Sometimes it just happens that the author is highly recommended by people or the pages you trust, and these praises are even comparing this author to one of your favorites. “Sounds nice!” and with great interest and overwhelming wish to dive into the maybe not beautiful, but definitely thrilling world… But what you get is actually the liquid garbage smeared all over your vision of reality – just my honest opinion.
The main character (the book is autobiographical) is sociopathic. He sits in France, doesn’t earn much, he uses women (likes to call them with vulgar expressions) – married, unmarried, ones in serious trouble or distress. He steals money, betrays his friends and manipulates them in their life decisions, and despite the fact that sometimes he describes his friends and acquaintances as much worse people than him, they are not. They have empathy.
Actually by reading about the main character and his thoughts and feelings I understood that I have a lot of empathy in my heart, and ethical code as well. It was also interesting to analyze myself why and how it happens that I despise the main character so much? Is it me?
I’d rather say that in most cases I love difficult, complicated and somewhat dark personages, if… there is a reason why they react or behave that way, or that they have one-two principles, like never steal from your friend. Probably that makes me feel that I can understand them, that they are broken by the world, and therefore I feel connected, and I dive into the narration as in the deep clear waters of the endless ocean – beautiful, soothing, so much to explore. And I value this immersive quality in the books I read. But in “” there was none of it. I couldn’t really live through this book, I looked as if behind the wall. By the way the novel was described as “erotic”… As for me it really wasn’t, the fact that sex descriptions appear on the pages of this book, didn’t make it interesting or less dull or maybe it’s just me.
Despite that something ignited my passion during the reading, I mean I became really irritated and I couldn’t shut up talking about this book. Another thing was that the author inserted nice and atmospheric descriptions once in a while, as well as philosophical thought, and then I almost loved it. Additionally this book prompted me for deep self-analyses: I finally understood what I wouldn’t do and which type I hate and despise. These are the ones who could potentially hurt me or break me.
I think that author could create and ignite these impressions purposefully: he may laugh at moral values of this time, show the decadence, the dark side of people, he could make the novel purposefully hated and banned in order to make it more popular, be often read and talked about. To make it a scandal. Finally, Henry Miller could just demonstrate to us that no one is a saint and make us look straightly at our shadow selves.
I prefer not to rate this book. Because it is beautiful, wise, terrible, and abhorrent altogether. I don’t want to influence your reader’s decisions, I think that everyone should make their own opinion on its point.
© MarvellousNightmare on Coconut Doesn’t Exist
Coconut Doesn't Exist 
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