Blanketing opinions that I'll probably regret soon.

Wednesday, January 05, 2005

Hanky Miller

This is the second best first page of any book written. Sorry for the hyperbole, but it is. I just ran across it and it makes me want to re-read this. Too bad I can't find my copy.

"It is now the fall of my second year in Paris. I was sent here for a reason I have not yet been able to fathom. I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive. A year ago, six months ago, I thought that I was an artist. I no longer think about it. I am. Everything that was literature has fallen from me. There are no more books to be written, thank God. This, then? This is not a book. This is libel, slander, defamation of character. This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty ... what you will. I am going to sing for you, a little off key perhaps, but I will sing. I will sing while you croak, I will dance over your dirty corpse ... To sing you must first open your mouth. You must have a pair of lungs, and a little knowledge of music. It is not necessary to have an accordian, or a guitar. The essential thing is to WANT to sing. This then is a song. I am singing."

No one will ever write like this again.
what book is this?
Tropic of Cancer
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