Hehasn't much use for the French girls. Can't stand them. "Either
theywant money or they want you to marry them. At bottom they're all
whores.I'd rather wrestle with a virgin, " he says. "They give you a
littleillusion. They put up a fight at least. " Just the same, as we
glanceover the terrasse there is hardly a whore in sight whom he
hasn'tfucked at some time or other. Standing at the bar he points them outto
me, one by one, goes over them anatomically, describes their goodpoints and
their bad. "They're all frigid, " he says. And then beginsto mold his hands,
thinking of the nice, juicy virgins who are justdying for it.
    In the midstof his reveries he suddenly arrests himself, and grabbing my
arm excitedly,he points to a whale of a woman who is just lowering herself
into aseat. "There's my Danish cunt, " he grunts. "See that ass? Danish.How
that woman loves it! She just begs me for it. Come over here. .. look at her
now, from the side! Look at that ass, will you? It's enormous.I tell you.
when she climbs over me I can hardly get my arms aroundit. It blots out the
whole world. She makes me feel like a little bugcrawling inside her. I don't
know why I fall for her _ I suppose it'sthat ass. It's so incongruous like.
And the creases in it! You can'tforget an ass like that. It's a fact. . . a
solid fact. The others,they may bore you, or they may give you a moment's
illusion, but thisone _ with her ass! _ zowie, you can't obliterate her. . .
it's likegoing to bed with a monument on top of you. "
    The Danish cuntseems to have electrified him. He's lost all his
sluggishness now. Hiseyes are popping out of his head. And of course one
thing reminds himof another. He wants to get out of the fucking hotel
because the noisebothers him. He wants to write a book too so as to have
something tooccupy his mind. But then the goddamned job stands in the way.
"It takesit out of you. that fucking job! I don't want to write about
Montparnasse.... I want to write my life, my thoughts. I want to get the
dirt outof my belly. ... Listen, get that one over there! I had her a long
timeago. She used to be down near Les Halles. A funny bitch. She lay onthe
edge of the bed and pulled her dress up. Ever try it that way? Notbad. She
didn't hurry me either. She just lay back and played with herhat while I
slugged away at her. And when I come she says sort of boredlike _ 'Are you
through?' Like it didn't make

    any differenceat all. Of course, it doesn't make any difference, I know
that goddamnwell. . . but the cold-blooded way she had. . . I sort of liked
it.. . it was fascinating, you know? When she goes to wipe herself shebegins
to sing. Going out of the hotel she was still singing. Didn'teven say Au
revoir! Walks off swinging her hat and humming toherself like. That's a
whore for you! A good lay though. I think I likedher better than my virgin.
There's something depraved about screwinga woman who doesn't give a fuck
about it. It heats your blood. ..."And then, after a moment's meditation _
"Can you imagine what she'dbe like if she had any feelings? "
    "Listen, " hesays, "I want you to come to the Club with me tomorrow
afternoon. .. there's a dance on. "
    "I can't tomorrow,Joe. I promised to help Carl out. ..." "Listen, forget
that prick! Iwant you to do me a favor. It's like this" _ he commences to
mold hishands again. "I've got a cunt lined up. . . she promised to stay
withme on my night off. But I'm not positive about her yet. She's got amother,
you see. . . some shit of a painter, she chews my ear off everytime I see her.
I think the truth is, the mother's jealous. I don'tthink she'd mind so much
if I gave her a lay first. You know how itis. ... Anyway, I thought maybe
you wouldn't mind taking the mother.. . she's not so bad. . . if I hadn't
seen the daughter I might haveconsidered her myself. The daughter's nice and
young, fresh like. youknow what I mean? There's a clean smell to her. ..."
    "Listen, Joe,you'd better find somebody else. ..." "Aw, don't take it
like that!I know how you feel about it. It's only a little favor I'm asking
youto do for me. I don't know to get rid of the old hen. I thought firstI'd
get drunk and ditch her _ but I don't think the young one'd likethat.
They're sentimental like. They come from Minnesota or somewhere.Anyway, come
around tomorrow and wake me up, will you? Otherwise oversleep.And besides, I
want you to help me find a room. You know I'm helpless.Find me a room in a
quiet street, somewhere near here. I've got to stayaround here. . . I've got
credit here. Listen, promise me youll do thatfor me. Ill buy you a meal now
and then. Come around anyway, becauseI go nuts talking to these foolish cunts.
I want to talk to you aboutHavelock Ellis. Jesus, I've had the book

