Tropic of Cancer, by Henry Miller
a book review by Sloth![](https://paxacidus.com/rails/active_storage/representations/redirect/eyJfcmFpbHMiOnsibWVzc2FnZSI6IkJBaHBBbEFGIiwiZXhwIjpudWxsLCJwdXIiOiJibG9iX2lkIn19--e36ae1d3746eda1d2ad58c8e331e18deb116d3d7/eyJfcmFpbHMiOnsibWVzc2FnZSI6IkJBaDdCem9MWm05eWJXRjBTU0lJY0c1bkJqb0dSVlE2RkhKbGMybDZaVjkwYjE5c2FXMXBkRnNIYVFJQUJHa0NBQU09IiwiZXhwIjpudWxsLCJwdXIiOiJ2YXJpYXRpb24ifX0=--d7f6fb140818778dbc262e3b56680d566496f796/Cropped-Original-Cover.png)
The best novel ever written? Yes. Miller is an artist and a writer and a dreamer and a realist all at the same time. Fucking. Drinking. Laughing. Walking. Writing. Smoking. Paris. Do I even need to go on?
Miller makes the Beats look tired and weather-worn. He makes Bukowski look like a dirty old man with a pen. He makes any preoccupation with religion seem heretical. Miller's writing is all about the reasons we choose to live instead of ending it all off a bridge one night. Tropic of Cancer is the Bible of our times. It's the American Manifesto. It saved my life and it can save yours too.