HAPPY HENRY MILLER DAY! Here's to the Manhattan-born, Brooklyn-raised writer whose novels were banned for years in his own homeland!

Henry Miller (who was born 115 years ago) is the subject of one of the best blogs I've visited: Cosmodemonic Telegraph Company: A Henry Miller Blog. Blogger RC claims "I am NOT an expert on Miller, just a long-time enthusiast. If I keep this blog up, however, I just may become the expert I now warn you I am not." I think that happened a long time ago.

RC suggests that one "randomly open a Miller book on December 26th and find a passage to read aloud in honour of Henry's birthday." Okay...let's see...here's a section from early in Plexus. The narrator "Miller" and his wife, Mona, have been greeted on Second Avenue by an "effervescent" Yiddish writer named Nahoum Yood (a friend of one Arthur Raymond) who takes them to a little "Roumanian place" in a cellar on Hester Street. There, Miller encounters a former work associate named Dave Olinski, who had been detested by his colleagues on Grand Street.

Since he left our employ, he was telling me, he had become an insurance salesman. In fact, he hadn't exchanged more than a few words when he began trying to sell me a policy. Much as I disliked the fellow, I made no move to shut him off. I thought it might do him good to practice on me. So, much to Nahoum Yood's disgust, I let him babble on, pretending that perhaps I would also want accident, health and fire insurance too. Meanwhile, Olinski had ordered drinks and pastry for us. Mona had left the table to engage the proprietress in conversation. In the midst of it a lawyer named Mannie Hirsch walked in--another friend of Arthur Raymond. He was passionate about music, and particularly passionate about Scriabin. It took Olinski, who had been drawn into the conversation against his will, quite a while to understand who it was we were talking about. When he learned that it was only a composer he showed profound disgust. Shouldn't we go maybe to a quieter place, he wondered. I explained to him that that was impossible, that he should hurry up and explain everything to me quickly before we left. Mannie Hirsch hadn't stopped talking from the time he sat down. Presently Olinski launched into his routine talk, switching from one policy to another; he had to talk quite loudly in order to drown out Mannie Hirsch's voice. I listened to the two of them at the same time. Nahoum Yood was trying to listen with one ear cupped. Finally he broke into a hysterical fit of laughter. Without a word he began reciting one of his fables--in Yiddish. Still Olinski kept on talking, this time very low, but even faster than before, because every minute was precious. Even when the whole place began to roar with laughter Olinski kept on selling me one policy after another.

When I at last told him that I would have to think it over, he acted as if he had been mortally injured. "But I have explained everything clearly, Mr. Miller," he whined.

"But I already have two insurance policies," I lied.

"That's all right," he retorted, "We will cash them in and get better ones."

"That's what I want to think about about," I countered.

"But there is nothing to think about, Mr. Miller."

"I'm not sure that I understood it all," I said. "Maybe you'd better come to my home tomorrow night," and therewith I wrote down a false address for him.

"You're sure you will be home, Mr. Miller?"

"If I'm not I will telephone."

"But I have no telephone, Mr. Miller."

"Then I will send you a telegram."

"But I already made two appointments for tomorrow evening."

"Then make it the next night," I said, thorough unperturbed by all this palaver. "Or," I added maliciously, "You could come to see me after midnight, if that's convenient. We're always up till two or three in the morning."

"I'm afraid that would be too late," said Olinski, looking more and more disconsolate.

"Well, let's see," I said, looking meditative and scratching my head. "Supposing we meet right here a week from today? Say half-past nine sharp."

"Not here, Mr. Miller, please."

"O.K. then, wherever you like. Send me a post card in a day or so. And bring all the policies with you, yes?"

During this last chitchat Olinski had risen from the table and was holding my hand in parting. When he turned round to gather up his papers he discovered that Mannie Hirsch was drawing animals on them. Nahoum Yood was writing a poem--in Yiddish--on another. He was so disturbed by this unexpected turn of events that he began shouting at them in several languages at once. He was getting purple with rage. In a moment the bouncer, who was a Greek and ex-wrestler, had Olinski by the seat of the pants and was giving him the bum's rush. The proprietress shook her fist in his face as he went through the doorway headfirst. In the street the Greek went through his pockets, extracted a few bills, brought them to the proprietress who made change for him and threw the remaining coins at Olinski who was now on his hands and knees, behaving as if he had the cramps.

"That's a terrible way to treat a person," said Mona.

"It is, but he seems to invite it," I replied.

"You shouldn't have egged him on--it was cruel."

"I admit it, but he's a pest. It would have happened anyway." Thereupon I began to narrate my experience with Olinski. I explained how I had humored him by transferring him from one office to another. Everywhere it was the same story. He was always being abused and mistreated--"for no reason at all," as he always put it. "They don't like me there," he would say....