    out for threeweeks now and I haven't looked at it. You sort of rot here.
Wouldyoubelieve it. I've never been to the Louvre _ nor the
Coroedie-Francaise.Is it worth going to those joints? Still, it sort of
takes your mindoff things, I suppose. What do you do with yourself all day?
Don't youget bored? What do you do for a lay? Listen... come here! Don't
runaway yet... I'm lonely. Do you know something _ if this keeps up
anotheryear go nuts. I've got to get out of this fucking country. There's
nothingfor me here. I know it's lousy now. in America, but just the same... .
You go queer Over here. . . all these cheap shits sitting on theirass all
day bragging about their work and none of them is worth a stinkingdamn-
They're all failures _ that's why they come over here. Listen,Joe, don't you
ever get homesick? You're a funny guy. . . you seem tolike it over here.
What do you see in it?. .. I wish you'd tell me.I wish to Christ I could
stop thinking about myself. I'm all twistedup inside... it's like a knot in
there.. . . Listen. I know I'm boringthe shit out of you, but I've got to
talk to someone. I can't talk tothose guys upstairs. . . you know what those
bastards are like. . .they all take a byline. And Carl. the little prick,
he's so goddamnedselfish. I'm an egotist, but I'm not selfish. There's a
difference.I'm a neurotic, I guess. I can't stop thinking about myself. It
isn'tthat I think myself so important. ... I simply can't think about
anythingelse. that's all. If I could fall in love with a woman that might
helpsome. But I can't find a woman who interests me. I'm in a mess. youcan
see that can't you? What do you advise me to do? What would youdo in my place?
Listen, I don't want to hold you back any longer, butwake me up tomorrow _
at One-thirty _ will you? Ill give you somethingextra if you'll shine my
shoes. And listen, if you've got an extra shirt,a clean one, bring it along,
will you? Shit, I'm grinding my balls offon that job, and it doesn't even
give me a clean shirt. They've gotus over here like a bunch of niggers. Ah,
well. shit! I'm going to takea walk.. . wash the dirt out of my belly. Don't
forget, tomorrow!"
    For six monthsor more it's been going on. this correspondence with the
rich cunt,Irene. Recently I've been reporting to Carl every day in order to
bringthe affair to a head. because as far as Irene is concerned this
thingcould go on indefinitely. In the last few days

    there's beena perfect avalanche of letters exchanged; the last letter we
dispatchedwas almost forty pages long, and written in three languages. It
wasa potpourri, the last letter _ tag ends of old novels, slices from
theSunday supplement, reconstructed versions of old letters to Llona andTania,
garbled transliterations of Rabelais and Petronius _ in short,we exhausted
ourselves. Finally Irene decides to come out of her shell.Finally a letter
arrives giving a rendezvous at her hotel. Carl is pissingin his pants. It's
one thing to write letters to a woman you don't know; it's another thing
entirely to call on her and make love to her. Atthe last moment he's quaking
so that I almost fear I'll have to substitutefor him. When we get out of the
taxi in front of her hotel he's tremblingso much that I have to walk him
around the block first. He's alreadyhad two Pernods, but they haven't made
the slightest impression on him.The sight of the hotel itself is enough to
crush him: it's a pretentiousplace with one of those huge empty lobbies in
which Englishwomen sitfor hours with a blank look. In order to make sure
that he wouldn'trun away I stood by while the porter telephoned to announce
him. Irenewas there, and she was waiting for him. As he got into the lift he
threwme a last despairing glance, one of those mute appeals which a dog
makeswhen you put a noose around its neck. Going through the revolving doorI
thought of Van Nor-den... .
    I go back tothe hotel and wait for a telephone call. He's only got an
hour's timeand he's promised to let me know the results before going to work.
Ilook over the carbons of the letters we sent her. I try to imagine
thesituation as it actually is, but it's beyond me. Her letters are
muchbetter than ours _ they're sincere, that's plain. By now they've
sizedeach other up. I wonder if he's still pissing in his pants.
    The telephonerings. His voice sounds queer, squeaky, as though he were
frightenedand jubilant at the same time. He asks me to substitute for him at
theoffice. "Tell the bastard anything! Tell him I'm dying. ..."
    "Listen, Carl...can you tell me... ? "
    "Hello! Are youHenry Miller?" It's a woman's voice. It's Irene. She's
saying helloto me. Her voice sounds beautiful over the phone. . . beautiful.
Fora moment I'm in a perfect panic. I don't

