“A silence so intense that it sounds like Niagara Falls in my ears. Alone, with a tremendous empty longing and dread. The whole room for my thoughts. Nothing but myself and what I think, what I fear. Could think the most fantastic thoughts, could dance, could spit, grimace, curse, wail – nobody would ever know, nobody would ever hear. The thought of such absolute privacy is enough to drive me mad. It’s like a clean birth. Everything cut away. Separate, naked, alone. Bliss and agony simultaneously. Time on your hands. Each second weighing on you like a mountain. You drown in it. Deserts, seas, lakes, oceans. Time beating away like a meat ax. Nothingness. The world. The me and the not-me. Oomaharumooma. Everything has to have a name. Everything has to be learned, tested, experienced. Faites comme chez vouz, cheri.”
Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer
Not that it has anything to do with my current state of mind, but I think this is a pretty good way to put into words the feeling of loneliness. Henry Miller is a master at words, poignant, bold words, to the point of being vulgar and obscene. He is ruthless when it comes to writing; there is no such thing as holding back, while acting proper and pretty as most Americans would have at the time. He is number one in eradicating hypocrisy and spitting out the real. He is shocking yet terribly refreshing, breaking through with a totally different style among American writers. I love his writing. You either love him or you hate him, there’s really no other way in going about reading him.
