Book Review: "Quiet Days in Clichy" by Henry Miller

“Quiet Days in Clichy” I have to admit, is not one of Henry Miller’s best works but it is still something to be admired amongst the general realm of literature in which love letters are written to and about cities and places. In this text by Henry Miller, there is a general sense of awe pervading Paris and yet, something about it always seems a bit overly-romanticised. As if Henry Miller is really trying to make up for what the city lacks in substance, he builds up in stylistic writing and romantic images that require pastel-coloured backgrounds and berets sitting in a cafe somewhere in order to be full appreciated. I’m not saying that this is not a good idea, but what I am saying is to take this picture of Paris for what it is - a piece of art. It is not a representation of a city which is now basically in ruin and has been for a very long time. The contrast from New York to Paris is never really made definite upon the personalities within both with New York obviously having the more progressive types of people. Be that as it may, we cannot take away from the fact that the city of light has become of central importance to Henry Miller over the course of many texts of his and that it has served him well. One thing I have to say as well is that he makes this city, that is no longer in its prime, out to be something far greater than it is - and that is a skill, not a fault.

Let us take a look at some quotations that I thought were especially telling in this book. Obviously, we will start with the opening quotation for the sake of hanging on to reason for writing in Miller’s own mind:

“As I write, night is falling and people are going to dinner. It’s been a gray day, such as one often sees in Paris. Walking around the block to air my thoughts I couldn’t help but think of the tremendous contrast between the two cities. It is the same hour, the same sort of day and yet even the word gray, which brought about the association, has little in common with that gris which to the ears of Frenchmen, is capable of evoking a world of thought and feeling. Long ago, walking the streets of Paris, studying the watercolours on exhibit in the shop windows, I was aware of the singular absence of what is known as Payne’s gray. I mention in because Paris, as everyone knows, is pre-eminently, a gray city. I use this made-to-order gray excessively and obsessively. In France, the range of grays is seemingly infinite; he the very effect of gray is lost.”

Even the gray of Paris is romanticised as being a different and almost philosophical type of gray. It is almost as if Miller is trying to make us believe that there is something beautiful and deep about the gray of Paris compared to the gray of everywhere else.

“On the gray days, when it was chilly everywhere except in the big cafes, I look forward with pleasure to spending an hour or two at the Cafe Wepler before going to dinner. The rosy glow which suffused the place emanated from the cluster of whores who usually congregated near the entrance. As they gradually distributed themselves among the clientele, the place became not only warm and rosy but fragrant. They fluttered about in the dimming light like perfumed fireflies. Those who had not been fortunate enough to find a consumer would saunter slowly out to the street, usually to return in a little while and resume their old places. Others swaggered in, looking fresh and ready for the evening’s work. In the corner, where they usually congregated it was like an exchange, the sex market, which has its ups and downs like other exchanges. A randy day was usually a good day, it seemed to me. There are only two things you can do on a rainy day as the saying goes, and the whores never wasted time playing cards.”

There is something brutal and raw about his writing here that you rarely see in other quotations. When he talks about the whores he really does make this juxtaposing image of Paris as a romance city and Paris as every other city come alive in these few minutes of analysis. For a book that is written with average zeal for Henry Miller, this quotation solidifies its marks in my books.