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Translations by Huub Koch | On Miller

In the summer of 1998 I was asked to translate this article by Henk Van Gelre from dutch into english for the Henry Miller Library Magazine Ping Pong. Henk van Gelre is the author of a Henry Miller biography in dutch, the publisher of the former Henry Miller Newsletter in the Netherlands, an expert on Nietzsche (4 books in print about the foundations of civilisation concerning Nietzsche) a biographer of philosopher Nicolai Berdjajew and a former journalist.

Gerald Robitaille by Henk van Gelre

The first time I visited him in Paris must have been in the summer of 1957. Presumably Henry Miller saw that we had a lot in common in our admiration for him and thought he would please us to bring us in contact with each other, because when I wrote him about my intended trip to Paris, he advised me to pay a visit to his "French-Canadian admirer Gerald Robitaille".

Robitaille was keeping up a correspondence with Miller since 1951 - "in a ratio from ten to one", as he told me afterwards, by which he meant that only one of ten letters that he wrote to him was answered by Miller - and got to know him personally during his first post-war visit to Paris in 1953. That same afternoon he would give me an account in full detail about the way that meeting was established.

In those days Robitaille was living in a mansion, which was furnished downright sober, at the Rue de Meaux. Besides a small french-polished table, a few chairs belonging to it and a sofa, a phonograph and a radio were the only things at his disposal. He'd bought the furniture, with excellent taste, in a second-hand shop, while the phonograph and the radio were a gift from Vincent Birge, an American friend from Miller who was an aeroplane-marconist and visited Paris regularly. The walls were decorated with a few geometric paintings, which proved to be of his own hand. One of them was used later for the cover of his book Un huron a la recherche de l'art. The paintings made a rather cerebral impression: more intellectually constructed then inspired.

Whereof Robitaille en his wife, Diane, lived, was not clear to me, because he had no job, nor did he show any proof of looking for one. Clear enough was the fact that he, although he was wearing an exquisite middle class suit, was living in need and seemed to have no trouble with being dependant on the charities of others. Whom these "others" were, besides good-natured Vincent Birge? I don't know and even later on never was able to discover, because I always had the impression that he scarcely had acquaintances in Paris and was living in seclusion. With Miller's other friends in town he didn't maintain any relationships. He had called on most of them once, but they didn't seem to answer the description of the portraits Miller had given of them in his books. They were mainly selfportraits, in the sense that he had projected certain aspects of himself in there. "If you meet these guys in real life they show to be absolutely uninteresting little men. It is Miller who made them interesting".

Later on I've heard rumours that Robitaille was given financial help by a Canadian Movement that was seeking support in France for the strive for independence of the French-Canadians, an affair that really kept him busy, but if this was true, which I doubt, the allowance hardly gave him a chance to live from it in a reasonable manner. Despite it he gave least of all an unhappy or unsatisfied impression. Even though he made clear that just about anything he owned was received from others, he did not seem to bend under it at all, but was looking at it rather with a certain self-satisfiedness. Although he certainly wasn't a light-hearted, jovial and spontaneous human being, but on the contrary with everything he said and did he showed some reserve - the reserve of "the monsieur" that he clearly wanted to be, testified by the litle sigarettepipe with the golden frontpiece, he always used -, he was an entertaining conversationalist, absolutely self-centered in his stories, who laughed a lot and wasn't deprived of a sense of humor. Short of stature as he was, with his black moustache and short goat's beard a la Napoleon III he made a very self-assured, perky impression.

Didn't he write? He spoke with great conviction about the book he was working on, the book that should make all other books superfluous, although he added in one breath, moderating his own ambitions, that since Miller everything had been said. Since he had discovered Miller, under who's influence he had settled down in Paris, Miller dominated his life in which there was no room for other writers.

With a burning curiousity I informed about his correspondence with Miller and his first acquaintance with him during his visit to Paris in 1953. My inquiry after Miller's letters made him visibly embarrassed. There was no doubt about that his incidental and hasty reactions to the many and long epistle's with which he had haunted him, had been a great deception for him. Later on he realised his own error, as he confessed to me, that his enthusiasm had driven him too far and that it had been unreasonable to expect from Miller that he would read all those letters and also, from time to time, would have answered them. He had apologized for this in 1953, on which Miller, with a to my opinion sharp psychological insight in the character of Robitalle had replied: "I didn't think you had it in you to apologize".

