”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.” Ernest Hemingway The Lost Generation: Hemingway and the circle of ex-pat friends he later immortalised in The Sun Also Rises. More friends, including Harold Loeb, the model for Robert Cohn in The Sun Also Rises, on the left, Hemingway in the centre and Hadley on the right.I hadn’t planned to read this book until I read this great article in the The Atlantic that was published recently by Joe Fassler that consists of a conversation he had with Daniel Woodrell. This article which whether you care one wit about Woodrell or for that matter Ernest Hemingway is still an inspiring read. http://www.theatlantic.com/entertainm... Woodrell while bumming around Mexico found himself negotiating a trade with a hungry young American of a meal for a copy of A Moveable Feast. Woodrell ended up buying two tacos for a book that changed his life. He was ni-ni-nin-teen. He read the book through several times and for the price of two tacos it set him on the course to being a writer. I have not read Hemingway for decades. I often think of him as a gateway drug to better literature. As you can imagine ever since my son was old enough to read I’ve been chucking books at him that I felt that he should read with frankly disappointing results. Books stabbed with bristling bookmarks littered his room and were left for dead. I realized I was trying to move him forward too fast and so I thought about what I liked to read when I was first becoming a reader. I tossed Robert Louis Stevenson and Edgar Rice Burroughs into his room. The books came back gnawed and masticated. I did a little dance.Then I gave him Hemingway. I heard the snap of the bear trap. He read everything he could get his hands on by Hemingway. In fact he has now read more Hemingway than I have. He then went on to Fitzgerald and expanded out to reading some film history books. By the whisker of my chiny chin chin he became a reader. Despite the ease in reading Hemingway’s sparse prose I found myself squirming every time I sat down to read this book. I like vocabulary and the Oxford English Dictionary has listings for 171,476 words in current use, and 47,156 obsolete words. To this may be added around 9,500 derivative words. So when we write we have a choice of 228,132 words to express ourselves. It feels like Hemingway cuts out 227,000 of them. The average literate adult knows 50,000, but may only use 17,000 and some studies show as low as 5,000. If you count for instance DRIVE, DRIVER AND DRIVES as three separate words our language blossoms to over 600,000 entries. Hemingway was bucking against the establishment when he decided that adjectives were not necessary and sliced his prose down to just the bare minimum of what the reader needs. Short sentences, short words. I don’t mind some purple in my prose. William Faulkner’s famous epic opening sentence for Absalom! Absalom! was 1,288 words long. James Joyce in Ulysses made a mockery out of that with a sentence 4,391 words long. The fact of the matter is Hemingway has been canonized and his minimized writing style had a huge impact on the next generations of writers. I cringe whenever I hear anyone say if there is a simpler word use it. This all said a writer does have a responsibility to write to their audience. The One and Only Gertrude SteinHemingway had some...well... interesting conversations with Gertrude Stein. Stein for the record gives me the willies more so when she expresses her opinions. The Lost Generation, as this group of creative people in Paris were called, flocked to her door and fell at her feet. She commanded respect and if you did not give that respect you were not invited back. ”I had started this conversation and thought it had become a little dangerous. There were almost never paused and there were something she wanted to tell me and I filled my glass.‘You know nothing about any of this really, Hemingway,’ She said. ‘You’ve met known criminals and sick people and vicious people. The main thing is that the act male homosexuals commit is ugly and repugnant and afterwards they are disgusted with themselves. They drink and take drugs, to palliate this, but they are disgusted with the act and they are always changing partners and cannot be really happy.’‘I see.’‘In women it is the opposite. They do nothing that they are disgusted by and nothing that is repulsive and afterwards they are happy and they can lead happy lives together.’‘I see.’”I see. I see. I see.Hemingway also spent some time with Fitzgerald. His portrayal of F. Scott is not the most endearing, but then I have no illusions about Fitzgerald and his destructive lifestyle, in particular, his debilitating drinking. Hemingway did admire Scott’s writing.”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 of 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 was effortless.” Ernest Hemingway (The Bull) and F. Scott Fitzgerald (The Butterfly).Hemingway becomes exasperated with the devastating influence that Zelda had on Fitzgerald’s life and writing. She wanted to drink, party, and be merry all the time. Zelda Sayre broke up with F. Scott after they became engaged. He was determined to become famous in an effort to win her back. He wrote This Side of Paradise and sent it out for consideration to publishers. The result: he lined the walls of his study with the rejection slips. After a third revision Maxwell Perkins went to bat for him and Scribners decided to publish. The book sold out in three days. It makes me wonder if F. Scott had never met Zelda would he have ever become a successful writer? She was his muse and his kryptonite. One thing I have discovered over the years in watching the relationship gymnastics of my friends is that we can not help who we fall in love with. It is mystical and sometimes makes no sense even to ourselves. I’ve always liked this picture of the The Fitzgeralds.A source of contention between Zelda and F. Scott was that all those wonderful witty bits of dialogue that came out of her mouth ended up in his writing. She had literary aspirations herself and felt that he was stealing her best material. I wish I’d read this book when I was ni-ni-nin-teen because maybe I’d be a brilliant regional writer like Daniel Woodrell. (It could have been me being knocked silly on an episode of No Reservations with Anthony Bourdain.) If you do not know much about the Lost Generation and their time in Paris this isn’t a bad place to start. It will be a quick read and should lead to other books and a new found interest in a period of time when it felt like everything was possible and change wasn’t something to be feared.
