A bit more on Henry Miller, clarifying some of the earlier post, which overstated some points.

Henry Miller was born 26 December 1891 and raised in Brooklyn, New York.  By his own account, he had a happy childhood.  In the 1910s and 1920s, he moved the Greenwich Village, a Bohemian center.  His family had been unreligious, but Miller himself was drawn to religious ideas, and so found himself captivated by many of the Metaphysical movements then current in Greenwich Village>  He played around with Ouija boards, for instance.  As well, he was  drawn to Eastern religions.  Lao Tzu’s Tao Te Ching, was especially influential, as were Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha (on the life of the Buddha) and Sinnett’s Esoteric Buddhism.  He said he always found gurus more interesting than Christ because of their quest for Enlightenment.

“Freedom,” he wrote in the 1950s, “is a misnomer.  Certitude is more like it.  Unerringness.  Because truthfully there is always only one way to act in any situation, not two, nor three.  Freedom implies choice and choice exists only to the extent that we are aware of our ineptitude.  The adept takes no thought, one might say.  He is one with thought, one with the path.”

Miller (whose literary evaluations were always as eccentric as he was: “My encounters with books I regard very much as my encounters with other phenomena of life or thought.  All encounters are configurate, not isolate.  In this sense, and in this sense only, books are as much a part of life as trees, stars or dung.   I have no reverence for them per se.  Nor do I put authors in any special, privileged category.  They are like other men, no better, no worse”) also found himself drawn to the early weird writers: he was in “thrall” to Rider Haggard’s She.  (Indeed, his Books in my Life spends an inordinate amount of time on Haggard.)  He was also a devoted fan of Algernon Blackwood.  These works, and others like them, including the books of Bulwer-Lytton appealed to him as Romantic yawps against the deadening materialism of the time.  He wrote, “around 1880 English novelists of imagination—the writers of ‘romances’—began to introduce into their works the so-called and miscalled ‘supernatural’ element.  Theirs was a revolt against the fateful tendency of the times, the bitter fruits of which we of this generation our tasting.”

It may be that this love of early weird writers and his own religious quest fuelled his interest in Madame Blavatsky’s Theosophical movement—after all, there are a lot of echoes of Bulwer-Lytton in Blavatsky’s writings.  At any rate, he found Theosophy endlessly engaging.  Blavatsky’s Voice of Silence (along with Sinnett’s Esoteric Buddhism) provided his writing with themes, symbols, and character names.

It may also be that Miller was impressed by Blavatsky because he had a life-long interest in finding a unity to all the world—and Blavatsky’s systemization of science, religion, and the occult certainly did that.  Spengler’s The Decline of the West also did something similar.  Miller became fascinated with it, as did many in the Greenwich Village scene.  (Excerpts appeared in one of the Little Magazines.)  It gave an intellectually respectable base to Blavatsky’s speculation.  It also resonated with his own sense of history’s trajectory.  Despite having an exuberant love of life, Miller thought that the world was running down, and Spengler advocated this, with his premonition that the West was on the decline.  Miller wrote in the 1950s:

“That the American way of life is an illusory kind of existence,  that the price demanded for the security and abundance it pretends to offer is too great.  The presence of these ‘renegades,’ small in number though they be, is but another indication that the machine is breaking down.  When the smash up comes, as now seems inevitable, they are more likely to survive the catastrophe than the rest of us.  At least, they will know how to get along without cars, without refrigerators, without vacuum cleaners, electric razors and all the other ‘indispensables’ . . . probably even without money.  If ever we are to witness a new heaven and a new earth, it must surely be one in which money is absent, forgotten, wholly useless.”

We’ve already seen that, geographically, the distribution of Forteanism across the Bay Area correlated with the areas of Bohemianism.  So now, let’s look a little closer at Bay Area Bohemianism, its history, its traits, and its structure.

San Francisco had an established Bohemian culture in the 1890s, much of it revolving around Ambrose Bierce, whose ghost stories, especially, would much influence the weird writers of the 1920s.  (And whose disappearance in Mexico inspired Fort’s musing that perhaps someone was collecting Ambroses.)  As we have seen with Kenneth MacNichol, there was concurrently a small arts colony in and around Carmel.  In the wake of the 1906 fire and earthquake, much of San Francisco’s bohemia moved south.

