Chapter 84 It is rare to be a "rogue" for a lifetime

It is rare to be a "rogue" for a lifetime Feng Tang Henry Miller is the most energetic cultural figure I know. From ancient times to the present, there are many powerful people, such as Balzac who wrote "Human Comedy" earlier, Prost who wrote later, Zhou Erfu and 200 Chinese writers who wrote "Shanghai Morning" with 1.7 million words. Liu Zhenyun of the 40,000 word.The outstanding characteristics of these people are good physical strength, heavy buttocks, sitting still, fast typing, no frozen shoulders, and no herniated intervertebral discs.Their functions are similar to those of realistic paintings, cameras, video recorders, and tape recorders. They record the environment and people's hearts of the times, and are of historical value.

From ancient times to the present, there are occasional people with vitality, and their vitality may be more abundant than that of Henry Miller, but for various reasons, there are too few traces left for me to fully understand.For example, Kong Qiu, putting aside all kinds of annotations and reading it in plain text, feels that he should be a cute old man who is tacky, stubborn and unyielding, and he must be a nagging one.However, there was no pen and paper at that time, and if Confucius were to express his feelings directly, the giant pandas must have no bamboo to eat, and the long-distance runners must have no turtle essence to drink.Jesus was more passionate about doing things than he was about discourses. He didn't write books in blood, but only let his own blood flow clean when the nails entered his flesh.The Buddha may have suffered more from writing than from women. He felt that writing was so evil that he belittled its function: if the truth is the bright moon, writing is not as good as a finger pointing to the bright moon, which is worth cutting off.Some of the later scientists, presumably also energetic people, such as Einstein, loved women and wrote clear and bright prose.It may be that the mathematics training he received was too strong and became a kind of bondage. In the end, he failed to relax and write more.

Henry Miller was a thinker.Henry Miller's novels have no stories, no plots, no formed characters, no beginning, no end, no theme, no suspense, and some are full of indissoluble thoughts and imaginations full of wings and arms.A true thinker does not talk about posture, without the support of these stories, suspense, and characters like flesh and bones, he is vigorous and takes shape impressively.Since it does not follow common sense and has no system, Henry Miller's book can be read from any page, and any page is full of mixed peanut trees, and the heroes are flying around, as if "the flowers bloom on the Moshang, and you can return slowly."In the eyes of some proponents, every page, or even every ten sentences, of Henry Miller's novel could be the subject of a novel with the weight of "Remembering Things Past".There is a habit of keeping a "Bible" in the bedside table of foreign hotels. People who travel for a day can take a hot bath and read two or three pages to relax.Henry Miller's support said that the "Bible" could be replaced by any representative work of Henry Miller, and the role played would not change.Other thinkers, on the basis of a lot of reading, stand on the shoulders of giants, add a layer of bricks and tiles that really belong to them, and then claim to have built their own system.Henry Miller needs no outside force.A small pebble falls into the pond of other people's mood. Those with more knowledge will have larger ripples and more thoughts, otherwise they will be smaller and less.Henry Miller threw himself a stone, and then the volcano erupted, the storm came, the fire, the earthquake.Famous bastards in ancient Greece debated philosophy and law, and celebrities in the Northern and Southern Dynasties fought with each other. There are examples of death. If those scenes are recorded, they may be roughly similar to Henry Miller.

Henry Miller is a master of literature.Admirers say that American literature begins and ends with Henry Miller.Once he started nagging, a thousand bottles of champagne were opened at the same time, and his vitality swept away.Henry Miller is the only novelist who makes me feel like a sportsman, and reading to the last page of his endless novel feels like hearing him gasp, "Close the javelin, clean the discus , The shot put is also thrown away. I drink my saliva and I will be right back." I remember the first time I read Henry Miller's text, it was raining, I poured a cup of tea, and Henry Miller was already sitting opposite me, and there was no gap between his text and mine in an instant.I suddenly knew all the great wisdom and small thoughts in his words, which was no difficulty for me.His soul, through words, traveled through thousands of years and thousands of miles of space in an instant, and entangled my soul in a small house in Chaoyang District, Beijing, which he never knew, making my heart feel like a knife, and then my chest swelled.The importance of reading such a text for the first time is incomparable to me. His words are as warm and flavorful as a bowl of soybean juice and sliced ​​noodles. They are placed in front of me and within reach.This first reading, even more important than my first love, more important than the first time I caught my dick and tortured him repeatedly to make him gush, than the first time I entered a woman's body in a panic and watched her It is more important to lose control of the eyes and body.A few years later, I entered medical school and sat in front of the dissecting table. The human brain soaked in formalin and stiff as a ball was placed in front of me, within reach.The old man who managed the laboratory said that these corpse specimens were left over from the early days of liberation, and it is not easy to collect them now, and some of them died of starvation, and the specimens were very clean.The first time I read Henry Miller was more important to me than the first time I dissected a brain specimen.I long to have his super power. Thousands of years after my death, through my words, my soul entangles an unknown boy who is also black and thin, making his heart feel like a knife and his chest swells.At that time, I started to practice my writing. I spread out a manuscript paper of 400 characters per page, light green, produced by the printing factory of Beijing Tramway Company. As the pen moved on the paper, I saw the red fire in the alchemy furnace, and the writing was like an elixir. The pearls are round and the jade is smooth, these words are immortal.I sat black and thin in front of the table, with more bones and less flesh than a handful of firewood, on which was a red-hot alchemy furnace.My words have almost nothing to do with me. In an instant, I am a medium, just like the wizards in ancient times, the so-called gods, who transmit some kind of sound through these mediums.My words have a will of their own, which in turn determines my actions and thoughts.When words came out like elixir, I was exhausted, I was in awe, I was grateful, I felt a power far greater than my body, greater than myself.When words pour out like garbage, I'm exhausted, I feel like my body is ashes, my life is garbage.

Henry Miller spent his whole life thinking, writing, and whoring.His vitality, according to Norman Miller's interpretation, is composed of genius and desire, perhaps these two are originally two sides of the same thing.I heard people comment on an old poet who had been in Beijing for fifty years, and there was a sentence in it that was not rough: "Rogue, every promising person has been a job for a long time or a short time when he was young. A lifetime of hooligans." When the commentator said this, he looked at the old poet with admiration.The old poet was drinking happily. His girlfriend in her early twenties was sitting beside him with his child in her arms. The old poet occasionally patted his woman's body and called out affectionately: "My little round ass." Henry Miller Speaking of St. Francis, said he was thinking about the character of the saint. Anais Nin asked why, and he said to Anais Nin, "Because I feel like I'm the last saint on earth."