God, the man can write. Insane that a book so filled to the brim with filth, slop and such, has got some of the most excellent prose I've read this year. Constantly tickled by Miller's aversion to the vagina,, there is something so deliciously freudian about his sexuality. I've never quite seen the hedonism of Paris captured in the same way despite its rebranding  GOD one can tear this one apart, 'smooth out the wrinkles' or whatever pathetic attribute Miller attaches to his penis