Showing posts with label Hemingway. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hemingway. Show all posts

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Ernest Hemingway Quotes

I finished reading The Good Life According To Hemingway by A.E. Hotchner. For an enthusiast, this book contains numerous black-and-white photos and unique quotations/witticisms that, in most cases, had never before been published. Here are a few colorful quotes:

Back in the days when American billboard advertising was in flower, there were two slogans that I always rated above all others: the old Cremo Cigar ad that proclaimed, “Spit Is a Horrid Word-but Worse on the End of Your Cigar,” and “Drink Schlitz in Brown Bottles and Avoid That Skunk Taste.” You don’t get creative writing like that anymore.

There is no rule on how to write. Sometimes it comes easily and perfectly; sometimes it’s like drilling rock and then blasting it out with charges.

I hate plays. Did you ever listen to the dialogue of a play with your eyes shut?

A book you talk about is a book you don’t write.

The only truly good novel, maybe great, to come out of World War II is The Gallery.
I say “maybe great” because who in the hell can tell? Greatness is the longest marathon ever run; many enter; few survive.

In New York birds fly, but they are not serious about it. They don’t climb.

The only two I could sit through were The Killers and To Have and Have Not -- I guess Ava Gardner and Lauren Bacall had a lot to do with it.

I read about the movie version of The Snows of Kilimanjaro and how there was only one minor alteration-the man is rescued and lives instead of dying-a very minor change, don’t you think?

Death is just another whore.

What if you can no longer measure up, no longer be involved, if you have used up all your fantasies? A champion cannot retire like anyone else. How the hell can a writer retire? The public won’t let him. When a man loses the center of his being, then he loses his being. Retire? It’s the filthiest word in the English language. It’s backing up into the grave. If I can’t exist on my own terms, then existence is impossible. That is how I have lived and must live-or not live.

The world is a fine place and worth the fighting for, and I hate very much to leave it.

Friday, August 22, 2008

Friday’s Forgotten Books: A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway

I rarely reread a book. As a kid, I may have given a Hardy Boy's mystery a second go-around, but there have been few others. One book I’ve read within the last few months that I thought deserved a revisit is Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast, which followed closely on the heels of By-Line: Ernest Hemingway.

Now, I'm not an outdoorsman and I've never been to a bullfight, so reading about hunting, fishing, and bullfighting has never really appealed to me unless Hemingway wrote about them. But Feast is not about these favorite topics of his; this is his account of his time in 1920s Paris as a struggling writer living with his wife and son in meager conditions and his encounters with Gertrude Stein, James Joyce, Picasso, Scott Fitzgerald, etc. (perhaps only Dorothy Parker's round table is comparable in terms of the sheer talent hanging out together).

Feast is on the top of my Hemingway heap, with the best parts of the book being his musings on his peers. On F. Scott Fitzgerald, Hemingway wrote: "His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly's wings. At one time he understood it no more than the butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. Later he became conscious of his damaged wings and their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been effortless."

Beautiful, stark imagery as Hemingway contributed to the Fitzgerald myth of the doomed writer. The passages about Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda were truly harrowing, and Hemingway blamed most of Fitzgerald’s downfall on Zelda. Is what we’re reading factual, partially factual or a re-write of history? Zelda and Hemingway disliked each other immensely.
“[Zelda] described him as ‘bogus’, and ‘phoney as a rubber check’. She considered Hemingway's domineering macho persona to be merely a posture; Hemingway in turn, told Scott that Zelda was crazy.” [Wikipedia]

He referred to Fitzgerald as his friend and you get a genuine sense that he cared for the man. But his fierce competitiveness left few of his author friends, like Fitzgerald, unscathed. I'm a student of his writing but I'm damn glad I wasn't a successful contemporary of Hemingway’s.

Writer and art collector, Gertrude Stein appeared to be a generous supporter of the early Hemingway and she was even godmother to his son, Bumby. The early chapters were devoted to Stein and her companion, Alice B. Toklas, who had graciously invited the Hemingway’s to stop by their home at 27 rue de Fleurus. Stein took an interest in young talent and seemed to relish the role of nurturing them. Hemingway was no exception and she became his mentor in literature and art. However, their relationship ended abruptly when Ernest stopped by unexpectedly, overhearing an argument between Stein and Toklas, who were unaware that he had been let in by the maidservant. Hemingway wrote about the lover’s quarrel, painting Stein in an unflattering, submissive role. Ernest made a quick dash for the door as the maidservant said, “Don’t go. She’ll be right down.” His reply, “I have to go,” was humorous.

