In Black Spring the old charmer is back at work,charming again.'This man,this skull,this music'have good things in them,like a honeycomb.Henry Miller...reflects the light of joy and writes most sweetly.

Black Spring is vintage Miller.Continuing the subversive self-revelation begun in Tropic of Cancer and Tropic of Capricorn,he sucks us along at his mad,free-associating pace as he reverberates between America and Paris,transporting us from the damp grime of his Brooklyn youth to sun-splashed French caf6s and squalid Paris flats; from a winter night,pure as ammonia,to a dream where a woman's body has the strong white aroma of sorrow.Miller writes with an incomparable hard glee,shifting effortlessly from Vergil to venereal disease,from Rabelais to Roquefort,to the beauty of a statue defaced during a carnival; he captures like no one else the blending of people and the cities they inhabit,and Black Spring coheres in a seductive technicolor swirl of Paris and New York.