Henry Miller

Twilight hour. Indian blue, water of glass, trees glistening and liquescent.

It was just dawning on me that to make music one had first to make himself into an exquisite, sensitive instrument.

If they liked it it would appear in print, my name would be signed to it, and I could show it to my friends, carry it about with me, put it under my pillow at night, read it surreptitiously, over and over, because the first time you see yourself in print you’re beside yourself, you’ve at last proved to the world that you really are a writer, and you must prove it to the world, at least once in your life, or you will go mad from believing it all by yourself.

We can call Miller the greatest living Patagonian.

I have often thought that the Germans make the best Americans, though they certainly make the worst Germans.

what makes money make money?”

“Oui, tu as raison, salope que tu es. Mais moi je n’aime pas les jardins, les pots de fleurs, la petite vie adoucie. Je n’aime pas la Normandie. J’aime le soleil, la nudité, la lumiére….”