Moloch: Or, This Gentile World

Moloch: Or, This Gentile World

Henry Miller

Language: English

Pages: 288

ISBN: 080213372X

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Uncovered along with Crazy Cock in 1988 by Miller biographer Mary V. Dearborn, Moloch emerged from the misery of Miller's years at Western Union and from the squalor of his first marriage. Set in the rapidly changing New York City of the early twenties, its hero is the rough-and-tumble Dion Moloch, a man filled with anger and despair. Trapped in a demeaning job, oppressed by an acrimonious home life, Moloch escapes to the streets only to be assaulted by a world he despises even more — a Brooklyn transformed into a shrill medley of ethnic sights, sounds, and smells. The antagonized Moloch strikes out blindly at everything he hates, battling against a world whose hostility threatens to overwhelm and destroy him.

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that passed between them had become more outspoken. Blanche no longer made any efforts to conceal her affection; her letters were brimming with love, albeit there was always a tinge of sadness which he in his ecstasy attributed to her isolation. Once in a while, when he was victimized by a mood, he would sit down and send her a scorcher, but in the next letter he would make amends for his passionate utterances by confining himself to general topics or inquiring solicitously about her

screwed his face up like a gargoyle. “I’d like to take Twilliger and hack his guts out!” “Easy, Mister Moloch, easy now!” cried Prigozi, no longer alarmed over the situation, now that it proved to be nothing more than the dismissal of a few Hindus ... “black buggers,” as he called them. “What started the rumpus?” said Matt. “It was that long-haired gazook in Chinatown. Seems he muffed a couple of death messages. Twilliger must have raised hell with the old man. He was screeching mad. ‘I want

the rash intrusion of a swollen adventurer. About and around him was a vast enclosure whose limits he could only faintly apprehend. Before him rose the walls of a fabulously hoary castle whose ramparts bristled with spears. Pennants wrought with miraculously diabolical designs fluttered ominously above the crenellated battlements. Fire-eating monsters, repulsive and licentious-looking, leered at him from the battle-scarred portals of the castle. A sickly fungus growth choked the broad sweeps

that it is not possible to conceive of an ugly angel? Well, then, whoever it was lied! Dion Moloch made up his mind to storm the donjon. He stood outside Naomi’s door and knocked softly. There was no answer. He knocked again, very softly. He felt something smooth and slippery under his feet. Someone was fumbling with the lock. The door opened, ever so lightly, for just a fraction of a space, and he heard her whisper, “Who is there?” The sound of her hushed voice coming from the darkness made

with which she met the world fell from her as a yashmak is lifted to admit the gaze of a lover. Her body became a lovely, sacred vessel, such as it once had been. The sweeping contours rose in velvet undulations. The skin was cool and chaste to the touch. It reminded him of a Cretan urn, diapered with splintered jewels, carved with handles of rare ivory. All the lies, the counterfeits, the baseness of his past was transmuted by her love into a gospel of devotion. The parched infidelities, like a

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