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Full circle?

The Zen representative had an 180º mind. The member of the audience had a 360º mind.

A GOB OF SPIT

For years, Henry Miller lived the life of a would-be writer. He was 45 when he wrote his first book Tropic of Cancer in 1934. Here is what he writes in the opening page:

“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 (author’s italic). 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, and 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 of 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.”

Henry Miller could not have written such a powerful book if he had not got over his romanticized visions of becoming a writer. He could write the book he did precisely because there were “no more books to be written.”

With the transition from “I thought that I was an artist” to “I am”, he had come full circle. As a result, he went beyond mere writing to “singing”—not to mention the funny things he did to God and the like in the process.