January 2, 2012 maamallan 0Comment
Tropic of Cancer என்கிற இந்தப் புத்தகம் HENRY MILLER ஆல் 1934ல் எழுதப்பட்டதென்றால் நம்புவீர்களா?
‘These novels will give way, by and by, to diaries or autobiographies – captivating books, if only a man knew how to choose among what he calls his experiences and how to record truth truly.’
Ralph Waldo Emerson
புத்தகத்தைத் தரவிறக்கிக்கொள்ள http://www.maamallan.com/p/blog-page_12.html பாரீஸ் நகரத்து வேசைகளும் வேசைவிடுதிகளுமே கதை மாந்தர்களும் களமும்
படித்துப்பாருங்கள் என்பதன் முழு அர்த்தம் என்னவென்று புரியும் 
ச்சும்மா சில பகுதிகள் 
It is now the fall of my second year in Paris. I was sent here for a reason I have not yet been able to fathom.
I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive. A year ago, six months ago, I thought that I was an artist. I no longer think about it, I am. Everything that was literature has fallen from me. There are no more books to be written, thank God.
This then? This is not a book. This is libel, slander, defamation of character. This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty … what you will. I am going to sing for you, a little off key perhaps, but I will sing. I will sing while you croak, I will dance over your dirty corpse…
To sing you must first open your mouth. You must have a pair of lungs, and a little knowledge of music. It is not necessary to have an accordion, or a guitar. The essential thing is to want to sing. This then is a song. I am singing.
It is to you, Tania, that I am singing. I wish that I could sing better, more melodiously, but then perhaps you would never have consented to listen to me. You have heard the others sing and they have left you cold. They sang too beautifully, or not beautifully enough.
It is the twenty-somethingth of October. I no longer keep track of the date. Would you say – my dream of the 14th November last? There are intervals, but they are between dreams, and there is no consciousness of them left. The world around me is dissolving, leaving here and there spots of time. The world is a cancer eating itself away… I am thinking that when the great silence descends upon all and everywhere music will at last triumph. When into the womb of time everything is again withdrawn chaos will be restored and chaos is the score upon which reality is written. You, Tania, are my chaos. It is why I sing. It is not even I, it is the world dying, shedding the skin of time. I am still alive, kicking in your womb, a reality to write upon.
Dozing off. The physiology of love. The whale with his six-foot penis, in repose. The bat – penis libre. Animals with a bone in the penis. Hence, a bone on … “Happily,” says Gourmont, “the bony structure is lost in man.” Happily? Yes, happily. Think of the human race walking around with a bone on. The kangaroo has a double penis – one for weekdays and one for holidays. Dozing. A letter from a female asking if I have found a title for my book. Title? To be sure: “Lovely Lesbians.”
வேசையிடம் திருடும் பகுதி. தான் செய்த கேவலத்தை எவளோ ஒருத்தியின் சிறு பிராயத்தில் நடந்ததாய்த் திரிக்கும் தந்திரமில்லை. சரி தப்புகளைத் தாண்டி ஹென்றி மில்லர் ஹென்றி மில்லராகவே இருப்பதைப் பாருங்கள்.
After a quarter of an hour had passed I began to feel thoroughly restless. I went inside and I read through a letter that was lying on the table. It was nothing of any account – a love letter. In the bathroom I examined all the bottles on the shelf; she had everything a woman requires to make herself smell beautiful.I was still hoping that she would come back and give me another fifty francs’ worth. But time dragged on and there was no sign of her. I began to grow alarmed. Perhaps there was someone dying downstairs. Absent – mindedly, out of a sense of self-preservation, I suppose, I began to put my things on.
As I was buckling my belt it came to me like a flash how she had stuffed the hundred franc note into her purse. In the excitement of the moment she had thrust the purse in the wardrobe, on the upper shelf. I remembered the gesture she made – standing on her tiptoes and reaching for the shelf. It didn’t take me a minute to open the wardrobe and feel around for the purse. It was still there. I opened it hurriedly and saw my hundred franc note lying snugly between the silk coverlets. I put the purse back just as it was, slipped into my coat and shoes, and then I went to the landing and listened intently. I couldn’t hear a sound. Where she had gone to, Christ only knows. In a jiffy I was back at the wardrobe and fumbling with her purse. I pocketed the hundred francs and all the loose change besides. Then, closing the door silently, I tiptoed down the stairs and when once I had hit the street I walked just as fast as my legs would carry me. 
