Often such comments are made between friends that lend little more substance than the pizza and/or beer between them. This such comment, however, I'd tossed into the multi-channeled universe with hopes of somehow validating the years spent chasing the pen (or computer screen, as it were) toward whichever goal I was creating for myself in real time; spinning like a crazed top with no real purpose and little regard for the paltry demands of worldly physics.
Today, it's strange to say the world in which the poet and artist creates for him/herself may well benefit from the spiral patterns of interplanetary walls, dancing with arms wild in the conscripted lockstep the universe, itself, has allowed us all to bounce within. At this dawning moment, faced with the realization that a top (however crazed) must stop spinning, we each default to our own definitions of ourselves. The poet exalts, the singer sings, the mourner weeps, the preacher prays, and the lover... all the above, undoubtedly.
Henry Miller's prolific collection of his love letters (there are over 1,500) to actress Brenda Venus is exactly this... the dying poet-lover himself singing, weeping, spinning, dancing, praying, exalting love and life as embodied in the conscripts of a man and woman forced to serve within the walls of our own worldly sphere.
From Library Journal
In his eighties (from 1976 to 1980), Miller almost daily wrote love letters to actress Brenda Venus. As friend Lawrence Durrell prefaces: "He does not exaggerate when he says she is literally keeping him alive; indeed her generosity and tact allowed him to end his days in a marvelous euphoria of loving attachment." Miller's intelligence, sensuality, humanity, and love reverberate throughout this correspondence, in spite of his then being critically ill and almost blind.
From Publishers Weekly
The letters here selected, interspersed with commentary by Venus and each virtually complete, are remarkable for their clarity, cheerfulness and passion often expressed with Milleresque uninhibitedness and interesting for their views on writers, painters, sex and spirituality (the last two considered by Miller to be inseparable). As the final blaze-up of a powerful romantic spirit, the letters make a touching love story.
As Durrell, Miller's good friend and fellow writer, points out: "We should be grateful to Venus for the tact and generosity that allowed Miller to spend his last days in a marvelous euphoria of loving attachment."
Yes, thank you Venus for this great service. And thank you Henry Miller, for allowing the mad lovers of the world a glimpse into your immortality; one last sigh, a singing gasp of love in the face of immeasurable loss.