The Devil at Large Read Online Free

shit out of my work) together with the enthusiasm and devotion of a poor Jewish lesbian who peddled my books from cafe to cafe, the book might never have been known. Your triumph seems so easy—and natural. You are admired by high and low. Even that filthy sheet “Screw” gave you a serious write-up a couple of weeks ago.
    (Incidentally, I wonder what Germaine Greer and Anaïs Nin think of it! or Kate Millet.)
    I lent the novel to my daughter, Val, and she was thrilled—found a resemblance, in some ways, between herself and you (which I don’t see). She may write you too.
    I am going to send copies to Lawrence Durrell and my boon companion of Paris days, Alfred Perlès, who now lives in Cyprus. (I know his bloody Scottish wife will hate it.)
    I am always delighted to run across names of poets and other writers you mention in all your books. What excellent taste, as I remarked before. A bit omnivorous, dare I say—or, as the French say, “boulimique” (what a word!) (How about our English word— aboulia ?) One poet whose name I expected to encounter but did not is St. John Perse. Who haven’t you read? (You don’t mention Céline or Blaise Cendrars either but I suspect you have read them.) They are my two favorites as you probably know.
    My daughter-in-law, Diane Miller, who tries to write poetry, says she found it hard to understand you sometimes. (The poems.) I tried to explain to her that we don’t have to understand everything. Are we stirred, tickled, delighted, angry? Quite enough, don’t you think? I don’t understand everything—or even want to. (Though it’s not quite apropos I must say I love St. Thomas Aquinas’ last words, on his death bed—“All that have written now seems to me like so much straw.” (Compared with his illumination)
    I shall be very curious to see and read your second novel. The second book is usually very different from the first one—like a “revolt in the desert.” I imagine your first book left you feeling sick of yourself, if I dare say it. Everything you say about writing (as a refuge, a support, etc.) is so trenchant. Like Celine, curiously enough, you make me laugh when you tell of your suffering. And you, very fortunately, most fortunately, can laugh at yourself. Hurrah! So damned few women who can do that! I don’t know anything more frustrating and depressing than a sorrowful looking woman!
    Enough! Good luck and cheers!
    Henry Miller
    By then, my first novel was gathering steam. Letters were pouring in, and many of them were the most vulnerable letters I’d ever received. My correspondents were seeking salvation and appointing me their guru. This was my first taste of public life in America and I was amazed. I wrote a piece for New York magazine called “The Writer as Sexual Guru.” In it I wondered why writers were seen as gurus when all they were advertising was their own confusion. It elicited a passionate response from my new pen pal:
6/21/74
    Dear Erica—
    Bradley [Bradley Smith, publisher and author] gave me your piece in the New York magazine about the Writer as sexual guru. I have often wanted to write about my correspondents. You said it all—except maybe for one group I find most interesting—the nuts. The really crazy ones. They usually write fantastic letters, and as you know, can draw and paint most interestingly. When I married my third wife I asked her to help me read & file my c/s. To my dismay, she took it upon herself to destroy all the nutty letters! I was furious. She thought the letters from professors and serious high-brows were the ones to preserve. I told her it was just the contrary.
    I am enclosing a postscript in red ink from a recent fan…. She sent this after reading that line in Time mag. not long ago wherein I praise Oriental women. (She knew I was married to a Japanese and now in love with a Chinese.) Don’t you think she’s off her trolley? And how come these statistics? I never found the “vaginal passages” too short