Explore "Plexus" by Henry Miller on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It is only for a few brief months that this heavenly period lasts. Soon it will be nothing but trouble, nothing but want, nothing but frustration. Until I get to Paris only three short scripts will ever be published-the first in a magazine dedicated to the advancement of the colored people, the second in a magazine sponsored by a friend and which has but one issue, and the third in a magazine revived by good old Frank Harris.
Thereafter everything I submit for publication will bear my wife's signature. (Only one freakish exception, of which more later.) It is agreed that I can do nothing on my own. I am simply to write and leave the rest to Mona. Her job at the theater has already petered out. The rent has been long overdue. My visits to Maude have become less and less regular and the alimony is paid only now and then, when we make a haul. Soon Mona's wardrobe gives out, and I, like a dolt, make vain efforts to beg a dress or a suit off my old sweethearts. When it gets bitter cold she wears my overcoat.