I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive.
by Henry Miller
The happiest man alive — a school of living, drawn from Henry Miller. The whole of The Wisdom of the Heart readable unabridged (17 essays, 82,000 words), plus 448 curated quotes from across his work; the life that earned the persona; an interactive breath, a watercolour, a cosmic eye; and fifteen drills in living fully.
tags: henry miller, vitality, living fully, paris, big sur, the wisdom of the heart, tropic of cancer, art of living, acceptance, bohemian
The happiest man alive — the writer who threw everything overboard, found his own voice in the dead Sargasso Sea of failure, and spent the rest of a long life saying Yes to all of it.
Henry Miller is the patron saint of the late start and the open hand. He published nothing of consequence until he was past forty; spent the decade before in failure, beggary, and ten years of dead manuscripts; arrived in Paris in 1930 with almost no money — and there, broke and forty-three, wrote the first book in which he heard his own voice. Tropic of Cancer opens with a man who has nothing and declares himself the happiest man alive, and he meant it. The whole body of work after is one long argument that the aim of life is simply to live — joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware — and that everything which keeps us from it is fear dressed up as prudence.
He is not a careful guide. He contradicts himself, overreaches, exaggerates, says outrageous things and means most of them. But no one in the language is better at the single task this page exists for: making you want to be more alive than you were a minute ago. Read him not for doctrine but for temperature.
Paris, 1930. He stepped off the boat with a borrowed suit, a few francs, and no return ticket — forty-three years old and, by every ordinary measure, a confirmed failure. He had no plan beyond staying. He slept on floors and in lent rooms, cadged dinners off friends and strangers, and walked the city for hours because walking was free — and found that a man with nothing left to protect is the freest man alive. Within four years, at a cheap café table not unlike the one below, he had written the book that made him.
Four hundred and forty-eight passages, lifted line by line from across his work — all of The Wisdom of the Heart*, plus the canon from the* Tropics and Colossus to Sexus and Big Sur. This is the curated seam: filter by theme, search for a word, or pull the lever and let one find you. The whole book itself, unabridged, is in the next section.
144 passages · arrow-keys turn the page · double-click a tab to isolate it
I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive.
The Wisdom of the Heart entire — all seventeen essays as New Directions published them in 1941, from "Creative Death" to "Balzac and His Double," some eighty-two thousand words. The quotes above were drawn from these pages; here is the source, to read in full. Tap any essay to open it.
The books behind his books. In an appendix to The Books in My Life (1952) Miller drew up a list of the hundred that influenced him most — a wild, omnivorous, unembarrassed shelf where the Greek dramatists and the Arabian Nights sit beside Rider Haggard, Nostradamus, Madame Blavatsky and a Zen primer. Tick what you've read; let him hand you one for tonight.
The list Miller actually drew up: the hundred books that influenced him most — the Greek dramatists, the Arabian Nights, Rider Haggard and Rabelais beside Rimbaud, Lao-tse, Spengler and Krishnamurti. Tick what you've read. Or let him hand you one for tonight.
Verbatim from the appendix to The Books in My Life (New Directions, 1952).
Two long passages, folded by default. The first is the clearest account Miller ever gave of how a man becomes himself — the total failure that turned into a voice. The second is the whole philosophy in miniature: acceptance, surrender, the long way round.
The passage where Miller describes the total failure that became the beginning. The single clearest account he ever gave of how a man becomes himself.
▾read the passage — 430 wordsI began assiduously examining the style and technique of those whom I once admired and worshipped: Nietzsche, Dostoievski, Hamsun, even Thomas Mann, whom today I discard as being a skillful fabricator, a brick-maker, an inspired jackass or draught-horse. I imitated every style in the hope of finding the clue to the gnawing secret of how to write. Finally I came to a dead end, to a despair and desperation which few men have known, because there was no divorce between myself as writer and myself as man: to fail as a writer meant to fail as a man. And I failed.
I realized that I was nothing—less than nothing—a minus quantity. It was at this point, in the midst of the dead Sargasso Sea, so to speak, that I really began to write. I began from scratch, throwing everything overboard, even those whom I most loved. Immediately I heard my own voice I was enchanted: the fact that it was a separate, distinct, unique voice sustained me. It didn't matter to me if what I wrote should be considered bad. Good and bad dropped out of my vocabulary.
I jumped with two feet into the realm of aesthetics, the non-moral, non-ethical, non-utilitarian realm of art. My life itself became a work of art. I had found a voice, I was whole again. My huge failure was like the recapitulation of the experience of the race: I had to grow foul with knowledge, realize the futility of everything, smash everything, grow desperate, then humble, then sponge myself off the slate, as it were, in order to recover my authenticity. I had to arrive at the brink and then take a leap in the dark.
Miller's clearest statement of his whole philosophy: acceptance, surrender, the long way round — the wisdom of the heart against the tyranny of the head.
▾read the passage — 340 wordsThe art of living is based on rhythm—on give and take, ebb and flow, light and dark, life and death. By acceptance of all the aspects of life, good and bad, right and wrong, yours and mine, the static, defensive life, which is what most people are cursed with, is converted into a dance, the dance of life. The acceptance of the situation, any situation, brings about a flow, a rhythmic impulse towards self-expression.
It is the religious view of life: the positive acceptance of pain, suffering, defeat, misfortune, and so on. It is the long way round, which has always proved to be the shortest way after all. It means the assimilation of experience, fulfillment through obedience and discipline: the curved span of time through natural growth rather than the speedy, disastrous short-cut. This is the path of wisdom, and the one that must be taken eventually, because all the others only lead to it.