About that meeting itself Robitaille spoke with such an exaltation as if it must have been the most important day of his life till then. While he was telling his story, he revived completely and seemed to throw off the mask of reserve that had characterized his attitude en gave him something artificial and elusive, behind which a certain timidness as well as guilefullness could hide. He knew how to make a story puzzling. I do not remember the details, but the broad lines remain.

From the newspaper he learned that Henry had arrived in Paris. They announced his return, after an absense of 14 years, in big headlines. He's a celebrity now. He was treated like a movie-star on Orly Airport. In all the shopwindows of the bookstores you can find french translations of his books. This is D-day for Gerald, for now he shall meet the "master" as large as life. His expectations are no other then that Miller will show up at his doorstep one of these days or that he will send him a pneumatique, in which he will invite him for a rendez-vous. But he's waiting in vain. His eminency is in Paris and doesn't bother to send him a sign of life. He is outrageously furious, not realizing himself that Miller's first thoughts are going out to his old parisian friends, as far as they have survived the war. Then he hits upon a trick: "I'm going to lay in bed and send Diane to him, but of course he should not know that the idea is mine; Diane is doing this so to say on her own initiative and without my knowledge". With a lot of tact and tears she should make clear to Miller that his indifference towards Gerald made him ill, that for days he doesn't eat nor sleep and that he is desperate. Diana plays the act convincing and Miller falls into the trap. He isn't only strongly moved by her story, but feels himself flattered even. He wants to order a cab immediately to visit Robitaille on his sick-bed, but Diane makes clear to him - following the instructions from Gerald - that it will do to send him an invitation by buispost.

As soon as he has received the invitation, he rushes out of his bed and goes with the utmost speed to the Hotel Luteca, where he arrives a full hour before the appointment. There he comes across Eve, who's ironing. "On seeing me she's startled, starts to stutter and shake... Then Henry enters. Bursting out in tears, he throws himself into my arms. I also start to sob", thus Robitaille, "but in a way, like women do, which means without losing control over my tears". Miller asks for Diane. He wants Gerald to pick her up. So they can join to use lunch somewhere. Robitaille however has to acknowledge that he doesn't even have the money to buy a subwayticket, on which Miller, surprised once again, takes some banknotes from his wallet and slips it into his hands.

During the meal Henry asks Robitaille about his future plans. Gerald reminds him that he, under the influence of his books, has interchanged Quebec for Paris, but that he doesn't see any future perspective at all for himself here. "But you can go find a soft job, just like I did at the time, as a housekeeper with the pearlmerchant from India or as a proof-reader at the french edition of the Chicago Tribune, and write in the meanwhile?"  I can imagine the alternately bewildered and indignant face of Robitaille at that question: How can Miller expect from him that he would lend himself to something like that! He is absolutely unfit for manual labour, and if he would accept a job, it should be something on his level... That's something he must have thought explicit to my opinion, but didn't say. What he says is, that he, thank God, still has a bike, which he can sell to survive the next weeks, because he and Diane do not require much. (The latter struck me before, because notwithstanding that we are talking for hours by now, he didn't offer me anything to drink and it won't happen either that afternoon!). "But this is really too bad", Miller responds alarmed, "you will surely need that bike",  whereupon he puts him discreetly a hundred dollar banknote in his hand.

When the moment of parting has come, Diane bursts out in tears again - with the same control on her tears, as Robitaille tells me contented, as was the case earlier that day. "Why is she crying?" Miller asks with horror. "Diane is an utmost sensitive creature. The idea that we have to part from you, brings her completely into confusion", thus Geralds explanation. Henry, who is too naive to see through the game that is played upon him, tries to calm Diane. "Please don't cry! We will spend the whole day together. Tonight we are going to have dinner collectively and then I take you two to the Grand Guignol... If I can do you a pleasure with that, why not? Are you satisfied now? Well then dry your tears and smile!" "My presumptions have not mistaken me", ends Robitaille - not without pride on his psychological estimation of Miller's sensitiveness for tears - his story. "There's the history of our acquaintance. Not for two o'clock in the morning did we say goodbye".

