What was the incredible pull that France had on
American writers in the early 20th century? I’ve watched Midnight in Paris and read Tropic of Cancer and didn’t quite
understand it: the first seemed to paint a world so perfect it probably never
existed, the latter a world so grim that I wonder why Miller didn’t try to swim
his way back to the US.
The prose is obviously innovative for its time,
but that doesn’t mean that it’s particularly pleasant to read. At least the
sections set in Paris manage to show a glimpse of hope for the author’s life,
his future, and possibly the future of mankind. But the pages about his
experience as a teacher in Dijon are some of the driest – and possibly rather
useless – pages I have read lately.
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