ஒரு காந்தியவாதி வேசை விடுதிக்குச் செல்லும் பகுதி 
I suppose I would never have gotten out of Nanantatee’s clutches if fate hadn’t intervened. One night, as luck would have it, Kepi asked me if I wouldn’t take one of his clients to a whorehouse nearby. The young man had just come from India and he had not very much money to spend. He was one of Gandhi’s men, one of that little band who made the historic march to the sea during the salt trouble. A very gay disciple of Gandhi’s I must say, despite the vows of abstinence he had taken. Evidently he hadn’t looked at a woman for ages. It was all I could do to get him as far as the Rue Laferrière; he was like a dog with his tongue hanging out. And a pompous, vain little devil to boot! He had decked himself out in a corduroy suit, a beret, a cane, a Windsor tie; he had bought himself two fountain pens, a kodak, and some fancy underwear. The money he was spending was a gift from the merchants of Bombay; they were sending him to England to spread the gospel of Gandhi.
Once inside Miss Hamilton’s joint he began to lose his sang-froid. When suddenly he found himself surrounded by a bevy of naked women he looked at me in consternation. “Pick one out,” I said. “You can have your choice.” He had become so rattled that he could scarcely look at them. “You do it for me,” he murmured, blushing violently. I looked them over coolly and picked out a plump young wench who seemed full of feathers. We sat down in the reception room and waited for the drinks. The madam wanted to know why I didn’t take a girl also. “Yes, you take one too,” said the young Hindu. “I don’t want to be alone with her.” So the girls were brought in again and I chose one for myself, a rather tall, thin one with melancholy eyes. We were left alone, the four of us, in the reception room. After a few moments my young Gandhi leans over and whispers something in my ear. “Sure, if you like her better, take her,” I said, and so, rather awkwardly and considerably embarrassed, I explained to the girls that we would like to switch. I saw at once that we had made a faux pas, but by now my young friend had become gay and lecherous and nothing would do but to get upstairs quickly and have it over with. 
We took adjoining rooms with a connecting door between. I think my companion had in mind to make another switch once he had satisfied his sharp, gnawing hunger. At any rate, no sooner had the girls left the room to prepare themselves than I hear him knocking on the door. “Where is the toilet, please?” he asks. Not thinking that it was anything serious I urge him to do in the bidet. The girls return with towels in their hands. I hear him giggling in the next room.
As I’m putting on my pants suddenly I hear a commotion in the next room. The girl is bawling him out, calling him a pig, a dirty little pig. I can’t imagine what he has done to warrant such an outburst. I’m standing there with one foot in my trousers listening attentively. He’s trying to explain to her in English, raising his voice louder and louder until it becomes a shriek.
I hear a door slam and in another moment the madam bursts into my room, her face as red as a beet, her arms gesticulating wildly. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she screams, “bringing a man like that to my place! He’s a barbarian … he’s a pig … he’s a…!” My companion is standing behind her, in the doorway, a look of utmost discomfiture on his face. “What did you do?” I ask.
“What did he do?” yells the madam. “I’ll show you… Come here!” And grabbing me by the arm she drags me into the next room. “There! There!” she screams, pointing to the bidet. “Come on, let’s get out,” says the Hindu boy.
“Wait a minute, you can’t get out as easily as all that.”
The madam is standing by the bidet, fuming and spitting. The girls are standing there too, with towels in their hands. The five of us are standing there looking at the bidet. There are two enormous turds floating in the water. The madam bends down and puts a towel over it. “Frightful! Frightful!” she wails. “Never have I seen anything like this! A pig! A dirty little pig!”
The Hindu boy looks at me reproachfully. “You should have told me!” he says. “I didn’t know it wouldn’t go down. I asked you where to go and you told me to use that.” He is almost in tears.
Finally the madam takes me to one side. She has become a little more reasonable now. After all, it was a mistake. Perhaps the gentlemen would like to come downstairs and order another drink – for the girls. It was a great shock to the girls. They are not used to such things. And if the good gentlemen will be so land as to remember the femme de chambre… It is not so pretty for the femme de chambre – that mess, that ugly mess. She shrugs her shoulders and winks her eye. A lamentable incident. But an accident. If the gentlemen will wait here a few moments the maid wiill bring the drinks. Would the gentlemen like to have some champagne? Yes?
