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UnBooks:Tropic of Cancer

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Henry Miller seen here blending in with local French Culture - touting for business as a fetish mime prostitute

Preface by George Orwell: We see in Henry Miller's novel a beautiful melody of hardcore, nasty sex and pointless existential drivel. Miller is such a rich creature revelling in a multitude of emotions dealing with sex and the need to buy it. He is also a man consumed by a desire to deride those around him, possibly because he is insecure. He also objectifies women, possibly because he's a man, or maybe bad engrams. Anyhow, that’s enough from me.

Chapter One: or something like that, Miller never bothered

I'm living at the Villa Borghese, I am watching Star Trek, I went out today to see if I could sponge some more food and money and maybe even find a bit of totty to keep me company. As I walked along some French street, filled with garbage, trash and Jews an immense feeling of horniness kicked in.

Just as I was absorbed by this I bumped into Van Nordon or "Van Nerden" behind his back and asked if he would get me some expensive French food to keep me going; as we walked he told me that he was so glad to have a friend like me and that he was feeling little low as his novels were not doing as well as mine. I couldn’t help myself I just laughed in his face, he tried to laugh along too but I could see that he was hurt by my behaviour; I felt validated by this as there is nothing quite as good as being aloof with people you know and then writing about them.

Despite my insulting write off of anyone else’s problems but my own we both went to a brothel where I felt so much optimism I could burst, I imagined as we entered what it must be like to have a twat/bush/cunt/furry monster/fanny/slit/ham wallet/fish hole and the rest. I decided and came to the rational conclusion that I was glad to have a womb weasel as it gave me a curious sense of superiority even though I was a sponge and I could no longer pee.

A Second Chapter, possibly...

I'm working as a proof reader, it's great, finding the typos, it's like "Where’s Wally" in hell, at least that’s what it feels like. I heard yesterday that a guy fell to his death because of a faulty elevator; I immediately went over to inspect, I could not believe it, he was a pizza. It turns out nobody liked him and I could makes digs at the f***er for weeks, at least I don't feel the tedium of the work because of that pizza man/red splat that fell down the elevator.

The thought of death always brings me back to Nietzsche and his views on the fragility of life but very quickly these feelings ebb away and I'm back to my shallow emotionally crippled self; usually when this happens I can feel an erection come on, and I have to gimp past the editorial staff (my bosses) with my lead rod sticking out, I then proceeded to spend an hour in the bog munching on croissants and so forth. At least it's on their time because it's hard work.

Henry Miller seen here posing for Vogue magazine; "well educated" female readers often commented on the idylic lifestyle Miller led whilst in France.

I can only laugh although everything’s a 'bit' of a mess with my wife leaving me and the living off baked beans, but my optimism comes though and I go out to prey on the generosity of others, then I'll write about them; a king could not ask for more.

A Third Chapter: added by publisher after appalling sales of the first batch

I met one of my mates, his girlfriend was pushing him around, after a bit of a rigmarole I sent him off to America, what a shithole that country is, at least he seemed happy though, I shagged his girlfriend when he left, boy, she was controlling and I gave her some Miller Spanks to clear that shit out of her. As I walked along another French street I began thinking about life, and how sentimentally beautiful it was. Then before I made myself cringe I ended up back at the Brothel for more steamy action....classic!

Later that week I spoke at length with Boris. What a boring arsehole. Whilst I was shaving him, because of his lice issues I had to listen to his views on prisons, city sewage systems, the weather and sex. At least he brought the topic back to sex. As soon as could be, I managed to persuade Boris that we should go to the whorehouse. Thank god he was in cash, I can never praise him enough.

An amusing incident with an employer

As I wander around aimlessly, I remember working on another crumby job. When I lived in New York I used to work for this really ugly Indian guy, he was a bit of an arsehole and fed me on scraps/fried butter (kept me going though). It made me think of the Indian ways of the Hindus and Buddhists, the strange people. He complained often about the pair of nuts he had under his armpit - what a sight as I spied on a couple having a shag in the house across from "my" apartment, sitting at the typewriter looking across at them. It's almost as if I'm making out with the typewriter as a "tribute to them". I suppose it could be argued that I’m trying to.

Towards the end of his visit to France things got a little crap for Henry Miller once his enormous tabs at brothels and bars had finally dried up

Later on I was introduced to my bosses' (the Indian guy in New York) son in law, pretty little shit I thought, he asked me to take him out "no expense spared" - great I thought, a chance to blow some cash on some whores.

His name was well... I'll call him Alex, and he was a bit of a fag. When we got to the brothel I had to choose for him as he was unable to see a nice piece of ass when he saw it. With a bit of luck we both managed to choose. Things got a little out of hand when he took a dump in the bidet and attempted to "go the wrong way" with slightly precious (if I do say so myself) Prostitute; we were both asked to leave. I had barely managed to get anything done; I pocketed the bosses’ cash though, so I can't complain.

It makes you think (something like that) about life and where you're going, or more often than not, not going. Like that sex crazed Indian with a pair of balls for an armpit, or something along those lines.

Epilogue - "Vaguely"

Well that’s the story of my charming time in Paris that was not the least bit sordid or degrading, even Bill Clinton wants my stuff and that's a name you can trust. It has been so many years in the black void of America, it'll drag us all down, anyway as I wonder aimlessly around Big Sur I think of you, gentle reader (boy that sounded classy as a c**t) and of what you are doing and I think I'm so glad I'm not you.

* P.S' Please keep sending more stolen McDonalds condiments, I can't stress enough they are keeping my alive...

* P.P.S, send more early learning centre poster paints as well, I'll be dammed, I think I'm the next Picasso!

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