Do anything, but let it produce joy. Do anything, but let it yield ecstasy. Henry Miller More Quotes by Henry Miller More Quotes From Henry Miller I struggled in the beginning. I said I was going to write the truth, so help me God. And I thought I was. I found I couldn't. Nobody can write the absolute truth. Henry Miller god-help-mewritinghelping There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature. Henry Miller strong-womenlovefunny It isn't the oceans which cut us off from the world - it's the American way of looking at things. Henry Miller cuttingoceansea You can look at things all your life and not see them really. This ‘seeing’ is, in a way, a ‘not seeing,’ if you follow me. Henry Miller lookswayfirsts Every man with a bellyful of the classics is an enemy to the human race. Henry Miller racemenenemy Great God! What have I turned into? What right have you people to clutter up my life, steal my time, probe my soul, suckle my thoughts, have me for your companion, confidant, and information bureau? What do you take me for? Am I an entertainer on salary, required every evening to play an intellectual farce under your stupid noses? Am I a slave, bought and paid for, to crawl on my belly in front of you idlers and lay at your feet all that I do and all that I know? Henry Miller stupidfeetplay All growth is a leap in the dark. Henry Miller growthdarkinspirational Until we lose ourselves there is no hope of finding ourselves. Henry Miller no-hopeself-controlconformity I had to learn to think, feel, and see in a totally new fashion, in an uneducated way, in my own way, which is the hardest thing in the world. I had to throw myself into the current, knowing that I would probably sink. The great majority of artists are throwing themselves in with life preservers around their necks, and more often than not it is the life preserver, which sinks them. Nobody can drown in the ocean of reality who voluntarily gives herself up to the experience. Whatever there be of progress in life comes not through adaptation but through daring, through obeying the blind urge. Henry Miller fashionoceanreality A book lying idle on a shelf is wasted ammunition. Like money, books must be kept in constant circulation. Lend and borrow to the maximum. Henry Miller shelvesbooklying Life, as it is called, is for most of us one long postponement. Henry Miller procrastinationlifelong What seems nasty, painful, evil can become a source of beauty, joy, and strength, if faced with an open mind. Henry Miller acceptanceeviljoy Every day the choice is presented to us, to live up to the spirit that is in us, or deny it. Henry Miller denychoicesspirit The best technique is none at all. Henry Miller technique Everybody says sex is obscene. The only true obscenity is war. Henry Miller obscenitywarsex The worst sin that can be committed against the artist is to take him at his word, to see in his work a fulfillment instead of an horizon. Henry Miller horizonartistliterature I had no more need of God than He had of me, and if there were one, I often said to myself, I would meet Him calmly and spit in His face. Henry Miller spitfacesneeds Jump off. You are a protected individual. Do not fear. Henry Miller protectedindividualdo-not-fear When I think of New York I have a very different feeling. New York makes even a rich man feel his unimportance. New York is cold, glittering, malign. The buildings dominate. There is a sort of atomic frenzy to the activity going on; the more furious the pace, the more diminished the spirit. A constant ferment, but it might just as well be going on in a test tube. Nobody knows what it's all about. Nobody directs the energy. Stupendous. Bizarre, Baffling. A tremendous reactive urge, but absolutely uncoordinated. Henry Miller new-yorkmenthinking What are our conductors giving us year after year? Only fresh corpses. Over these beautifully embalmed sonatas, toccatas, symphonies and operas the public dance the jitterbug. Night and day without let the radio drowns us in a hog-wash of the most nauseating, sentimental ditties. From the churches comes the melancholy dirge of the dead Christ, a music which is no more sacred than a rotten turnip. Henry Miller symphonynightyears
