Tropic of Capricorn by Henry Miller (1994. Grove Press. This review refers to the Kindle version of the book.)
Maybe I should just let the words of a seventeen year old reviewer on Amazon say it for me:
I am 17 and I got this book at the school library. I have found three main themes the author seems to be putting out: the main character tells the story of a tragic death, the main character complains incomprehenisibly about America, the main character rates the female anatomy in relation to it’s personality. This book has absolutely no plot or even a story line, it is simply the ramblings of a sexually disfunctional (sic) person.
That’s as concise a review as anyone can write about this inflated, overrated, contorted mess of words. Not mess of a novel. Not mess of a memoir. No, this collection of extended sentences, weirdness, the repetitive use of the c-word and the f-word for effect, tortured psychology, and obvious misogyny is not, in any sense of the word, a comprehensible, readable, enjoyable story. Whether fact or fiction, whether based upon the real exploits in bed (and on tables, floors, in cars, and beneath lampposts) of the flesh and blood Miller, or completely invented tales from a warped man’s libido, this book is simply trash. It’s a wonder that I didn’t simply stop reading and move on to something else, something with characters that engage, a plot that travels in a linear path to a conclusion, and a message, whether light, dark, or somewhere in between, that leaves me thinking, “Wow, that was something!”
Well, this tortured exercise of prose is something. It’s just not something worth reading.
1 star out of 5. Save your nine bucks and buy something for your Kindle or Nook or Kobo that has a point of view, a narrative, and a perspective that warrants your precious time.
