There were two Henry Millers. First, he was a notorious writer of explicit, often crude, sexual encounters and fantasies, for which he was banned, before a court allowed that his books had redeeming value. He dared to pen what others thought, but were reluctant to make a literature of. In my book, I took up this aspect of his work to inspire my own. I make no apologies for my choice of words, or the implied point of view. Like Miller, I have incorporated other aspects of storytelling, of a non sexual content, to round out a tale that is essentially a love story between two, who become separated and must await the end of odyssey to be reunited.
Second, for Miller, his observations of culture, art and personal angst fill far more volumes than the sex. It would be an honor for me to be able to claim similar skills, but not so in Poppy Fields of Mars. It is straightforward storytelling, minus the abstruse, told as sparsely and simply as I could manage.
It would be presumptuous, as well as delusional, for me to claim my work in any way equates to Henry Miller's genius. But, I think, if someone loves Tropic of Cancer or The Rosy Crucifixion, they may be slightly amused by my own efforts.
