Tag Archives: A Devil in Paradise

‘A Devil in Paradise’ (1956) by Henry Miller

For the 1956 Club I thought I’d carry on the Powys and Miller theme I started earlier this year. I’ve had to cheat a little with my choice of Miller’s works: although A Devil in Paradise was printed separately in 1956, it was subsequently included in Miller’s larger work of 1957, Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch, where it was re-titled Paradise Lost. ‘Big Sur’ is more readily available than the separate edition and it’s what I had to hand.

A Devil in Paradise is a short work, of just over a hundred pages, and the ‘devil’ in question is Conrad Moricand, born in Paris 1887. Is he a devil? Well, not really, just an annoying house-guest who becomes a leech on Miller and family, though he does divulge some unsavoury aspects of himself. Miller was first introduced to Moricand by Anaïs Nin in Paris in 1936 and his first impressions weren’t favourable. They have very little in common: Moricand was an astrologer, prissy, ascetic, whereas Miller was outspoken, gregarious and enthusiastic. Anaïs Nin had hoped to offload some of the responsibility she had for caring for Moricand onto Miller—why Nin was responsible for him in the first place is not explained. Anyway, Miller did his best to feed him and find him work. As poor as he was, Moricand had to keep up a front of respectability and affluence, much to Miller’s amusement.

What sticks in my crop about this period, when he was so desperately poor and miserable, is the air of elegance and fastidiousness which clung to him. He always seemed more like a stockbroker weathering a bad period than a man utterly without resources. The clothes he wore, all of excellent cut as well as of the best material, would obviously last another ten years, considering the care and attention he gave them. Even had they been patched, he would still have looked the well-dressed gentleman. Unlike myself, it never occurred to him to pawn or sell his clothes in order to eat. He had need of his good clothes.

Miller left Paris for Greece in June 1939 and does not hear about Moricand again until 1947 when he receives a thick, forwarded, letter from him. Moricand is living in Switzerland, and as always, is in a precarious state. Miller gets the idea to invite him over, though he’s not sure how his wife will take to it. She can see it ending badly.

Henry gets his way and he manages to raise the passage money somehow and it’s not long before Moricand has arrived in Big Sur, California. Moricand seems to be impressed at first, calling the place ‘paradise’, but a small incident, where Moricand insists that he can only use Yardley talcum powder, makes Miller realise early on that his wife had been correct—that it was a mistake to invite him to their home.

But of that instant I knew my wife was right, knew that I had made a grave mistake. In that moment I sensed the leech that Anaïs had tried to get rid of. I saw the spoiled child, the man who had never done an honest stroke of work in his life, the destitute individual who was too proud to beg openly but was not above milking a friend dry. I knew it all, felt it all, and already foresaw the end.

If it’s not the talc, then it’s the correct size paper, French cigarettes, proper eau de cologne, and then he needs codeine. Miller ends up portraying Moricand as a malingerer, sponger, drug-addict and finally a paedophile—this last one supposedly by his own admission, from a tale he tells the Millers.

So, this is an amusing and interesting character study/demolition, one we can probably all relate to, i.e. the annoying guest who just won’t leave. But it does make one wonder how much is true. I read a couple of Miller biographies decades ago but can’t remember if they say anything about Moricand. Whilst writing this review I came across a book by Karl Orend, called The Brotherhood of Fools & Simpletons: Gods and Devils in Henry Miller’s Utopia (Alyscamps Press, 2005) which appears to show Moricand’s side of the story — if anyone’s interested here’s a review of the book.

This was read as part of Simon’s and Karen’s ‘1956 Club’ Reading Group.

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Filed under Fiction, Miller, Henry