The Inner Valley

"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..." ******* ✎ Excerpt  from 'Trop ic of Cancer'. Henry Miller (New York, 26 December 1891 ~ Pacific Palisades, Los Angeles, 7 June 1980).

In bygone days when life's array - The sweet song of the nightingale And maidens' eyes, the rustling woods - Still left a fresh impression on me, When loftiness of feeling, And freedom, glory, love Artistic inspiration So deeply stirred my blood, My times of hope were cast in shade And pleasure dimmed by longing, For it was then an evil genius Began to pay me secret visits. Our meetings were quite dolorous: His smile, his glance mysterious, His venom-filled and caustic sermons Poured frozen poison in my soul. With endless slandering remarks He tempted Providence; He claimed that beauty's but a dream; Felt scorn for inspiration; He had no faith in love or freedom; He looked on life with ridicule- And in the whole of nature He did not wish to praise a single thing. *******   ✍ Aleksandr Serguéyevich Pushkin (Moscow, Russian Empire, 6 June 1799 ~ Saint Petersburg, Russian Empire, 10 February 1837). ◙ Artwork: Mikhail Vrubel