“Are they obscene? It took thirty years, but American courts eventually decided that (those words) are not, and therefore the book they appear in cannot be banned.” Thus spake sacred edict from most polished, eloquent bourgeoise, The New Yorker, on Henry Miller. Henry Miller, you know, that guy who wrote, uh, something.
Gee, New Yorker, are you sure Henry Miller isn’t just completely irrelevant, hence granting him the requisite “innocence” necessary for such impunity? Imagine if Catcher and the Rye had started out talking about Holden’s co**. I don’t think we’d be discussing a vaunted, invincible classic, the way we are. So you might say it’s somewhat beside the point.
Well, what IS the point of The New Yorker. This is certainly a valid question to ask ourselves, following the election of a failing casino tycoon with no political experience. That they’ve thrown in the towel on being a bona fide Fourth Estate is such a foregone conclusion it’s laughable. So they turn to an alternative “evil” to try to stop, book banning. Yes, as if so many people read books nowadays. They’re going to dredge up a sociological corpse from 60 years ago and give it a full makeover, right before the “beautiful” gentrified streets of the Big Apple.
Really, I don’t know why I should care, I guess. I’m my own man. I shouldn’t depend on a magazine for insight, or guidance. It should all be evident from my intuition, as I walk this land of the free. So we have a failing casino tycoon president. Find something else to focus on. Book banning. Ladies’ girdles are too short. The stone I’m writing on by striking it with a hot iron is too small for the amount of salacious brilliance I’m attempting to convey. Such is the way of New York, I guess. Next town. Mmm.