Tropic of Cancer – a unique book. It attracts and repels at the same time, causes wrinkling in disgust and reread some pages over and over again.
The book is difficult. I know people who simply could not read it. . “Abomination I only lasted for the first 20 pages”, – they said. In fact, if you can not ignore the written, read between the lines and, as they say, to mature to the root, it is better, perhaps, not to take up this book.
But those who still want to try, I can give some advice, which I hope will facilitate the task. First, start reading, it should be remembered that the “Tropic of Cancer” – a modernism, and the main rule here – the absence of any rules. In this book, Miller, as did Joyce in “Ulysses,” allowed himself to all. As with most products of modernity, everything is concentrated on the inner world of man, the external facts and circumstances are not important.
Do not try to establish a clear chronology of events – there is none. Do not ask yourself questions like, “Why did he say that?”, “Why did he do that?”. Even the Henry Joe Miller in the novel would not respond to them. “Tropic of Cancer” – a book-emotion. It does not need to understand and feel. “Disconnect” rational, let your mind responds to read spontaneously form
“Tropic of Cancer.” – autobiographical book. Most of the events described in it happened to the author really.
Here we see all the same search creative artist, described in more than one hundred books. However, as shown in “Tropic of Cancer” truly deserves attention. Then, in the thirties of the XX century, rarely seen on the pages of a book in Paris. Miller reveals, so to speak, from the inside bohemia, Notre Dame through the eyes of rats living in it. Yet Paris has Paris, and even the skeptics and cynics Miller fails to overcome its majesty and charm. Those places in the book where the author gives in the magical power of the city, a truly fascinating and reveal another facet of Miller’s personality -. Poetic facet
Turning the last page of the book, I was surprised to find that I can not think of a hero, any event. However, my mind settled something more – a sense of beauty. Yes, after all the mud, which is poured out at me from the pages of the book, this feeling seems paradoxical. But perhaps this is the genius of the author.