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A review by sacredblues
Tropic of Capricorn by Henry Miller
1.0
I picked up Tropic of Capricorn a little under two months ago, along with Lady Chatterley's Lover. Looking back, I had high hopes for this novel going in. From its in-your-face, frank cover (yes, one of the reasons I was excited about the book was because of its cover, sue me), the promise of sexual content so explicit that it was banned in America, and the general hyping of the book by the back cover, I was sure I was in for a literary treat.
What I ended up getting was one of the worst novels I have ever read.
Left to my own devices, this review will devolve into a frustrated, incoherent rant. With this in mind, I'll try to temper myself to make this more cohesive and less charged. I apologize in advance if I fail.
My main gripe with the novel can be summarized in two simple (possibly even childish) words: it's boring. Reading the story was eventually like pulling teeth, and a reading novel shouldn't be that way. I should find it hard to stop reading, not finding myself having to force -myself words. Reading this story was a painful slog and I shamefully admit that towards the end, I found myself skimming over portions of the text.
To give props where props are due, the sexual content is as explicit as it gets. The sexual portions as a result read the smoothest as well. I hate to once again seem like a hapless pervert, but as The Nation stated, "The greatest passages [of Tropic of Capricorn] are the scenes of lovemaking." There isn't much to say, they're numerous, steamy, and most importantly, interesting to read. Miller's frank tales of his sexual exploits are what got this books taken off shelves, and they deliver.
However, these scenes. as good as they may be, are decidedly not enough to carry this novel. When we aren't given sex scenes, we are usually given an ocean of pretentious garbage that is hard to follow. This ocean is boring at best, and gag-inducing at worst. If this only comprised a small portion of the novel, I wouldn't mind, but this makes up most of the novel, and I really feel that it bogs it down.
It isn't just the sex that makes the sexual scenes good. It's also the presence of plot: a direction, a goal, a logical order of events. The novel is fine when there is plot. These include Miller's exploits at his job (found primarily at the beginning of the novel), his recollections of his childhood, and stories about his "friends". While I wouldn't say the novel "shines" during these sections, at least it briefly isn't a black hole that sucks away all entertainment.
The rest of the book is dedicated to Miller's boring, pretentious musings that quickly become quite trite. Some musings would be fine, this this book is like oversteeped tea. It had potential, you can vaguely taste what the package said it was, yet you let it bask so much in its own juices that it's self-indulgent, watery, and gross. Now, take that failed beverage and chug it until it's gone and you're uncomfortably full. That's my experience with this book.
If that wasn't bad enough, the protagonist rubbed me in all the wrong ways. Keep in mind that this is an autobiography, so Henry Miller didn't make a pitiful person, for he is said person. From the top of my head Miller is a misogynistic, racist, ungrateful, whiny, self-absorbed, entitled, vain, irresponsible, adulterer and rapist among many other unsavory things. This naturally leeks into some of his pretentious tirades. He apparently hates everything, including his city, country, and humanity itself. But (of course), Miller has also mastered the "Secret Politician Style Flip-Flop" where he insults African-Americans throughout the book yet calls them "beautiful" near the end to cash in on some "nice points". When the book isn't boring, it's just plain offensive.
And I apologize if me not "getting" or appreciating the book means that I'm an immature reader and I lack the skills to read books for literary merit. This is my free time, and I want to be entertained, not assaulted by pseudo-intellectual garbage.
I originally panned to end this review somewhat lightheartedly. I would express my dissatisfaction with the novel then state jokingly that I would go through it all again when reading the sequel (sort of), Tropic of Cancer. That was about a month ago, and now I'm not sure if I can bring myself to try Tropic of Cancer. I had no idea just how much I'd grow to loathe Capricorn, and from what I've gathered, Cancer suffers from the same problems as Capricorn. I might give it a try if someone informs me that the two novels are radically different. Given my desire to actually meet my reading goal this year, and given the fact that I don't like reading to be a slog, I do not see myself reading Tropic of Cancer anytime soon.