The doyenne of this Carmel was George Sterling, a poet who had been mentored by Bierce.  Sterling wrote, “There are two elements, at least, that are essential to Bohemianism.  The first is devotion or addiction to one or more of the Seven Arts; the other is poverty.  Other factors suggest themselves: for instance, I like to think of my Bohemians as young, as radical, in their outlook on art and life, as unconventional, and, though it is debatable, as dwellers in a city large enough to have the somewhat cruel atmosphere of all great cities.”

Sterling seemed to have known Kenneth MacNichol at a time when MacNichol was very interested in New Thought.  He also encouraged the work of Clark Ashton Smith, second only to H. P. Lovecraft as a writer of weird tales during the 1930s.  Eventually, Sterling moved back to the Monkey Block of San Francisco, which he had left.  In 1927, he killed himself in a room in the Bohemian Grove.

That same year, the poet Kenneth Rexroth arrived in San Francisco after a peripatetic life had taken him across the country, to Paris and back.  Rexroth would become one of the central figures in the Bay Area arts scene and shaped the form of Bohemianism.

He had been in Greenwich Village during the years after World War I, and in Paris as well, where he was exposed to the cynical Bohemianism of the time.  Rexroth’s thoughts ran in a different direction.  He was interested in mysticism and occultism—occasionally his lectures would devolve into conspiratorial harangues about the Freemasons.  After having been in what was then considered the center of civilization—New York and France—Rexroth saw San Francisco as a backwater, untouched by modernism, and so fertile ground for a new kind of approach to the arts and life.  He stood against consumerism and, as World War II broke, the permanent war state.  He was interested in Orientalism and translated a number of Asian poets.

He also established some of the foundational structures of Bay Area Bohemianism.  He formed a Libertarian Group which held meetings Wednesdays on San Francisco’s Steiner Street.  As many as 200 people might attend these meetings of “philosophical anarchists.”  Among the group was Lewis Hill, a pacifist who founded the Pacifica Foundation in 1946 and then KPFA in 1949, the country’s first listener-supported radio station, broadcasting from Berkeley.

In addition, other outlets for avant-garde thought were opening up.  George Leite and the Manhattan Project-physicist Bern Porter published together the journal Circle and Porter alone put out Berkeley: A Journal of Modern Culture.  Leite also ran a bookstore in Berkeley, daliel’s—a;ways with the little d—where Bohemians congregated.

In the months after World War II ended, a recognizable group came into being, with Rexroth as a distant guru, and characterized most especially by three young poets, Robert Duncan, Jack Spicer, and Robin Blaser.  These writers some themselves as inheritors of all of modernism—they all were devoted to Ezra Pound—and Romanticism.  Their work combined intensely intellectual poetry with homosexual desire—and this became the mark of the Berkeley Renaissance, as they named their movement.  The Berkeley poets also maintained an interest in mysticism.  Robert Duncan had been raised a theosophist before he vagabonded across the country, and Rexroth encouraged him to return to those roots.  Spicer claimed to be descended both from Native Americans and Mary Baker Eddy, founder of the New Thought Christian Science Church.  He read science fiction, read Crowley, and practiced the Tarot.

Philip K. Dick, who lived with Spicer for a time, remembered that Berkeley culture of the late forties ‘required you to have a really thorough grounding in the classics.’  (SF fandom, by contrast, he thought was overrun by “trolls.”)  This was the culture—the mixture of heady intellectualism and mysticism—that nourished Polly Lamb Goforth and Anthony Boucher, among others.

This Berkeley Renaissance spread across the Bay Area, the seed of what would become the San Francisco Renaissance and the Beat movement, which, in turn, would feed into the later Hippie and Free Love movements.  These developments depended upon San Francisco as a place, and also as an idea—Herb Caen’s Baghdad by the Bay.

In terms of place, San Francisco Bohemian culture was coming into its own.  Philip Lamantia remembered, “San Francisco was terribly straight-laced and provincial, but at the same time there were these islands of freedom—in North Beach at bars like the Iron Pot and the Black Cat, where intellectuals met to talk.  There was a whole underground culture that went unnoticed by the city at large.”  Returning GIs, displaced by the war, and Conscientious Objectors released from camps in Oregon, rounded out these movements, helped them grow.  As historian Richard Candida Smith notes, to the surprise of many, returning soldiers did not only tap into the GI Bill for vocational education, but for more broad, liberal, and arts-related education, too.

