Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch by Henry Miller Read Free Book Online Page A

and a certificate of vaccination against disillusionment. If
     you have an intellect, bring it with you, but not the rubbish that usually goes with it. There
     are too many intellects here already. And, if you bring nothing else, bring a sense of humor,
     for you will need it here if you haven’t needed it elsewhere. If you believe in medicine,
     bring your own medicine chest, for there are no doctors hereexcept
     learned ones. And don’t bring any pets unless you are prepared to make frequent trips to the
     veterinary, because, for reasons as yet unknown, the pets here take on all the illnesses of
     human kind as well as those of the animal kingdom.
    As for Partington Ridge, whence this message emanates, there is still no
     telegraph, no telephone, no sewage system, no garbage disposal plant. To get rid of your empty
     bottles, tin cans and other refuse, you must own a car and drive an appreciable distance to
     the allotted dumping ground, or else engage the professional services of Howard Welch, the man
     from Missouri.
    Thus far Big Sur has crept along with what’s to hand. What is probably needed
     to put it on the map are—a brothel, a jail, and a gold-plated electric chair. It would also be
     wonderful to have a Jewish delicatessen, but that’s probably asking too much all at once.
    In tailing off I would like to quote the words of another Henry Miller, better
     known in these parts than yours truly. I refer to Henry Miller the cattle baron, a man who
     once owned so much land that one could start from the Mexican border and walk to Canada
     without ever taking foot off his possessions. Anyway, here is what he once said: “If a man is
     so unfortunate as to beg for food, give it to him and win his gratitude. Never make him work
     for it and get his hatred.”

PART TWO
    PEACE AND SOLITUDE:
    A POTPOURRI

1.
    I had gone to bed to nurse a cold when it started, the hemorrhage. Whenever
     I take to bed (in broad daylight), which is my way of curing colds, hemorrhoids, melancholia
     or any ailment real or imaginary, I always put beside the bed a little bench laden with
     cigarettes, ash tray and reading matter. Just in case….
    After I had whiled away an hour or two in delicious reverie, I reached for the
     issue of
La Nouvelle Revue Française
which my friend Gerald Robitaille had sent me.
     It was the issue dedicated to Charles-Albert Cingria, who had passed away a few months before.
     In his letter Gerald asked if I had ever heard of Cingria. I had indeed. It so happens that I
     met Cingria, for the first and only time, at the home of Bravig Imbs, in Paris. It was a whole
     afternoon and evening that I spent, most fortunately, in Cingria’s company. These few short
     hours stand out as one of the events in my life.
    What I had not known, until I picked up the
revue
, was that at the
     time of this meeting Cingria was traversing one of the worst periods in his life. Who would
     have suspected that this man who had the look of a clown, or a defrocked priest, this man who
     never ceased talking, joking, laughing, drinking—it was New Year’s Eve and we were consuming
     pitchers of eggnog—who would have dreamed, as I say, that this man would leave us to return to
     a miserable hole in the hall, where crusts of bread were hidden away under bureaus and
     commodes and where he could plainly hear the noises made by everyone who went to the W.C. *
    As I read the tributes that were paid him, as I perceived
     what a remarkable personality his was, what a fantastic life he had led, what precious things
     he had written, my head began to whirl. Thrusting the
revue
aside—I couldn’t possibly
     read another line—the hemorrhage suddenly broke loose. Like a drunken boat I tossed about,
     wallowing in the flood of memories which assailed me. After a time I rose, found a notebook,
     and began inditing cryptic cues. It went on for several hours. I forgot that I had a cold,
     forgot what time it was.
    It was after midnight when