Henry Miller always brings me back to my senses. Dead for twenty-five years now, his words much older than that, yet somehow by merely letting my eyes scan over some black zigs and zags, I am resuscitated, ushered into a realm of greater clarity and sanity. In contrast, Wilber’s words often pull me away, drag me into a maze wherein I find myself lost and confused; disconnected in some way. After reading Wilber’s latest diatribe this morning, I found myself in the bathroom staring down at a big, steaming turd that I had no recollection of parting with. I could only assume that the reason I was standing there with my pants around my ankles was, in fact, that I had just taken a dump. After reading Miller, taking a shit can be a religious experience.