Even though I know for certain that there are those who enjoy this novel, due to my own dismal experience with it, I cannot in good faith recommend Henry Miller's Tropic of Capricorn to anyone.
What I ended up getting was one of the worst novels I have ever read.
Left to my own devices, this review will devolve into a frustrated, incoherent rant. With this in mind, I'll try to temper myself to make this more cohesive and less charged. I apologize in advance if I fail.
My main gripe with the novel can be summarized in two simple (possibly even childish) words: it's boring. Reading the story was eventually like pulling teeth, and a reading novel shouldn't be that way. I should find it hard to stop reading, not finding myself having to force -myself words. Reading this story was a painful slog and I shamefully admit that towards the end, I found myself skimming over portions of the text.
To give props where props are due, the sexual content is as explicit as it gets. The sexual portions as a result read the smoothest as well. I hate to once again seem like a hapless pervert, but as The Nation stated, "The greatest passages [of Tropic of Capricorn] are the scenes of lovemaking." There isn't much to say, they're numerous, steamy, and most importantly, interesting to read. Miller's frank tales of his sexual exploits are what got this books taken off shelves, and they deliver.
However, these scenes. as good as they may be, are decidedly not enough to carry this novel. When we aren't given sex scenes, we are usually given an ocean of pretentious garbage that is hard to follow. This ocean is boring at best, and gag-inducing at worst. If this only comprised a small portion of the novel, I wouldn't mind, but this makes up most of the novel, and I really feel that it bogs it down.
It isn't just the sex that makes the sexual scenes good. It's also the presence of plot: a direction, a goal, a logical order of events. The novel is fine when there is plot. These include Miller's exploits at his job (found primarily at the beginning of the novel), his recollections of his childhood, and stories about his "friends". While I wouldn't say the novel "shines" during these sections, at least it briefly isn't a black hole that sucks away all entertainment.
The rest of the book is dedicated to Miller's boring, pretentious musings that quickly become quite trite. Some musings would be fine, this this book is like oversteeped tea. It had potential, you can vaguely taste what the package said it was, yet you let it bask so much in its own juices that it's self-indulgent, watery, and gross. Now, take that failed beverage and chug it until it's gone and you're uncomfortably full. That's my experience with this book.
If that wasn't bad enough, the protagonist rubbed me in all the wrong ways. Keep in mind that this is an autobiography, so Henry Miller didn't make a pitiful person, for he is said person. From the top of my head Miller is a misogynistic, racist, ungrateful, whiny, self-absorbed, entitled, vain, irresponsible, adulterer and rapist among many other unsavory things. This naturally leeks into some of his pretentious tirades. He apparently hates everything, including his city, country, and humanity itself. But (of course), Miller has also mastered the "Secret Politician Style Flip-Flop" where he insults African-Americans throughout the book yet calls them "beautiful" near the end to cash in on some "nice points". When the book isn't boring, it's just plain offensive.
And I apologize if me not "getting" or appreciating the book means that I'm an immature reader and I lack the skills to read books for literary merit. This is my free time, and I want to be entertained, not assaulted by pseudo-intellectual garbage.
I originally panned to end this review somewhat lightheartedly. I would express my dissatisfaction with the novel then state jokingly that I would go through it all again when reading the sequel (sort of), Tropic of Cancer. That was about a month ago, and now I'm not sure if I can bring myself to try Tropic of Cancer. I had no idea just how much I'd grow to loathe Capricorn, and from what I've gathered, Cancer suffers from the same problems as Capricorn. I might give it a try if someone informs me that the two novels are radically different. Given my desire to actually meet my reading goal this year, and given the fact that I don't like reading to be a slog, I do not see myself reading Tropic of Cancer anytime soon.
Even though I know for certain that there are those who enjoy this novel, due to my own dismal experience with it, I cannot in good faith recommend Henry Miller's Tropic of Capricorn to anyone.