But Paris was a very old city and we were young and nothing was simple there, not even poverty, nor sudden money, nor the moonlight, nor right and wrong nor the breathing of someone who lay beside you in the moonlight.Well, this book was amazing. I was rather trepidatious, but it turned out to be excellent.People who interfered with your life always did it for your own good and I figured it out finally that what they wanted was for you to conform completely and never differ from some accepted surface standard and then dissipate the way traveling salesmen would at a convention in every stupid and boreing way there was. They knew nothing of our pleasures nor how much fun it was to be damned to ourselves...(I did not misspell "boring," it's that way in the book.)Ernest Hemingway is writing about himself and his life in Paris. His writing style is so beautiful: simple and straightforward. I really love this style.He discusses other 'big names' he was involved with at this time: F. Scott Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein, Sylvia Beach.To my vast surprise, I found Ernest Hemingway to be very funny. He made me laugh numerous times, especially "Chapter 17: Scott Fitzgerald" which was HILARIOUS. In this chapter Hemingway describes a trip he took with Scott and Scott is the biggest ninny. Hemingway trying to deal with Scott's idiocy is an absolute riot and I was cracking up. I didn't expect to laugh this much reading a Hemingway book - and that's not the only chapter where Hemingway's sense of humor shines.Hemingway also gets into the most interesting discussions with his friends. He and Stein discuss homosexuality, the differences between gay men and lesbian women, sexual predators, and Stein gives Hemingway sex advice which he proudly brings home to Hadley.Another great chapter is the one where F. Scott Fitzgerald comes to Hemingway, very upset, convinced - absolutely convinced - that he has a tiny penis and no woman (besides Zelda) will ever want him. Who planted this idea in him? Zelda, of course. So Ernest Hemingway is such a good friend and he's like, "Well, let's check this out." So he takes a look at Scott's penis and declares it normal. Wow. This is a good friend. Then he takes him to see a Michelangelo exhibit so that Scott can feel better about his penis. I AM NOT MAKING THIS SHIT UP. Lastly, he gives Scott some sex advice on how to make the most use of his penis.One thing I love hearing Hemingway talk about is poverty and hunger. He and Hadley are pretty poor in Paris and Hemingway sometimes lies to his wife and says he's going to eat lunch but instead takes a two-hour walk around the park so that it saves them money. Poverty and hunger are two subjects I am intimately familiar with and I loved hearing about Hemingway's experiences with them.When you are 25 and a natural heavyweight, missing a meal completely makes you very hungry. But it also sharpens all of your perceptions, and I found that many of the people I wrote about had very strong appetites and a great taste and desire for food, and most of them were looking forward to having a drink.This is accurate.One of the most absolutely romantic parts of the book is the chapter in which Hemingway and Hadley decide to wear their hair the exact same length. Hemingway wants to grow out his hair - he so much admires the long hair of the Japanese men he sees. Hadley is so supportive and they make a very romantic vow to wear their hair the same length. This is a very beautiful, romantic and heartwarming chapter. They defy the social conventions of the time:I enjoyed being considered damned and my wife and I enjoyed being considered damned together.Do you know that Hemingway was the creator of the hashtag #sorrynotsorry?I was sorry about this but there was nothing I could do about it. LOL I kid, I kid - but actually I'm not joking, this is Hemingway's attitude about a lot of things.The book is also rife writing advice. I am not a writer! But I think anyone who is a writer would really enjoy and even possibly benefit from reading this book - Hemingway offers some thoughts and suggestions that I could see coming in very handy.Now, the book isn't perfect. Of course we have shades of racism, homophobia, and sexism in here. Not to mention I was getting a strong James-Bond-feeling during a lot of parts:A girl came in the café and sat by herself at a table near the window. She was very pretty with a fresh face as a newly minted coin if they minted coins in smooth flesh with rain-freshened skin, and her hair black as crow's wing and cut sharply and diagonally across her cheek.I looked at her and she disturbed me and made me very excited.Hello, Bond. LOL This is something Bond would think - except Bond would include a detailed description of her breasts. The book also has its dull parts.Anyway, my point is that the book isn't perfect - but it's very good. I highly recommend it, actually. Clear, concise writing. It's funny. It has some great ideas and thoughts in it. I'm not saying Hemingway is a wonderful human being, but his writing is wonderful IMO. It's also fun to see everyone else traipsing around Paris: F. Scott Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein, Sylvia Beach, etc. I really was transported to 1920s Paris. I thought this would be boring, and I was happily proven wrong. I will definitely end up reading this a second time, perhaps in Spanish, where it is titled: París era una fiesta Or Paris was a party.P.S. Please note that this is a review of The Restored Edition. I really liked this edition - I've read quotes from the other version and have decided that this is superior.
