SEXUS by Henry Miller. 634 pages Grove. $1.25.
There is something to be said (but not much) for any writer who can think up titles like Sexus, Plexus and Nexus. The names chime like a singing commercial piped by Priapean elves, all trying to jolly the reader into putting up once more with that old boudoir Bolshevik, Henry Miller, the Lenin of the dirty-word revolution.
By now, that revolution is all but over: there is no aspect of sex, however recondite, that is not portrayed at length in novels published by respectable U.S. houses...
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