Plexus: The Rosy Crucifixion II

Plexus: The Rosy Crucifixion II

Henry Miller

Language: English

Pages: 640

ISBN: 0802151795

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Second volume in the Rosy Crucifixion series. More about Henry and June, also chronicling the author's travels to the deep South, and his work as an encyclopedia salesmen (after he'd left personnel).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

anything fell to the ground; she was also to fetch us some icecold lemonade at intervals. Karen, of course, had already drawn several diagrams explaining how the shingles were to be adjusted one to another. Naturally I profited not at all from these explanations. I had only one thought in mind – to start hammering away like a demon and let the chips fall where they would. In order to limber up I suggested that I first practise walking along the ridge pole. Karen, still nodding approval, wanted

book to his congregation before starting his sermon. He takes a long time to begin, too, first blowing his nose vigorously, then tucking the handkerchief away in the tail of his frock coat, then taking a deep draught of water from the pitcher beside the lectern, then clearing his throat and looking heavenward, and so on and so forth. He is not much of an orator any more. He is ageing and he rambles a good deal. When he loses the thread, he picks up the Bible and re-reads a verse or two to refresh

which was then the rage, we drank champagne, danced with the coloured folk and ate huge steaks smothered with onions. Dr Kronski was in the party and seemed to be enjoying himself hugely. Who was paying for it all I had no idea. Probably Osiecki. Anyway, we got home toward dawn and tumbled into bed exhausted. Just as we were falling asleep Alan Cromwell rapped at the window, begging to be allowed in. We paid no attention to him. ‘It’s me, Alan, let me in!’ he kept shouting. He raised his voice

Vizetelly, for I shall never see you again. May thy name be hallowed forever more! The rain ceases. Just a thin drizzle now – down there under the heart – as if a cess-pool were being strained through fine gauze. The whole thoracic region is saturated with the finest particles of this substance called H2O which, when it falls on the tongue, tastes salty. Microscopic tears, more precious than fat pearls. Sifting slowly into the great cavity ruled over by the tear ducts. Dry eyes, dry palms. The

had Indian blood in my veins. Maybe I have too…’ ‘I’m sure you have a drop of Jewish blood,’ said I. ‘Not because of the Bronx!’ I added. ‘I was raised by Jews,’ said Claude. ‘Until I was eight years of age I heard nothing but Russian and Yiddish. At ten I ran way from home.’ ‘Where was that – what you call home?” ‘A little village in the Crimea, not far from Sevastopol. I had been transplanted there when I was six months old.’ He paused a moment. He started to say something about memory,

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