The Giving (Up) Tree

Sure, all the hipsters love him. And his love affair with another noted writer was the stuff of narcotic-laced fairy tales.

But I can't help it. Try as I might, I can't bring myself to finish his masterpiece.

I first picked up Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer several years ago, at the recommendation of a friend. But I was a literature student at the time, and if there's one thing we know about literature students, it's that they never have time to read the things they want to.

So after "re-checking" it out of the library three or four times, I eventually gave up. But I was somewhat tormented by that sense of failing to complete an objective, and I felt compelled to give it another try. But rather than go through the library fracas, I opted to purchase the text. And not only that, but when I packed up all of my possessions for my most recent move, Tropic was the one book I left out, thinking I'd read it on my "spare" time.

And read I did.

Or, rather, I read until about page 80 — at which point the rest of my books were unpacked, and I decided to abandon the Mr. Miller altogether.

I realize this makes me a philistine. I realize my giving up on Henry is an indication of my waning affiliation with academia — perhaps even a symptom of intellectual decay.

But I can't help it. Miller's narrator is so unlikeable — his disregard for women so intense — that I don't care about the philosophy inherent in this blatant display of ex-patriot nihilism. I don't care that the spiritual and emotional decadence is somehow parallel to social collapse.

I wasn't at a good place in my life (when are we ever?) while reading it, and Cancer seemed to only make things worse. Along with other grotesque passages, expletives were too often used (by men) to describe females (and their sundry body parts), which served only to temporarily increase my own disgust for the opposite sex (stupid boys).

So I returned it to my shelf, and plucked Jonathon Franzen's How to Be Alone in its steed.

Not only does Franzen seem to be more appropriate for the times, but if there's one thing grad school taught me, it's that life is too short (and reading lists too long) to trudge through things that don't sustain your interest.

Still, I can't help but wonder if the simple act of closing the door on Henry Miller (for now, at least) means I'm undoing years of education. I wonder if it means I've knocked a couple of points off of my IQ.

But a part of me really doesn't care.

Next up: Why I Love Harry Potter.