Vit Babenco's Reviews > Sexus

I believe that the trilogy title The Rosy Crucifixion is a free interpretation of the mystical term Rosicrucianism – the Order of the Rosy Cross… Thus Henry Miller is a Rosicrucian and alchemist of passion and the name of the novel Sexus wholly expresses the contents of the book.

The best thing about writing is not the actual labor of putting word against word, brick upon brick, but the preliminaries, the spade work, which is done in silence, under any circumstances, in dream as well as in the waking state. In short, the period of gestation.

And for the artist of Henry Miller’s calibre this period of gestation and the spade work is an ecstasy of love.
And Henry Miller’s love confessions are a boiling geyser of martyr’s lust.

His mouth would wreath itself in a veritable mandibular ecstasy; he would work himself up until the very soul of him came forth in a spongy ectoplasmic substance. It was a horrible state of affection, terrifying because it knew no bounds. It was a depersonalized glut or slop, a hangover from some archaic condition of ecstasy – the residual memory of crabs and snakes, of their prolonged copulations in the protoplasmic slime of ages long forgotten.

Even being crucified, if one is crucified by love, may be an excruciating delight…