I needed a good mental fucking and this book delivered again.
I read this as a teenager and loved it, but have always been a little dubious about whether it would live up to re-reading, but 15 years later, and having roamed Paris a little myself, drunk and sober, it is even better. (While there I took a late night walk by the place he was living at the time as identified by a website I found.)
The book seems a little smaller now, but in a good way. I think now I am more able to focus on what is really phenomenal about the writing rather than being wowed by the mere idea of his lifestyle. I can see more clearly what it is he is trying to hone in on. I can see more clearly that the book isn't just a cluster-fuck for the sake of a cluster-fuck.
Also, having read Hamsun's "Hunger" I can now see how "Tropic of Cancer" is built on that book. I'm pretty sure of that fact, given that Miller is where I heard of Hamsun in the first place anyway.
A lot is said about how shocking this book is, either as if that were a value in itself, or as if he were a juvenile just out to shock for shock's sake. The book is meant to be shocking, but only in the sense that reality is shocking. It's a book that is meant to bring us back to the real.