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Why Henry Miller’s “Sexus” Falls Short of Greatness Painting by Modigliani, “Nude Sitting on a Divan” I wanted to like Mr. Miller. I wanted to like him the way one wants to like a neighbor. After all, he was one of mine—a compatriot of fire escapes, smoking asphalt, and roaring trains at night. And truly, there is no better writer to describe New York. His prose echoes that old city hum, its vulgarity and splendor, distilling a unique, gritty kind of glamour into one red-hot

Your Favourite Position Isn't CEO Once, in a gray season, I wrote in a journal that identity begins when one is liberated of the desire...

Some years ago I came across a ruthless, brilliantly written text (by a woman). Her problem — simply put — was that women had no business...