When I got back to the boat I was praying that by some miracle thecaptain would decide to alter his course and return to Piraeus.