The next meeting with Robitaille takes place unforeseen in may 1959. Miller is in Paris again and this time it's my turn to meet him personally for the first time. When I, accompanied by my wife, rang the doorbell of his apartment in the rue Campagne-Premiere, Eve tells, who I met already earlier that week, that she's expecting Henry to arrive any moment at the house. A few days earlier he flew to Copenhagen, on an invitation by his Danish publisher, Hans Reitel, and has, to relief her, taken the children Valentine and Tony with him, because one can't, as she says, leave the two one moment alone without them going for one another. To keep an eye on them, he has asked... Robitaille to accompany him.

Eve has hardly welcomed us and offered us something to drink or Henry comes in, with in his retinue Tony and Valentine. Robitaille has gone straight home. He doesn't appear until the next evening, when we are invited by Miller and Eve and a few of their others friends, Brassai, his girlfriend Gilberte and Maurice Nadeau, to go out to eat in a restaurant in Montparnasse. This time Robitaille is in the company of Diane. Her dead, pale face is in sharp contrast with her dark glowing eyes and black hair, which refer to her red-indian origin. At the table she sits next to Brassai's girlfriend, but the whole evening she'll hardly say a word. I'm sitting between my wife and Eve. Because she let me know, earlier that week, that she'd rather stay in France, I ask Eve if Henry and she are considering to leave Big Sur and to settle down in France. It's obvious I touched on a thorny theme, because Henry, who heard the question, immediately answers instead, that Eve would like it very much and that Larry (Durrell) also has an eye on a suitable dwelling in the Provence, but that he doesn't want to leave Big Sur right now.  Eve thinks it's nevertheless an absolutely necessity that Henry and the kids stay in France. "When he goes back, he's lost. You can't imagine what it means to live there", she tells me later on, when Henry, Brassai and Nadeau are engaged in a conversation about the increase of traffic in Paris, whereby Robitaille interferes now and then into the conversation  by making a few modifying remarks. I answer Eve that I am surprised, because Henry is writing precisely with so much passion about Big Sur in his latest book (Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch ). "Certainly, a grandiose, stirring environment! A magnificent nature! The Pacific, the endless, bright horizon! An Eden! Paradise! But if you have to live there, that's something totally different... To be cut off from everything, far from the civilised world... Never to be able to see a movie, to visit an exhibition or a museum, to see a concert or a play... we live without electricity, without any conveniences. The supermarket is in Carmel;  Monterey, the most nearby town, is located on a distance of seventy kilometres. And no phone! Maybe that's the worst thing. Henry has to do, as a convict prisoner, all the unthankfull work; collecting dead branches, sawing, cutting down the trees. Now and then a friend gives a helping hand. The stove which smokes, the paraffin-lamp, the roof full of chinks and holes... It often brings me near despair! Isn't it discouraging when one sees that Henry has to waste so much of his precious time to such dullheaded work? One day he will collapse! He is not used to such heavy labour at all. When he at last finds time to write, he's already  tired like a dog... And the wind! For the main part of the year it screams twenty four hours a day. You can't imagine how this unchained fury get's on your nerves... And the rainseason! The floods! The water oozes everywhere through the roof. The air is utterly humid, the fog thick and black; it wraps everything like a winding-sheet. It makes you go crazy... When it thunders, we are cut off from anything and everybody and wade through a sea of mire. And when it has frozen, we live on a scating-rink and Henry has to get rid of the ice on the road, which is zigzagging along dangerous rocks and curves down below, with a pickaxe, before we dare to take a step outside... And further the eternal financial concerns. We live from hand to mouth. I can't stand it anymore... Henry is an incorrigible optimist, but he is completely exhausted by living the life we live since six years. It's only to save his face, that he demands to stay in Big Sur. I beg you try to make him change his mind. He's not listening to me. I don't want to get back there".

We know the irony of fate: Henry would leave Big Sur in 1962 and Eve, divorced from him in the meantime, stayed behind - to die there four years later, mainly under the influence of her abundant use of alcohol, a pitiable death. An end that still fills me with bitterness.

As we rise from the table, Henry expresses, aiming directly at me, his praise on KLM (Royal Dutch Airlines), with which he flew earlier from New York to Paris and now from Copenhagen to Amsterdam, where they interrupted the return trip to Paris for one day and night. The space in the aeroplane, the service, the food, everything was much better then what American and French aviation-companies have to offer. "Excellent".

