When I was writing, it was necessary for me to read after I had written. If you kept thinking about it, you would lose the thing that you were writing before you could go on with it the next day. It was necessary to get exercise, to be tired in the body, and it was very good to make love with whom you loved. That was better than anything. But afterwards, when you were empty, it was necessary to read in order not to think or worry about your work until you could do it again. I had learned already never to empty the well of my writing, but always to stop when there was still something there in the deep part of the well, and let it refill at night from the springs that fed it.
Recently, I picked up A Moveable Feast. It was suppose to be another Hemmingway book to add to the shelves. Instead, it was part writer’s manual and part refreshing literary drink in the midst of penning book two. In other words, it was Hemmingway on life. In the simple, few pages, he speaks beautifully of handling writer’s block, having structured writing, embracing disciplined drinking, ignoring adjectives, reading the Russians, and channeling hunger. And he makes it really hard not to jump on the first plane out of D.C. to Paris.
Hemmingway worked on A Moveable Feat from 1957 to 1960, nearly forty years after the period it covers. It was published for the first time in 1964, three years after he committed suicide. The topical outline of the book covers his experiences living, writing, and loving in Paris from 1921 to 1926. It includes the Lost Generation’s famed Parisian circle, and recalls the opinionated stances of Gertrude Stein, the dining habits of James Joyce, the boxing beginnings of Ezra Pound, and a wet road trip from Lyons to Paris with F. Scott Fitzgerald after Zelda hacked off the top of the car.
The book begins and ends with Parisian flavor and flaws, and it glorifies simplistic living in a poverty filled with happiness and love. Of course, it’s hard not to notice these romantic reminiscences of hunger and adventure are only attractive on (1) the young or (2) the subsequently successful. Ernie nails both. That said, even forty years out, he does not romanticize how his early days in Paris conclude. (Think The Garden of Eden.) In the end, it’s that brutal honesty in sickness and health, poverty and success, love and lust that makes Hemmingway one of the best.
Or as he put it, “…I had tried to break down all my writing and get rid of all facility and try to make instead of describe.” And so he does for both the writer and the reader.
6 responses so far ↓
1 Michael Benidt // Feb 20, 2008 at 10:06 am
“And he makes it really hard not to jump on the first plane out of D.C. to Paris.”
You certainly can write, lady. My freshman composition professor said something like that to me, but he added, “…not like Hemingway, perhaps, but you have something to say.” I figured if I couldn’t be the next Hemingway, then to heck with it and essentially stopped writing. Don’t do that. Keep writing this blog while you write the book - and keep reading and telling us about it.
What a wonderful side road tour you have taken us on in this short piece and what great advice from Papa - to read after writing (and those other things, too).
2 Hannah // Feb 20, 2008 at 12:50 pm
How does the quote go? Something like: “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”
Hemingway is a moveable feast, in my opinion.
And he is a genuis, of course. No other word better captures it. I first read “The Sun Also Rises” when I was 14 and forever fell in the love with the name Jake after Brett says to him, “You have a hell of a Biblical name, Jake.” Poetry sometimes needs only the simplest of words.
Just caught this blog posting on the daily feed of DC Blogs and had to respond. Happy Hemingway reading to you!
3 Kelley // Feb 20, 2008 at 4:57 pm
I adore Hemingway. I do. I want to lay in a tent in Africa, pleasantly inebriated, listening to the roar of lions. I want to own a six-toed cat. I want to hang in a bar in old Key West. I want 1/10000000th of his writing talent. *sigh* Maybe, I might get the cat. Maybe.
4 Whisky Prajer // Feb 21, 2008 at 7:45 am
You hardly need me to serve as the voice of caution when it comes to Hemingway’s advice re: “embracing disciplined drinking.” If you’d like another perspective on the Lost Generation in Paris, I’d highly recommend That Summer In Paris by Morley Callaghan. Callaghan hooked up with Hem when Ernest was working at the Toronto Star. Callaghan followed him to Paris, and hung out with Hem, Fitzgerald and Joyce. Callaghan’s literature didn’t reach the same lofty heights, possibly because his cautious appraisal of these people’s approach to life and relationships was of a piece with his aesthetic. Still, I’m remain fond of Callahan’s account: of the bunch, he was the least drunk, the most married … and the best boxer.
5 Sarah Moffett // Feb 21, 2008 at 8:32 pm
Michael~you are entirely too kind, and do your own fair share of damage writing. Onward, upward, writeward. Or something like that.
Hannah~welcome to the site. Jake is a really good name, isn’t it. By the way, checked out your blog. It’s fantastic. Other’s go forth and read her for yourself.
Kelley~maybe we would all be as talented as Hemingway if we got to lie in tents, pleasantly inebriated, listening to the roar of lions…a girl can dream, right?
Wkisky Prajer~it really is the fact Ernie was the best boxer that seals the deal. Thanks for the book suggestion. Consider on my Amazon wish list.
6 Whisky Prajer // Feb 22, 2008 at 4:20 pm
Oops! Sarah, I don’t want to discourage you from reading a wonderful book, but I should have been clearer in my description: it’s the mild-mannered Canadian Callahan who proved to be the sharper practitioner of The Sweet Science.
Darrell
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