    know what tosay to her. I'd like to say: "Listen, Irene. I think you are
beautiful...I think you're wonderful. " I'd like to say one true thing toher,
no matter how silly it would sound, because now that I hear hervoice
everything is changed. But before I can gather my wits Carl ison the phone
again and he's saying in that queer squeaky voice; "Shelikes you, Joe. I
told her all about you. ..."
    At the officeI have to hold copy for Van Norden. When it conies time for
the breakhe pulls me aside. He looks glum and ravaged.
    "So he's dying,is he, the little prick? Listen, what's the low-down on
this?"
    "I think he wentto see his rich cunt, " I answer calmly.
    "What!You mean he called on her?" He seems beside himself. "Listen,
wheredoes she live? What's her name?" I pretend ignorance. "Listen, " hesays,
"you're a decent guy. Why the hell don't you let me in on thisracket?"
    In order to appeasehim I promise finally that I'll tell him everything
as soon as I getthe details from Carl. I can hardly wait myself until I see
Carl.
    Around noon nextday I knock at his door. He's up already and lathering
his beard. Can'ttell a thing from the expression on his face. Can't even
tell whetherhe's going to tell me the truth. The sun is streaming in through
theopen window, the birds are chirping, and yet somehow, why it is I
don'tknow, the room seems more barren and poverty-stricken than ever.
Thefloor is slathered with lather, and on the rack there are the two
dirtytowels which are never changed. And somehow Carl isn't changed
either,and that puzzles me more than anything. This morning the whole
worldought to be changed, for bad or good, but changed, radically
changed.And yet Carl is standing there lathering his face and not a single
detailis altered.
    "Sit down. .. sit down there on the bed. " he says. "You're going to
hear everything.. . but wait first. .. wait a little. " He commences to
lather his faceagain, and then to hone his razor. He even remarks about the
water.. . no hot water again.
    "Listen, Carl.I'm on tenterhooks. You can torture me after-ward, if you
like, buttell me now. tell me one thing. . . was it good orbad?"
    He turns awayfrom the mirror with brush "in hand and gives me a strange
smile. "Wait!I'm going to tell you everything....'""
    "That means itwas a failure. "
    "No, " he says,drawing out his words. "It wasn't a failure. and it
wasn't a successeither. . . . By the way. did you fix it up for me at the
office? Whatdid you tell' them?"
    I see it's nouse trying to pull it out of him. When he gets good and
ready hell tellme. Not before. I lie back on the bed, silent as a clam. He
goes onshaving. ,
    Suddenly, aproposof nothing at all. he begins to talk _ disconnectedly
at first, andthen more and more clearly, emphatically, resolutely. It's a
struggleto get it out, but he seems determined to relate everything; he
actsas if he were getting something off his conscience. He even remindsme of
the look he gave me as he was going up the elevator shaft. Hedwells on thdt
lingeringly, as though to imply that everything werecontained in that last
moment, as though, if he had the power to alterthings, he would never have
put foot outside the elevator.
    She was in herdressing sack when he called. There was a bucket of
champagne on thedresser. The room was rather dark and her voice was lovely.
He givesme all the details about the; room. the champagne, how the
garymopened it, the noise it made, the way her dressing sack rustled whenshe
came forward to greet him _ he tells me everything but what I wantto hear.
    It was abouteight when he called on her. At eight-thirty he was nervous,
thinkingabout the job. "It was about nine when I called you, wasn't it?"
hesays.
    "Yes, about that."
    "I was nervous,see. ..."
    "I know that.Go on. ..."
    I don't knowwhether to believe him or not, especially after those
letters we concocted.I don't even know whether I've heard him accurately,
because what he'stelling me sounds utterly fantastic. And yet it sounds true
too, knowingthe sort of guy he is. And then I remember his voice over the
telephone,that strange mixture of fright and jubilation. But why isn't he
morejubilant now? He keeps smiling all the time, smiling like a rosy
littlebedbug that has

    had its fill."It was nine o'clock, " he says once again, "when I called
you up, wasn'tit?" I nod my head wearily. Yes, it was nine o'clock. He is
certainnow that it was nine o'clock because he remembers having taken out
hiswatch. Anyway, when he looked at his watch again it was ten o'clock.At
ten o'clock she was lying on the divan with her boobies in her hands.That's
the way he gives it to me _ in driblets. At eleven o'clock itwas all settled;
they were going to run away, to Borneo. Fuckthe husband! She never loved him
anyway. She would never have writtenthe first letter if the husband wasn't
old and passionless. "And thenshe says to me: 'But listen, dear, how do you
know you won't get tiredof me?'"
    At this I burstout laughing. This sounds preposterous to me, I can't
help it.
    "And you said?"
    "What did youexpect me to say? I said: 'How could anyone ever grow tired
of you?'"
    And then he describesto me what happened after that, how he bent down
and kissed her breasts,and how, after he had kissed them fervidly, he
stuffed them back intoher corsage, or whatever it is they call these things.
And after thatanother coupe of champagne.
    Around midnightthe garn arrives with beer and sandwiches _ caviar
sandwiches.And all the while, so he says, he has been dying to take a leak.
Hehad one hard on. but it faded out. All the while his bladder is fitto burst,
but he imagines, the cute little prick that he is, that thesituation calls
for delicacy.
    At one-thirtyshe's for hiring a carriage and driving through the Bois.
He has onlyone thought in his head _ how to take a leak? "I love you. . . I
adoreyou. " he says. "I'll go anywhere you say _ Istanbul. Singapore.
Honolulu.Only I must go now. . . . It's getting late. "
    He tells me allthis in his dirty little room. with the sun pouring in
and the birdschirping away like mad. I don't yet know whether she was
beautiful ornot. He doesn't know himself, the imbecile. He rather thinks she
wasn't.The room was dark and then there was the champagne and his nerves
allfrazzled.
    "But you oughtto know something about her _ if this isn't all a
goddamned lie! "