On my father’s bookshelf, in his apartment on the edges of the Old Cloverdale district of Montgomery, Alabama, was a three volume set of Henry Miller – Tropic of Cancer, Tropic of Capricorn, and Black Spring. They were smallish (about the size of a slightly oversized softback), black bound, hard cover books.

Even without reading them, they seemed to radiate a certain rough and dangerous sexual charisma. These were, I could tell, dirty and dangerous books. Books that impressionable twelve year old boys should not be reading.

In time, I pulled Tropic of Cancer down from the shelf. Partly because it was the first book and partly because it took place in Paris (an obsession of mine from an early age). I think my father noticed me reading it, but whether from disinterest or from a canny sense of when to let things be, said nothing.

Later, when I was in high school, Henry Miller became, like William S. Burroughs, a shibboleth for the circles I ran in. His vivacious and life affirming writing made for a strong counter to the natural adolescent tendencies toward depression and black moods.