(from: The Tropic of Cancer, by Henry Miller)
You can forgive a young cunt anything. A young cunt doesn't have to have any brains. They're better without brains. But an old cunt, even if she's brilliant, even if she's the most charming woman in the world, nothing makes any difference. A young cunt is an investment; an old cunt is a dead loss. All they can do for you is buy you things. But that doesn't put meat on their arms or juice between the legs. She isn't bad, Irene. In fact, I think you'd like her. With you it's different. You don't have to fuck her. You can afford to like her. Maybe you wouldn't like all those dresses and the bottles and what not, but you could be tolerant. She wouldn't bore you, that I can tell you. She's even interesting, I might say. But she's withered. Her breasts are all right yet -- but her arms! I told her I'd bring you around some day. I talked a lot about you ... I didn't know what to say to her. Maybe you'd like her, especially when she's dressed. I don't know ..."
"Listen, she's rich, you say? I'll like her! I don't care how old she is, so long as she's not a hag ..."
"She's not a hag! What are you talking about? She's charming, I tell you. She talks well. She looks well too ... only her arms ..."
"All right, if that's how it is, I'll fuck her -- if you don't want to. Tell her that. Be subtle about it, though. With a woman like that you've got to do things slowly. You bring me around and let things work out for themselves. Praise the shit out of me. Act jealous like ... Shit, maybe we'll fuck her together ... and we'll go places and we'll eat together ... and we'll drive and hunt and wear nice things. If she wants to go to Borneo let her take us along. I don't know how to shoot either, but that doesn't matter. She doesn't care about that either. She just wants to be fucked that's all. You're talking about her arms all the time. You don't have to look at her arms all the time, do you?
Look at this bedspread! Look at the mirror! Do you call this living? Do you want to go on being delicate and live like a louse all your life? You can't even pay your hotel bill ... and you've got a job too. This is no way to live. I don't care if she's seventy years old -- it's better than this ..."
"Listen, Joe, you fuck her for me ... then everything'll be fine. Maybe I'll fuck her once in a while too ... on my night off. It's four days now since I've had a good shit. There's something sticking to me, like grapes ..."
"You've got the piles, that's what."
"My hair's falling out too ... and I ought to see the dentist. I feel as though I were falling apart. I told her what a good guy you are ... You'll do things for me, eh? You're not too delicate, eh? If we go to Borneo I won't have haemorrhoids any more. Maybe I'll develop something else ... something worse ... fever perhaps ... or cholera. Shit, it is better to die of a good disease like that than to piss your life away on a newspaper with grapes up your ass and buttons falling off your pants. I'd like to be rich, even if it were only for a week, and then go to a hospital with a good disease, a fatal one, and have flowers in the room and nurses dancing around and telegrams coming. They take good care of you if you're rich. They wash you with cotton batting and they comb your hair for you. Shit, I know all that. Maybe I'd be lucky and not die at all. Maybe I'd be a cripple all my life .. . maybe I'd be paralyzed and have to sit in a wheel-chair. But then I'd be taken care of just the same ... even if I had no more money. If you're an invalid -- a real one -- they don't let you starve. And you get a clean bed to lie in ... and they change the towels every day. This way nobody gives a fuck about you, especially if you have a job.
They think a man should be happy if he's got a job. What would you rather do - be a cripple all your life, or have a job ... or marry a rich cunt? You'd rather marry a rich cunt, I can see that. You only think about food. But supposing you married her and then you couldn't get a hard-on any more -- that happens sometimes -- what would you do then? You'd be at her mercy. You'd have to eat out of her hand, like a little poodle dog. You'd like that, would you? Or maybe you don't think of those things? I think of everything. I think of the suits I'd pick out and the places I'd like to go to, but I also think of the other thing.
That's the important thing. What good are the fancy ties and the fine suits if you can't get a hard-on any more? You couldn't even betray her -- because she'd be on your heels all the time. No, the best thing would be to marry her and then get a disease right away. Only not syphilis. Cholera, let's say, or yellow fever. So that if a miracle did happen and your life was spared you'd be a cripple for the rest of your days. Then you wouldn't have to worry about fucking her any more, and you wouldn't have to worry about the rent either.
She'd probably buy you a fine wheel-chair with rubber tires and all sorts of levers and what not. You might even be able to use your hands -- I mean enough to be able to write. Or you could have a secretary, for that matter.
That's it -- that's the best solution for a writer. What does a guy want with his arms and legs? He doesn't need arms and legs to write with. He needs security ... peace ... protection. All those heroes who parade in wheel-chairs -- it's too bad they're not writers. If you could only be sure, when you go off to war, that you'd have only your legs blown off ... if you could be sure of that I'd say let's have a war tomorrow. I wouldn't give a fuck about the medals -- they could keep the medals. All I'd want is a good wheel-chair and three meals a day. Then I'd give them something to read, those pricks!"