While leaving the restaurant Robitaille takes me apart. When they made reservations in the small hotel in Amsterdam, where they spend the night, Henry was surprised that the girl behind the desk didn't recognized him as the author Henry Miller! This had been the case with a man that accost them in the street while asking: "But aren't you Henry Miller?" He turned out to be John Vandenbergh, who already years ago had translated the Tropics and Black Spring, but had to wait until the beginning of the sixties before he could find a publisher. During the following days I didn't see Robitaille anymore, except the one time that he, with just one foot over the threshold, came to deliver a package at Miller's.

In 1960, 1961 and 1962 new meetings with Robitaille followed, in Paris, in or without the presence of Vincent Birge, who gave up his job to study french at the Sorbonne, and in Borg-la-Reine, whereto Gerald and Diane were moved in the meantime. In the fourth issue of my International Henry Miller Letter (December 1962) I published Robitailles letter "Cher Maitre", a chapter from his book The Story of Myself, or as the subtitle says A Book about a Book (the Tropic of Cancer). I've never read the rest of the book, but this chapter belongs with certainty to the best he has ever written. Besides, it contains a few paragraphs that belong to the best that has ever been written about Miller. As a result of the admiration, with which Miller responded on the reading-matter of the book and which I used as a preface to the chapter, Millers Italian publisher Mondatori was influenced to ask for the manuscript of the book for examination, but obviously it didn't fulfil the expectations, that "Cher maitre" had aroused, because it has never come to a publication of the book, in whatever language.

I am reading the piece now for the first time after so many years, my eyes hook on a few lines that strike me - read in retrospect - as a prophecy. Even if I am aware that I am giving, by taking them out of the context of the chapter, a distorted image of the so much more complex content of it - the immense admiration for Miller of which it speaks, the danger to lose oneself completely in this, and his striving to save his own individuality -, still I can't escape to cite them here:

"It was the wife of your friend Alfred Perles who said to me once: You, you'll never be satisfied until you've destroyed Henry Miller, you'll never rest until you've ridiculed him in some way or another. I know all you young folks", she went on, "you're all the same". I know what she meant and the more so because she was a very down to earth woman, not an extreme reader. And I agreed with her as far as the young folks went (particularly the young American folks) and even though I couldn't convince her that this did not apply to me - I went away as though warned, enriched with the thought. Let the beatniks try and destroy him, I thought, it's true, they will, but I'll build him a monument. ( ) I wondered at the same time if anyone ever felt as much admiration, as much love and gratitude for an author as I did for you. I vaguely knew that if I were unique in any way, it was in that. In the very ardency of my feelings for you. But because of these very feelings, it was also my duty ( to myself and to you) to emulate, to attempt going beyond you, to attempt surpassing you in some way or other. For a long time I did nothing but imitate your style of writing. Imitation is the most sincere form of admiration! ( ) And now I'm sure I realize that one needn't to destroy, nor through ridicule, nor through emulation even. One needs only to find one's own rhythm, one's own measure. And in the process, admit that without your books, mine would never have been possible. ( ) All I'm interested in is making myself clear, being as true to myself as I possibly can and in saying what I have to say.

Apart from a coincidental, volatile encounter in the Mistral Bookshop of George Whitman in the rue de la Becherie in 1963, I wouldn't see Robitaille again until 1965. I was then in the company of my friend H.V.. Diane had left him and had returned to Canada. He didn't know if she would come back to him, but this didn't seem to bring him out of balance. He did not seem to suffer under it visibly. Upon suggestion by Gerald we went to the Japanese movie L'Ile nue and afterwards went to a sidestreet of the Champs-ElysEes, the rue de Berri, to have something to eat, on which occasion he took it for granted, that I would pay for his expenses. In such a case he proved to be a gourmand. On the way back, walking across the rue de Rivoli, he started to tell a story, of which I can't remember the quintessence, but in which his own role grew more and more fantastic. It was as if,  everytime he took up the thread of his own narrative after a well-timed pause, he saw new baffling perspectives glimmering for an even more capricious continuation of his story. This lasted until the moment my friend couldn't control himself anymore and exploded: "You are the greatest phantast that I ever met!" he snarled at him. "Do you really believe that we take this for gospel?" Gerald didn't move a wrinkle of his face, just laughed a bit disillusioned and asked inoffensive: "Didn't you think it was a nice story?"

