Here's what I wrote about this on Goodreads (where you can be my friend and look at whole lists of things I will never read and nor will you):
Tropic of Cancer by Henry MillerMy rating: 3 of 5 stars
This is the least sexy famous-for-being-sexy book I've ever read. The sense of place and time it conveys is beautiful, and Miller almost manages to make being a semi-destitute layabout in 1920s Paris seem like, not exactly a viable career choice, but certainly an understandable sidebar. However, I couldn't warm to any of the characters and I didn't like the attitude towards women (even if Eoghan did make some good arguments for this not really being indicative of actual misogyny).
We did have a very good discussion about this last night, though, before we got really drunk on Pernod and went out and got ourselves a dose of the clap.
(We didn't do that.)
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