painting myself into a corner, book-wise. as to say, I've left only a few out. going thru one's books, one recognizes ones that excited, or that one wants to jump into immediately. for that reason, listing one's books can be beneficial. certes, I for one believe in the stockpile approach, not buying strictly out of the moment's need but for later interest as well. I picked up Tropic of Cancer the other night, a book that had straggled away from my corral. the only other work that I've read by Henry Miller is Big Sur and the Oranges of Hierononymous Bosch, assuming that's the correct title. there's one sense of Miller, that his writing is about being a writer. which is something like the Hollywood penchant for digging into the 'heart' of Hollywood. his self-consciousness in the act is ever present. so he does regale us with narrative, however fictive it may be. I find his work oddly inspiring, as if I should make a memoir too. and it's okay that I'm not in Paris, that the wound up intensity to be a writer is enough to carry the day no matter on what stage. Miller hints towards the viperish snap of Celine, but remains somewhat stuck in his writer pose. Celine was a wild man. the blurbs are lush to the point of fulsomeness in praise. greatest living American writer, writes Mailer, somehow not referring to himself. which is without much meaning (tho one must assert historical context), tho you get the drift. I presume the praisers weren't cognizant of Celine, or perhaps found Celine too intense or offensive. seems like Burroughs began with the route Miller took, then took a big fascinating bend. I recall long ago, high school maybe, reading and enjoying Anais Nin's diaries. all these writers were externalizers, who brought their lives (however fictional) out and about. so that there was a certain amount of living in their writing, that writing was part of their life process. not in the sense of many artists, as a job or calling, but that the writing is an integreation of their daily facts. stop me if I've gone over the edge. many artists make use of their lives, the events therein, in their art, but writers like Miller and the others above, their lives seem to culminate in the text. it's an interesting reliance and trust. I guess one can egg Whitman somewhat into the same category of writer. the act creates the day, not vice versa.