Later that day he gave me his book The Book of Knowledge that was published short before, which was as thin as his letters were always short and in a matter-of-fact way. The pretentious title of the book gave way to expectations, which the content couldn't redeem. It consists of a number of fragments, that make an autobiographical impression, or in which at least autobiographical experiences are processed, although for that purpose they have been written with too much detachment. The story, as far as you can speak of that - about a marriage that has got stuck and the love of the narrator for a young girl - does not show much coherence and drags along tiresome. It's not that the author can't write, but that he hasn't got something to say, at least nothing that's worth the trouble. It is a very conventional book, of which they sell them by the dozen. What's good about it are the reminiscences about Miller: the connection of banality and profane with the sublime and the sacred (and reversed), but then weaker, without the extremities with which Miller often reaches such a humorous effect. What Robitaille however lacks aspecially is Miller's vitality, spontaneity and humour, even when circumstances are hopeles. Here is a characteristic passage from the book:

"Life was never anything else to me (then an "entr'acte, intermission, coffee break, an eternal one"). I never wanted to go back to work. What I go back to is the break. I sip my coffee and talk. Who will listen to me? Never mind the correspondence. It will answer itself.Besides, your salvation can't come through the mails, even air mail. Even special delivery! A letter just calls for another one. There's nothing but rejection slips in the mail, and there will never be anything else but rejection slips of all sorts, of all hues and colors. Hand written ones and printed ones", etc.

In february 1967 the magazine Synthese was published, as an issue "completely dedicated to Miller" with in it my article "Le langage de la vie" in which I pronounced my disappointment about my discovery of the conscious distortions of many facts, events and relationships from his life in Miller's so-called autobiographical writings: "He enters more deeply into the possibilities they have to offer for a dramatic story then in reconstructing the truth, namely the subjective manner in which he has experienced them in the past". Notwithstanding that I didn't leave any room for doubt in the article, about that I was grateful to Miller for everything he had meant for me, it created a drifting apart between Henry and me, which, after the publication that same year of Kenneth C. Dick's book, Henry Miller - Colossus of One, of which he saw me as the auctor intellectualis, led to a rupture. For that reason I also didn't receive an invitation for the opening of the exhibition of his paintings in the Gervis Gallery, for which Henry especially came to Paris - this time in the company of Hoki Tokuda, his new Japanese wife. Shortly after this I learned that Henry had asked Robitaille to join him as his secretary and Diane as a sort of household-assistant on his return to America. Almost all of Henry's friends, who knew Robitaille, took notice of this with amazement. Some of them were upset.

In 1968 Gerald wrote me for the first time in his life something of a larger letter, in which he announced to me, that he had read my article in Synthese as well as the book of  Kenneth C. Dick with agreement. Henry had read only the book's first chapter and had put it aside afterwards; the pressure that he had used to make him read the whole of it, had stayed thusfar without any results. He did not want to realize that it was, although critical, in many ways an important and positive book.

"Henry is very friendly and polite towards us. He shows me respect as if he were my secretary. He's lying at my feet. And he has an unlimited trust in us. I'm not calling  myself "secretary". Ain't I more his "spiritual son" and "most faithfull disciple"? He wishes us to collaborate forever. We like the proposal. We are nomads. To live in Canada, Paris or Los Angeles, it doesn't matter to us. From now on I will watch over him. And I will be a relentless Cerberus (bouncer), who will drive away all those who importune him with a kick in the ass".

Even Miller's oldest and dearest friends, Alfred Perles and Lawrence Durrell, would experience the latter furious, when they tried to call Henry. Especially Durrell, who Robitaille disliked whole-heartedly, was held at a distance from Miller, above all in Paris, as far as was in his power. He was feeling hurt, for being unable to talk to Henry without the irritating presence of this "secretary": "In the presence of such a witness, who wants to know everything, who wants to hear everything, one can't have an intimate conversation anymore. The same counts for letters, naturally".

The collaboration proved to be short-lived. After Gerald and Diane had started to live on themselves, because they couldn't live a life of their own, Robitaille got annoyed by the starlets, hippies en misei (Japanese-American admirers) that were surrounding Miller from day to day. He was disgusted by America and was homesick for the bistro's, the boulevards and the subway of Paris. On an evening in 1969 the secretary invited his "patron" for a dinner at "Stephaninos", the most favourite restaurant in Hollywood. Henry immediate had an unpleasant presentiment. "Bravo Gerald", he said, I suppose you didn't want to spend your whole life in my shadow... you want consequently to return to Paris". Later on Gerald would tell me: " His voice sounded with such affection and sincerity, as I had never heard in it before". Miller was asking himself what would become of them in Paris. They always used to live there in great poverty. Although nothing obliged him to pay them a compensation, he offered them ten thousand dollar to make a new start in Paris. It was the amount he'd wanted to leave behind for them at his death.