For the awakened individual, life begins now, at any and every moment; it begins at the moment when he realizes that he is part of a great whole, and in the realization becomes himself whole. Balance, discipline, illumination—these are the key words. It is not essentially new, but it needs to be rediscovered by each and every one individually. To live in truth, which is suspense, is adventure, growth, uncertainty, risk and danger. We need to open up, to relax, to give way, to obey the deeper laws of our being, in order to find a true discipline.
Miller painted thousands of watercolours — badly, joyfully, and gave them away for meals. The point was never the picture; it was to make living itself the art. Tap or drag the paper. Let it bloom.
Dab the pigments; they blend as you go. Miller mixed his on a chipped saucer and never washed the brush quite clean — the point was never the picture. Mix something. Name it.
Miller's "wisdom of the heart" is not a system — he distrusted systems the way he distrusted saviors — but it has a shape, and the shape is worth naming before you practise it.
The aim of life is to live. Not to achieve, not to be secure, not to be right — to be aware. Most of us, he said, treat life as one long postponement, and the reason is always fear. The awakened man simply stops postponing. Life begins now, at any and every moment.
Accept the world as a womb, not a tomb. The static, defensive life — the life spent guarding what you have — is a kind of death. Acceptance of everything, good and bad, converts it into a dance. The long way round, through the difficulty rather than away from it, is always the shortest way in the end.
Want less and you have more. The happiest man is the man with the fewest needs. Every need you can shed — every habit and fear you stop calling a necessity — is a return of freedom. Miller lived this literally, broke and content for most of eighty-eight years.
Make living itself the art. Whoever uses the spirit in him creatively is an artist; the goal is not to write a great book but to make a life that is itself a creation. He painted thousands of watercolours, badly and joyfully, to keep proving it.
Say Yes; then leap. To be generous is to say Yes before the man even opens his mouth. All growth is a leap in the dark, without benefit of experience. The whole logic of the universe, he wrote, is contained in daring.
“Whatever I do is done out of sheer joy: I drop my fruits like a ripe tree.” The tree does not ask who will eat. Shake it. Take what falls.
“In the midst of this crazy treadmill I refuse to budge an inch. I stand still. Stock still. Now or never! Peace, brothers, it's wonderful.” Step off for a minute. Let the orb lead.
He did not leave living-fully to chance. While he was writing the first books — broke, in Paris, fighting his own moods — he typed himself a set of commandments and a daily program and worked to them. Here they are, exactly as he kept them.
DAILY PROGRAM
Mornings: If groggy, type notes and allocate, as stimulus. If in fine fettle, write.
Afternoons: Work of section in hand, following plan of section scrupulously. No intrusions, no diversions. Write to finish one section at a time, for good and all.
Evenings: See friends. Read in cafés. Explore unfamiliar sections—on foot if wet, on bicycle if dry. Write, if in the mood, but only on Minor program. Paint if empty or tired. Make Notes. Make Charts, Plans. Make corrections of MS.
— from his working notebook, collected in Henry Miller on Writing (1964)
Big Sur, 1944. He left the cities for a shack on the California cliffs — no electricity, no money, the road often washed out — and stayed nearly twenty years. The exuberance of Paris cooled into something quieter, and its opposite was not resignation but arrival: a man who had once wanted everything discovering that he already had it. The garden, the children, the fog rolling in off the Pacific, the pilgrims climbing the hill to find him. It was here, he said, that he finally learned to say amen.
The page is the doctrine; here is the man — reading and reading him, watching and hearing him. He was, by every account, a better talker than poser.
At seventy Henry Miller looks rather like a Buddhist monk who has swallowed a canary. He immediately impresses one as a warm and humorous human being. Despite his bald head with its halo of white hair, there is nothing old about him. His figure, surprisingly slight, is that of a young man; all his gestures and movements are young.
His voice is quite magically captivating, a mellow, resonant but quiet bass with great range and variety of modulation. He speaks a modified Brooklynese frequently punctuated by such rhetorical pauses as “Don’t you see?” and “You know?” and trailing off with a series of diminishing reflective noises: “Yas, yas… hmm… hmm… yas… hm… hm.” To get the full flavor and honesty of the man, one must hear the recordings of that voice.
The interview was conducted in September 1961, in London. — George Wickes
The page is the doctrine; here is the man. He was, by every account, a better talker than writer — so meet him talking. The interviews, the films, the painter, the place that keeps him.
The complete interview and the whole of "Asleep & Awake" are above; here is the rest.
Miller at Big Sur and back in Brooklyn and Paris, with Durrell, Anaïs Nin, Perlès and Brassaï. His life and work in his own words, ping-pong and all.
If the embedded PDF won't load for you, the interview lives at the Paris Review too — the clearest long talk on how he actually wrote.
He lived long enough to become a witness — literally.
Filmed before he died, Miller is one of the "Witnesses" — the real old radicals and bohemians who narrate the film between scenes. The grinning ancient telling the truth about the 1910s.
"To paint is to love again." He made thousands of watercolours and thought them as important as the books.
His own little manifesto on why he painted — joyfully, without training, giving them away. The proof that the doctrine was lived, not just written.
The one place on earth that still keeps the flame.
A bookshop, reading-room and concert hall in a redwood grove on Highway 1, run by his old friend Emil White’s legacy. Still open, still strange, still his.
The corpus draws on The Wisdom of the Heart (New Directions, 1941) — Miller's collection of essays, of which "Reflections on Writing" and the title essay are the two great statements of his credo — together with the sourced quotations on the English Wikiquote page, spanning Tropic of Cancer (1934) through Henry Miller on Writing (1964). The two long extracts in "In His Own Hand" are verbatim from The Wisdom of the Heart. Themes and groupings are editorial; the exuberance is entirely his.
✦ memory · ☽ night · ∞ loops · ❧ margins · ◆ proof
a personal library in perpetual arrangement · MMXXVI