Ford Maddox Ford, author and critic, was introduced as "breathing heavily through a heavy, stained mustache and holding himself as uptight as an ambulatory, well clothed, up-ended hogshead" and described as egotistical and jumpy.

But Hemingway could also be gracious and when describing Ezra Pound, he also shed a little more light on his own character. “Ezra was kinder and more Christian about people than I was. His own writing, when he would hit it right, was so perfect, and he was so sincere in his mistakes and so enamored of his errors, and so kind to people that I always thought of him as a sort of saint.”

Stein, Fitzgerald and Ford all preceded Hemingway in death, and one is left to wonder why he had depicted his friends in such an unfavorable manner. Perhaps ego? But he had already been heralded as the greatest writer of the 20th century at that point. Maybe he just told the facts and simply recorded history. Whatever the case, his accounts, though harsh, are equally fascinating, and it’s impossible not to be intrigued by this novel.

According to his fourth wife, Mary, Hemingway started Feast in 1957 and was working on it at the time of his suicide; it was published posthumously in 1964. There was some controversy that she had deleted a great deal of material concerning his first wife Hadley. So who knows what the final product of Feast would have looked like had he lived. Would it have been published at all? Hemingway had left a mass of unpublished material that he never intended to see the light of day. Obviously, any writer begins a book with the intention of publishing it, but maybe he would have toned down some of the descriptions; but then again, if he had, it wouldn't be half as fun. In an age where everybody writes tell-alls and confessionals, A Moveable Feast is a great read.

Click for more Friday's Forgotten Books...

Saturday, July 12, 2008

Interruption Reflections

I know people still like to read because I see their huddled masses in the bookstores. My charmer and I have been going to Books-A-Million, which is big in the south. No doubt, it's a Christian bookstore with it’s rather large section devoted to religion, but aside from that, it could easily pass for Waldens or Barnes and Noble. We go even if we are not buying anything. Just hanging around with like-minded people is soothing. The reason I'm mentioning this is because it seems outside of a bookstore or the blogging community, I am always running into people who don’t read anything other than computer screens or magazines. Whenever I'm on my break at work or just lounging somewhere in public, this scene always happens: I pull out my latest read, kick back, and within the first few paragraphs...

"What are you reading?"

"Hemingway."

"What's it about?"

"Various pieces he wrote for newspapers and magazines over the years."

"Is it any good?"

"Yeah, he was known to write a good one now and then."

"I've never heard of him."

Then my favorite part always occurs. The individual sits down and begins conversing with me about Scarlet Johanson's ample assets or anything else that pops in his brain. I have that awkward moment where I act like I'm still reading while I casually glance at him hoping he will go away. But it never works, so I surrender and close the book. I watch as he rambles on, and I find myself thinking about how people will talk about gaming, movies, politics, weather, gossip, sports, cars, etc., but never once say, "No, I didn't watch CSI last night because I was in the middle of a great James Patterson novel," or, "No, I don't need to see the movie because I've already read the book and the movie is never as good." I know there are people who enjoy Oprah’s book club but where...

Now how ironic is this! As I'm writing my blog on the laptop, a young man, who could literally have stepped out of Huckleberry Finn, walks up to me. A piece of straw hanging from his mouth is the only missing accessory. My charmer and I are at the park, and she's feeding ducks at pond's edge. By-line: Ernest Hemingway is sitting on the bench next to me.

"You're reading Hemingway?" he asks.

I look around like, how's it possible that this is happening again in the same day. I wanna yell for help.

"Yes."

"I love The Old Man and the Sea. He knew how to use words. His distinctive style gets right to the point. I hate reading books where it takes twenty pages to get to the point. Ya know what I mean?"

"Yes."

“I’ve read that Hemingway used to say, ‘Il faut d'abord durer’. He used to inscribe that in the books he signed for friends. I am probably saying it wrong but it translates to ‘First, one must last’.”

His wife, I'm guessing, yells that it’s time to eat. She’s roasting hotdogs on a nearby grill.

"Good talking to ya. Enjoy the book."

"Yes."

My charmer finishes feeding the ducks and walks back toward me, "I see you found a friend."

"Yes," I say, one more time.

I look in the direction of the young couple who wave to us and I wave back, thinking, there is hope.