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To say that the introduction of a novel is important is a gross understatement.

The
introduction of any piece of literature sets the tone for the rest of the work; it acts as a gateway from
one reality to another; transporting the reader comfortably, shockingly, unexpectedly, or amusedly
from her perceived universe to that seen through the eyes of the Other. The actual process of
entering into a novel is a tricky business. The reader is essentially entering into an agreement with
the author to accept his 'artifice', if not to wholeheartedly believe in it. Novels which do not arrest,
titillate, shock, or amuse their readers in the introduction will find it tough to convince them of their
authenticity, truth of their message, or believability of their characters. It is the first tone in a
musical composition that resonates through the work as a whole, the constant Brahmanic drone that
the rest of the creation dances upon.
For this essay I have chosen to focus upon the introduction of Henry Miller's 'Tropic of
Cancer'. This introduction manages, in a handful of sentences, to destroy any and all of the reader's
expectations.

'I am living at the Villa Gorghese. There is not a crumb of dirt anywhere, nor a chair misplaced. We
are all alone here and we are dead.'

These three opening sentences effectively introduce the intense, often terrifying feelings of
existentialist loneliness and solitude that permeate the rest of the story. The reader is instantly aware
that this is going to be a bizarre experience at least. 'We must get in step, a lock step, towards the
prison of death. There is no escape. The weather will not change.' The feeling of helplessness and
inevitability, the ever looming face of suffering, evident in these images is carried on through the
rest of the novel, where one is never certain what fresh obscenity or grotesque event waits to pounce
at the turn of a page.
'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.'

Any reader who isn't moved and intrigued by such an introduction isn't worth contemplating. This
bold, assertive, and violent statement comes across as a threat to the sensibilities of the typical
1930s reader (or even to readers existing in the decades right up to the 60s, when the book was
finally allowed to be published free from censorship), a threat which is followed through in the
main body of the novel. Miller is very clearly warning that what follows will be shocking, upsetting
the established values and conventions of the day, and that to proceed will be to enter into new
territory. It is clear that Miller understands the accepted manner of doing things to be highly
constricting and getting in the way of a highly-individualised experience of Truth itself.
The form that the novel will take is made clear in the introduction. Miller did not create
something that will be linear in nature, incorporating a beginning, middle, and end, with the usual
character development, trials, and romances that constitute the common tropes of escapist literature.
This is a novel that rejects all of this, marking a fierce departure from literary conventions in a bid

to get to the heart of 'the thing' itself; a desperately violent act carried out to shatter through the
confining walls of a conservative conformity. This violence is anticipated through Miller's
statement directed at the reader herself: 'I will sing while you croak, I will dance over your dirty
corpse...'. This is not going to be an easy ride for the reader, who Miller plainly doesn't care to
please in the first place.
To speak of 'Tropic of Cancer' in the same way one speaks of conventional novels is almost
impossible. There is no real point, no moralising message, very few truly likeable characters, and
nothing really happens. One could say that the novel is about the author's time in Paris leading to
his appointment as an English teacher in Dijon, but this is misleading to say the least. The novel
isn't 'about' anything. If anything it is an attempt at replicating the madness of the mind, of
immortalising in ink the dark and dreadful paths we all wander down; a depiction of the mind itself,
the human experience in it's quest for truth? The only certainty with this novel is that if it's answers
you are seeking you will be sorely disappointed. However, the reader should be aware of this from
the introduction, where it is written, '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.' Yes, this novel will be superficially set in Paris, but
not even the narrator knows the reasoning behind this. The feeling I am left with is that the narrator,
as well as the reader, are cast adrift on a vast, existentialist sea of uncertainty, clinging to the only
thing that may be able to preserve them; namely some vague notion of Truth, and art as being one
of the means of getting to it.
Far from following the usual linear format this novel will clearly be a celebration of the
moment, revelling in the sordid madness of the eternal now. Rather than being a finely crafted piece
of writing carefully manipulated to entertain or enlighten the reader, the introduction announces that
this is going to be a song bursting from the mind of the author in the same manner as Whitman,
Emerson, Kerouac, and Ginsberg. The latter two clearly took a leaf out of Miller's book and enjoyed
literary careers based upon the importance of spontaneity, rather than a conceited and convoluted
artifice built as a monument to Art, in the written form when dealing with matters pertaining to
Truth.

'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 accordion, or a guitar. The essential thing is to want to sing.
This then is a song. I am singing.'

This section of the introduction makes the point that for a true work of art, something that comes
closer to transmitting deep truths, one does not require the normal forms and instruments. A
respected literary career, fine schooling, and patronage fall by the wayside in such a case. What
matters, what truly lends a piece of art an eternal air, a convention breaking, taboo courting
authenticity, that more closely resembles Life itself (with all it's lust and sex, madness and filth), is
having led a life that produces the emotions and experience needed to see things as they really are.
'Tropic of Cancer' departs from the typical structure of a novel in much the same way that the main
character (Miller himself) departs, and revolts against, the constraints of polite society.

In conclusion, the beginning of 'Tropic of Cancer' is far more than a fitting introduction to
the text as a whole; it is truly a microcosmic condensation of the themes and thoughts that Miller
goes on to explore. It is the beating heart of this incredible work, and a direct insight into the psyche
of the man who wrote it. If the reader gets lost in the course of reading this novel, or forgets that not
all things have to have a point to have a point, all she needs to do is turn back to the introduction to
be reminded that it's all a matter of singing and celebration, of recognising the eternal 'slings and
arrows of outrageous fortune' that constitute the experience of being a human in any time or place.

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