There was also the myth of San Francisco itself, as an enchanted place, which charged the Bohemia there.  This was not a jaded old world, but a new one, ready to be molded by the artist.

The quintessential art movement to emerge out of this moment was abstract expressionism.  Abstract expressionism had its roots in the earlier surrealist movement, but whereas surrealists tried to plumb the individual psyche for universal—though still weird—symbols, abstract expressionism turned toward individual experience.   The art was confessional and personal—both of which can be seen in relation to Forteans and weird tales, which also tended toward the confessional and personal, and against the universal.  San Francisco artists, generally speaking, stood against determinism and the force of history.  Often inspired by Buddhism, they argued that humans had limitless potential and so the chief job of the artist—be it painter or poet—was to reflect upon experience and find the meaning in it.

Smith again: “The imagination, manifested in its highest form in the aesthetic act, became the most stable source of personal freedom in a world otherwise deterministic and frightening.  An absolutized privacy, no matter what the costs, turned out to be the most radical defense against the claims of public order.  Bohemian enclaves developed a repertoire of self-images that proived to have appeal to the collective imagination far beyond the limited boundaries of the art and poetry worlds.  As feelings of powerlessness spread, the aesthetic avant-garde provided an antidote.”

These ideals, matched with the influx of older, more experienced (and in the case of CO’s, more idealistic) individuals helped to create the Bay Area scene.

As I have already suggested, the Fortean community was interwoven with this larger art world.  Boucher had a radio show at KPFA, for example, and knew Philip K. Dick from Dick’s job at the record store (and later as his editor).  Circle was discussed in the San Francisco Chronicle’s book review column just before Boucher took that job.  Henry Miller was Fortean and also a key figure in the extension of the Bay Area Renaissance onto the Monterey Peninsula.  He published in Circle, and new many of the area artists.  His writings, too, exemplified the turn toward the confessional.

It is also possible to see in the art world itself an interest in things Fortean.  The best example is a project by Clay Spohn at the California School of Fine Arts (in San Francisco).  The installation was “The Museum of Unknown and Little Known Objects”—the very name of which is Fortean.  Spohn saw his work—very much as Fort did—as “philosophical prankism,” a way of testing the boundaries of what was known by showing what was unknown.  In all, the Museum contained 42 pieces, made up of scrap metal an unusual pieces of trash that Spohn had been collecting, including a watch on a wire, the starter for a rat race, a hat tree for a neighborly garden, and “bedroom fluff”: things he picked out of a vacuum cleaner.

According to Tiffany Thayer’ Doubt, Henry Miller joined the Fortean Society sometime around 1945.  Miller was the notorious author of, among other works, The Tropic of Cancer and The Tropic of Capricorn, both of which were banned in his own country.  At the time he joined the Fortean Society, he had settled in Big Sur, where he continued to write, to watercolor, and become a guru to the disenchanted: Bohemian youths, Conscientious Objectors as they were released from work camps in Oregon, those looking for something more in this materialistic age—an age savagely satire by Miller in The Air-Conditioned Nightmare, a book he wrote about the cross-country trip which took him to California and Big; in the Cosmodemonic Telegraph Company section of The Tropic of Cancer; an age of materialism that devalued the most valuable material possession, the body, censoring discussion of its pleasures even as it sent young men across the world to be torn apart.

Miller’s joining of the Fortean Society was not a surprise.  As Kenneth Rexroth, the San Francisco poet, notes in his introduction to Miller’s Nights of Love and Laughter, Miller had long been interested in the occult.  His writings are sprinkled with references to Mu and astrology—he was a deep devotee of astrology since his time in Paris.  (He fled to France after walking out on the Cosmodemonic Telegraph Company—Western Union—the rest of his life living by his wits and what he could bum from others.)  His writing was resolutely non-conformist.  In her biography of him, Erica Jong catches Miller saying,

“I am not following a strict chronological sequence but have chosen to adopt a circular or spiral form of time development which enables me to expand freely in any direction at any given moment.  The ordinary chronological development seems to me wooden and artificial, a synthetic reconstitution of the facts of life.  The facts and events of life are for me only the starting points on the way toward the discovery of wisdom.”

With the exception of that final phrase, a more Fortean approach to literature is hard to imagine.