That bohemian blockbuster, author of Tropic of Cancer, Henry Miller, is nothing if not personal, even less when not passionate. Here in essay after essay his volcano of the senses endlessly erupts- flaming goodness, fervent pleas cascade down the pages with one thought as catalyst: la condition humainc is a mess. Miller's subject matter may differ (from water colors and First Love to European continuity and Yankee hush money; from Vedanta, Zea and the AA to living down-and-outer, sad, searching Ken Patchen, and the still-in-the-running, dead, "electric blue" bard Whitman); but the wind-up's always the same. Man has lost the everyday miraculous for the machine-made entanglement; the angels' revolt calling the way men live is a lie, the real revolutionaries are those who revolutionize themselves, not systems but sensibilities must change, a persecution mania pervades both the Left and Right, the order of the day being "liquidate! liquidate!". There's an extravaganza on economics ("It is the poor who make the rich and not vice-versa") plus an importance-of-lonesco bit ("We are free to express our opinions, but have we any opinions?"). Covering 25 years, many long unavailable, the pieces taken individually are all remarkably fresh, furiously entertaining. Unfortunately, collectively, the roar becomes too much, the natural force eventually bores. (Kirkus Reviews)