“I’d like to get out of here,” says the Hindu boy weakly. 
“Don’t feel so badly about it,” says the madam. “It is all over now. Mistakes will happen sometimes. Next time you will ask for the toilet.” She goes on about the toilet – one on every floor, it seems. And a bathroom too.
“I have lots of English clients,” she says. “They are all gentlemen. The gentleman is a Hindu? Charming people, the Hindus. So intelligent. So handsome.”
When we get into the street the charming young gentleman is almost weeping. He is sorry now that he bought a corduroy suit and the cane and the fountain pens. He talks about the eight vows that he took, the control of the palate, etc. On the march to Dandi even a plate of ice cream it was forbidden to take. He tells me about the spinning wheel – how the little band of Satyagrahists imitated the devotion of their master. He relates with pride how he walked beside the master and conversed with him. I have the illusion of being in the presence of one of the twelve disciples.
“That’s just a line with her,” says Van Norden. “Don’t let her work on your sympathies. Just the same, I wish she’d talk about something else. How the hell can you get up any passion when you’ve got a starving cunt on your hands?”
Precisely! We haven’t any passion either of us. And as for her, one might as well expect her to produce a diamond necklace as to show a spark of passion. But there’s the fifteen francs and something has to be done about it. It’s like a state of war: the moment the condition is precipitated nobody thinks about anything but peace, about getting it over with. And yet nobody has the courage to lay down his arms, to say, “I’m fed up with it… I’m through.”
No, there’s fifteen francs somewhere, which nobody gives a damn about any more and which nobody is going to get in the end anyhow, but the fifteen francs is like the primal cause of things and rather than listen to one’s own voice, rather than walk out on the primal cause, one surrenders to the situation, one goes on butchering and butchering and the more cowardly one feels the more heroically does he behave, until a day when the bottom drops out and suddenly all the guns are silenced and the stretcher-bearers pick up the maimed and bleeding heroes and pin medals on their chest. Then one has the rest of his life to think about the fifteen francs. One hasn’t any eyes or arms or legs, but he has the consolation of dreaming for the rest of his days about the fifteen francs which everybody has forgotten.
It’s exactly like a state of war – I can’t get it out of my head. The way she works over me, to blow a spark of passion into me, makes me think what a damned poor soldier I’d be if I was ever silly enough to be trapped like this and dragged to the front. I know for my part that I’d surrender everything, honor included, in order to get out of the mess. I haven’t any stomach for it, and that’s all there is to it. But she’s got her mind set on the fifteen francs and if I don’t want to fight about it she’s going to make me fight. But you can’t put fight into a man’s guts if he hasn’t any fight in him. There are some of us so cowardly that you can’t ever make heroes of us, not even if you frighten us to death. We know too much, maybe. There are some of us who don’t live in the moment, who live a little ahead, or a little behind. My mind is on the peace treaty all the time. I can’t forget that it was the fifteen francs which started all the trouble. Fifteen francs! What does fifteen francs mean to me, particularly since it’s not my fifteen francs?
படித்துப்பாருங்கள். காமம் கொண்டாட்டம் என்று கதை பண்ணிக்கொண்டிராமல் செக்ஸ் வாழ்க்கை சிந்தனை எல்லாம் கலந்து இயல்பாய் பயணம் செய்வதை உணரலாம். முப்பதுகளில் போய் தன்மை ஒருமையில் இதை எழுத எவ்வளவு துணிச்சல் வேண்டி இருந்திருக்கும். இந்தப் புக்த்தகங்கள் வெளியானபோது அமெரிக்காவிலேயே தடைவிதிக்கப் பட்டன என்பதில் என்ன ஆச்சரியம்.
ஏறக்குறைய இருபது ஆண்டுகளுக்குமுன் ஹென்றி மில்லரை எனக்கு அறிமுகப்படுத்தி படிக்கக்கொடுத்த அந்தக்காலத்து நண்பரை இந்த நேரத்தில் நன்றியோடு நினைவுகூர்கிறேன். மனித உறவுகள் உடைவது சகஜம். காலத்தில் உறைந்த கணங்கள் உடைவதில்லை.
எந்தரோ மஹானுபாவுலு அந்தரிக்கி வந்தனமு

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