In 1971 Robitaille's book Le Pere Miller, an "essay indiscret sur Henry Miller" was published. Henry was feeling deeply offended about the intimacies his former secretary had thought to make public. In 1973 he asked Brassai if he had read the book. "Malicious, yes even hateful, don't you think? Full of lies. And this man I'd given my friendship and trust... The friend became an enemy. With my money he wrote this malicious book about me... Ha, ha, ha, Henry Miller who invests in Papa Miller! What a fool am I!"
(Brassai, Henry Miller, Rocher Heureux, Ed. Gallimard, Paris, 1975).

How to explain this "betrayal", as Henry called it? There's no doubt that Robitaille couldn't stand Los Angeles anymore. "I'd rather perish covered with lice in Paris" he writes in Le Pere Miller, "then living with starletts, misei, hippies, pingpong and Hollywood swimming-pools". He adds to this that he doesn't desert Miller, but America. "I can't take it anymore". Of course the revolt of the "spiritual son" against the master, who had shaped him, played a not unimportant role. He couldn't bear his dependance on him no longer. He was bending under the pressure of Miller possessing his life completely, not existing as an independant creature anymore, though only in him and through him. At length he felt crushed "like a bug" under this weight. This apart from the "humiliating services", which Miller desired of him, like paring his toe-nails, while the starletts were enjoying themselves in the pool. To liberate himself, he had to "kill his father".

Not until 1980 I met Gerald again, in Orsay, in the banlieue of Paris, where he had moved into a modern apartment with Diane. Looked at from the outside he seemed to be well-off, he gave several days a week lessons in French to Americans and was putting the finishing touches on the proofs of his latest book, that would be published in Canada: the revision of an old book that he had discovered on a market a few years ago. The parlour made me think of those of the modern manager: a big, half-rounded mahogany desk, a black leather bench with mahogany arm-rests and ditto arm-chairs. The floor was furnished with parquet flooring. Everything was gleaming of novelty. And against the wall was a low chest, in which appeared to be hang, on double-rails, all sorts of suspended filing folders. It was from one of those folders that Gerald emerged the letter, that he handed down to me. It was Miller's farewell-letter to him, that he wrote to him shortly after reading Le Pere Miller. It was a letter without feelings of hate or revenge, not with sentimentality, but tender and with melancholy, as written by a father that has been disappointed by his son, but who has accepted the irrevocableness of it. Just because he didn't put a blame on him, the understanding magnanimous tone of it must have struck him as if being hit by a maul, this I  bear in mind when I return the letter to him.

Then many more letters follow. Letters from Anais Nin to Gerald and photocopies of letters from Miller and many others. Are all those folders full of such letters and photocopies? And did Henry knew that you've copied them all? Since then I've repeatedly asked myself where all these letters remain. For a long time I presumed that he wanted to use them sometime for a large book about Henry, but even if he had that plan, he didn't carry it out. As with so many plans with which he walked about. Just a few very thin, small scabrous books, is all that remains.

When Gerald takes us back in his car to the station around 23.00 p.m., they haven't, as usual, offered us something to eat or to drink for the whole evening. Diane has only raised herself out of her armchair to give us a handshake at our arrival and our departure. "A couple apart", as my wife remarks, when we have something small to eat in a restaurant. It has been the last time that I've seen them. In december 1994 Vincent Birge asks me in a letter if I know that Gerald has passed away. How? Where? I do not dare to ask him, because he's physically hardly able to answer these questions. Poor good old Vincent.

Was Robitaille a friend? I do not believe he had one true friend in his lifetime. Therefore he was keeping himself too much at a distance, was being too arrogant, unable to give himself, being too much the profiteer. All qualities that do not make somebody beloved. But one can't choose for the person one is. In essence he was a lone wolfe.


Copyright 1999-2003 > Henk van Gelre <
Translation 1999-2003 > Huub Koch <

Also checkout my essay on Henry Miller!




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