Henry Miller - Tropic of Cancer (four)

I just finished Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller.
Henry Miller writes an autobiographical work about a writer roaming the streets of Paris, constantly struggling, working to stay afloat as a bum. His life is comprised of conning his next meal out of friends and strangers alike, sleeping with prostitutes and somewhere in-between these the floorboards of his life the writing slips in.
I found the book to be dense, rich and naturalistic in its descriptions of an artist’s life, crawling up the muddy banks of a sewage canal. Occasionally the writing became truly inspired and great but mostly it was of a quality that had me waiting to strike gold, not entirely satisfied with driving a pick-axe through the pages.
I guess most literature needs to be set against its cultural and historical background for the greatness to emerge, a notion I actually refute as a casual, albeit interested, reader. Tropic of Cancer is renowned and praised but did not shift me significantly.