The famous American writer and essayist, Henry Miller, created himself as a writer only from his Parisian experience during the 30s, when many Americans and Englishmen came to Paris, such as Joyce, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Anderson, Stein, Orwell and many others to get away from the puritanism of these societies. For Miller, becoming a writer was at first only a wish, but life in Paris gave him the opportunity to see and feel human society closely, to touch the bottom of a miserable, decayed life, with screaming fates, drowned in drunkenness.
The books he wrote and published at that time in a publishing house in France were banned in America and England as decadent and unacceptable works. The reason was that the personal sexual experiences of the writer were also described there. His works were allowed only starting from , i. His literary descriptions, although autobiographical, are full of color, details, characters, characters of a time that are no longer today, a strange atmosphere of libertine life, for which those who came from across La Manche or from the other shore of the Atlantic, seemed to them a kind of paradise in relation to freedom.
It was a gray day like those days you often see in Paris⦠Paris is essentially a gray city. I say this because in the field of watercolor, American painters use the prefab gray color excessively and obsessively. But, in France, the range of gray seems endless and even for this, the effect of gray has lost its strength. And this happened even when I was hungry and had nowhere to sleep On a gray day I often went for a walk in Clichy Square, in Montmartre.
It's the Broadway of Paris. Broadway is speed, deafening noise, dizzying lights, where you have nowhere to sit. Montmartre is sluggish, lazy, indifferent, somewhat neglected and a mess, rather attractive than fascinating. It does not sparkle with sparkles, but burns like a burning coal. Broadway provokes, it sometimes has magical effects, but it is without flame, without warmth: it is a shining mirror frame, a publicity man's paradise.
Montmartre is very tired, faded, abandoned There are a few small bistros that are frequented only by whores, pimps, gamblers and mobsters, and if you go there more than once, you may end up falling into their trap. This deceptive charm of Montmartre is mostly linked to the exploitation of sex. But there's actually nothing romantic about this kind of sexuality, especially when it's commercialized.