You can forgive a young cunt anything. A young cunt doesn't have to have any brains. They're better without brains. But an old cunt, even if she's brilliant, even if she's the most charming woman in the world, nothing makes any difference. A young cunt is an investment; an old cunt is a dead loss. All they can do for you is buy you things. But that doesn't put meat on their arms or juice between the legs. She isn't bad, Irene. In fact, I think you'd like her. With you it's different. You don't have to fuck her. You can afford to like her. Maybe you wouldn't like all those dresses and the bottles and what not, but you could be tolerant. She wouldn't bore you, that I can tell you. She's even interesting, I might say. But she's withered. Her breasts are all right yet -- but her arms! I told her I'd bring you around some day. I talked a lot about you ... I didn't know what to say to her. Maybe you'd like her, especially when she's dressed. I don't know ..."
"Listen, she's rich, you say? I'll like her! I don't care how old she is, so long as she's not a hag ..."
"She's not a hag! What are you talking about? She's charming, I tell you. She talks well. She looks well too ... only her arms ..."
"All right, if that's how it is, I'll fuck her -- if you don't want to. Tell her that. Be subtle about it, though. With a woman like that you've got to do things slowly. You bring me around and let things work out for themselves. Praise the shit out of me. Act jealous like ... Shit, maybe we'll fuck her together ... and we'll go places and we'll eat together ... and we'll drive and hunt and wear nice things. If she wants to go to Borneo let her take us along. I don't know how to shoot either, but that doesn't matter. She doesn't care about that either. She just wants to be fucked that's all. You're talking about her arms all the time. You don't have to look at her arms all the time, do you?
Look at this bedspread! Look at the mirror! Do you call this living? Do you want to go on being delicate and live like a louse all your life? You can't even pay your hotel bill ... and you've got a job too. This is no way to live. I don't care if she's seventy years old -- it's better than this ..."
"Listen, Joe, you fuck her for me ... then everything'll be fine. Maybe I'll fuck her once in a while too ... on my night off. It's four days now since I've had a good shit. There's something sticking to me, like grapes ..."
"You've got the piles, that's what."
"My hair's falling out too ... and I ought to see the dentist. I feel as though I were falling apart. I told her what a good guy you are ... You'll do things for me, eh? You're not too delicate, eh? If we go to Borneo I won't have haemorrhoids any more. Maybe I'll develop something else ... something worse ... fever perhaps ... or cholera. Shit, it is better to die of a good disease like that than to piss your life away on a newspaper with grapes up your ass and buttons falling off your pants. I'd like to be rich, even if it were only for a week, and then go to a hospital with a good disease, a fatal one, and have flowers in the room and nurses dancing around and telegrams coming. They take good care of you if you're rich. They wash you with cotton batting and they comb your hair for you. Shit, I know all that. Maybe I'd be lucky and not die at all. Maybe I'd be a cripple all my life .. . maybe I'd be paralyzed and have to sit in a wheel-chair. But then I'd be taken care of just the same ... even if I had no more money. If you're an invalid -- a real one -- they don't let you starve. And you get a clean bed to lie in ... and they change the towels every day. This way nobody gives a fuck about you, especially if you have a job.
They think a man should be happy if he's got a job. What would you rather do - be a cripple all your life, or have a job ... or marry a rich cunt? You'd rather marry a rich cunt, I can see that. You only think about food. But supposing you married her and then you couldn't get a hard-on any more -- that happens sometimes -- what would you do then? You'd be at her mercy. You'd have to eat out of her hand, like a little poodle dog. You'd like that, would you? Or maybe you don't think of those things? I think of everything. I think of the suits I'd pick out and the places I'd like to go to, but I also think of the other thing.
That's the important thing. What good are the fancy ties and the fine suits if you can't get a hard-on any more? You couldn't even betray her -- because she'd be on your heels all the time. No, the best thing would be to marry her and then get a disease right away. Only not syphilis. Cholera, let's say, or yellow fever. So that if a miracle did happen and your life was spared you'd be a cripple for the rest of your days. Then you wouldn't have to worry about fucking her any more, and you wouldn't have to worry about the rent either.
She'd probably buy you a fine wheel-chair with rubber tires and all sorts of levers and what not. You might even be able to use your hands -- I mean enough to be able to write. Or you could have a secretary, for that matter.
That's it -- that's the best solution for a writer. What does a guy want with his arms and legs? He doesn't need arms and legs to write with. He needs security ... peace ... protection. All those heroes who parade in wheel-chairs -- it's too bad they're not writers. If you could only be sure, when you go off to war, that you'd have only your legs blown off ... if you could be sure of that I'd say let's have a war tomorrow. I wouldn't give a fuck about the medals -- they could keep the medals. All I'd want is a good wheel-chair and three meals a day. Then I'd give them something to read, those pricks!"
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