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Authors: Erica Jong
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sprezzatura. Even as Henry protests No biographies, please! he leaves careful (and misleading) recitals of his life. Indeed Henry seemed always to be looking backward from the future, accounting for himself to twenty-first-century biographers.
How did Henry Miller find the courage to be a writer? A large part of the answer can be found in the bitterness of his mother’s milk. Born in the Yorkville section of Manhattan at 12:17 P.M. on December 26, 1891, Henry was the son of Louise Nieting Miller and Heinrich Miller, both first generation German-Americans. It was one day after Christmas, a fact Henry always regretted, since he would have liked the distinction of sharing Christ’s birthday. Such coincidences meant much to him, as did astrology, so it is important to add that he was a Capricorn, and that Pluto and Neptune were the planets that influenced his nativity.
Capricorns are said to be tenacious (“I was born with a cussed streak in me,” Henry says) and true to form, “they had a hell of a time bringing me out of the womb.” Elsewhere, he blames his mother’s “clutching womb” as the reason for his missing, by one day, the Messiah’s birthday. But clearly there was something in his Capricorn tenacity that made him very happy to stay there. Happiness in the womb is a state he refers to often, from his earliest writing to his latest. One feels that he almost remembers the womb, so lovingly does he refer to it:
The ninth year of my life is approaching and with it the end of my first Paradise on earth. No, the second Paradise. My first was in my mother’s womb, where I fought to remain forever, but the forceps finally prevailed. It was a marvelous period in the womb and I shall never forget it. I had almost everything one could ask for— except friends.
And a life without friends is no life, however, snug and secure it may be.
Marvelous period or not, Henry also attacks his mother for holding him “in her grip like an octopus.” This is typical of Henry Miller both as writer and man: he always tells the same story from at least two opposite points of view.
In the first year of his life, Henry moved to Brooklyn from Yorkville and ever after referred to himself as “just a Brooklyn boy.” The family lived at 662 Driggs Avenue in Williamsburg, at a time when Brooklyn was still a separate city from New York, as it had been in Whitman’s time.
The family spoke German at home, and as a baby, Heinrich was the darling of his parents and his maternal grandfather, Valentin Nieting, who lived with them. Valentin Nieting was a tailor who was then working at home, often assisting Henry’s father. He had trained in Savile Row and spoke sonorous English, which Henry admired. His grandson also admired him for being a socialist and trade unionist while his own father, Heinrich senior, was a “Boss Tailor.” Such were the myths of Henry’s childhood. Henry’s maternal grandmother had been confined to an insane asylum when his mother was a child. The family story was that she was “taken away.” Louise’s strong sense of order, the iron hand with which she ruled her men, may have been a reaction to the chaos of her early life.
Henry’s only sister, Lauretta Anna, came into the world on July 11, 1895, so Henry was a pampered only child for four years. Even when competition came in the form of a sibling, the sibling was a girl—and retarded. Henry’s mother must have been devastated.
By all Henry’s accounts, Louise was a harridan, and Heinrich père a dreamy alcoholic. In today’s psychobabble, we would call Henry Miller’s family “dysfunctional.” His mother goaded him into achievement, and his father, a wonderful raconteur and hopeless drunk, set the example of spinning webs with words that Henry was to emulate all his life.
But it was Henry’s mother who spurred both the writer and the rebel in him.
“My mother was a first-class bitch,” Henry said to Twinka Thiebaud.
She tried to scold and
How did Henry Miller find the courage to be a writer? A large part of the answer can be found in the bitterness of his mother’s milk. Born in the Yorkville section of Manhattan at 12:17 P.M. on December 26, 1891, Henry was the son of Louise Nieting Miller and Heinrich Miller, both first generation German-Americans. It was one day after Christmas, a fact Henry always regretted, since he would have liked the distinction of sharing Christ’s birthday. Such coincidences meant much to him, as did astrology, so it is important to add that he was a Capricorn, and that Pluto and Neptune were the planets that influenced his nativity.
Capricorns are said to be tenacious (“I was born with a cussed streak in me,” Henry says) and true to form, “they had a hell of a time bringing me out of the womb.” Elsewhere, he blames his mother’s “clutching womb” as the reason for his missing, by one day, the Messiah’s birthday. But clearly there was something in his Capricorn tenacity that made him very happy to stay there. Happiness in the womb is a state he refers to often, from his earliest writing to his latest. One feels that he almost remembers the womb, so lovingly does he refer to it:
The ninth year of my life is approaching and with it the end of my first Paradise on earth. No, the second Paradise. My first was in my mother’s womb, where I fought to remain forever, but the forceps finally prevailed. It was a marvelous period in the womb and I shall never forget it. I had almost everything one could ask for— except friends.
And a life without friends is no life, however, snug and secure it may be.
Marvelous period or not, Henry also attacks his mother for holding him “in her grip like an octopus.” This is typical of Henry Miller both as writer and man: he always tells the same story from at least two opposite points of view.
In the first year of his life, Henry moved to Brooklyn from Yorkville and ever after referred to himself as “just a Brooklyn boy.” The family lived at 662 Driggs Avenue in Williamsburg, at a time when Brooklyn was still a separate city from New York, as it had been in Whitman’s time.
The family spoke German at home, and as a baby, Heinrich was the darling of his parents and his maternal grandfather, Valentin Nieting, who lived with them. Valentin Nieting was a tailor who was then working at home, often assisting Henry’s father. He had trained in Savile Row and spoke sonorous English, which Henry admired. His grandson also admired him for being a socialist and trade unionist while his own father, Heinrich senior, was a “Boss Tailor.” Such were the myths of Henry’s childhood. Henry’s maternal grandmother had been confined to an insane asylum when his mother was a child. The family story was that she was “taken away.” Louise’s strong sense of order, the iron hand with which she ruled her men, may have been a reaction to the chaos of her early life.
Henry’s only sister, Lauretta Anna, came into the world on July 11, 1895, so Henry was a pampered only child for four years. Even when competition came in the form of a sibling, the sibling was a girl—and retarded. Henry’s mother must have been devastated.
By all Henry’s accounts, Louise was a harridan, and Heinrich père a dreamy alcoholic. In today’s psychobabble, we would call Henry Miller’s family “dysfunctional.” His mother goaded him into achievement, and his father, a wonderful raconteur and hopeless drunk, set the example of spinning webs with words that Henry was to emulate all his life.
But it was Henry’s mother who spurred both the writer and the rebel in him.
“My mother was a first-class bitch,” Henry said to Twinka Thiebaud.
She tried to scold and
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