What do You think about A Moveable Feast (2012)?
This memoir (Hemingway coyly says in the preface that the reader may consider it fiction), with its idyllic tone, surely romanticizes Hemingway's life in France with his first wife and their child. It includes rather unflattering portraits of Stein, Madox Ford and the Fitzgeralds, while certainly leaving out things that would've made Hemingway himself look bad. But, perhaps, it is as he says here of his fiction writing: what is omitted is what strengthens the story. I enjoyed the style, the stories he tells, and, yes, the gossip. I especially liked the masterful use of indirection at the end. Despite what he was deflecting, it was beautifully written, almost poetic.
—Teresa
«Ecco cosa siete. Ecco che cosa siete, voialtri» disse la signorina Stein. «Tutti voi giovani che avete fatto la guerra. Siete una generazione perduta.»Io e il signor Ernest Hemingway, chiamato da tutti - amici e non - soltanto col nomignolo di Hem, ci siamo seduti ai Lilas per berci un po' di whiskey in santa pace mentre parlavamo dei rispettivi romanzi. Hem mi ha detto che scrivo da cani, che mi metto a parlare di cose che non c'entrano un cazzo e che i personaggi non potranno mai pensare. Io gli ho risposto Senti, Hem, i miei personaggi sono ognuno un piccolo universo e io ci ficco dentro quello che voglio. No, non ci ficco dentro quello. Non parlo di... non farmi essere volgare.Allora, non è giusto immaginarci gli scrittori degli anni '20 chiusi in alberghi di Lusso nel centro di Parigi a scrivere le loro opere immortali . Non ci crederete, ma questi tizi si sbronzavano per il settanta percento della durata della giornata eppure scrivevano libri meravigliosi. Gli anni ruggenti. Parigi. Che bellezza. Okay, non c'erano i cellulari. Non c'era internet (e nemmeno Chrome) e facebook neanche a immaginarlo sotto l'effetto di droghe. Però che vita. Cazzo, che vita. La conversazione tra Hem e me è proseguita su temi quali i Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound, Gertrude Stein, T.S. Eliot e tanti altri. Ci siamo divertiti un casino. Poi lui mi ha portato in giro per Parigi, l'abbiamo amata insieme questa città, eravamo amici ma lui aveva fatto la guerra ed era perduto. Non "votato alla morte" ma pur sempre perduto. Ed era triste. La città e lui e io. Se la sua generazione aveva fatto la guerra ed era perduta, cosa sarebbe successo alla generazione di vent'anni dopo? Quello non gliel'ho chiesto, perché lui ancora non poteva sapere.Mi ha detto questo di Scott:Il suo talento era naturale come il disegno tracciato dalla polvere sulle ali di una farfalla. In un primo tempo non lo capì più di quanto lo capisca la farfalla, ed egli non se ne accorse neppure quando il disegno fu guastato o cancellato. Più tardi si rese conto delle sue ali danneggiate e comprese com'erano fatte e imparò a riflettere e non riuscì più a volare perché era scomparso l'amore per il volo e poté solo ricordarsi di quando volare non gli era costato il minimo sforzo. Quasi quasi me ne innamoravo. Sia di di lui (Hem) che di Scott. Diventavo omosessuale per 'sti due. Che teneri. E poi per quello che hanno scritto e per come lo hanno scritto, ci andrei anche a letto. Forse. Nah, stiamo entrando troppo nell'intimo, stiamone fuori.Continuando a camminare ci siamo fermati in un bar che ora non ricordo a prenderci un caffè. Pensate. Un caffè. Qualcosa di analcolico, incredibile. Fatto sta che abbiamo parlato d'altro e siamo finiti su Dostoevskij, che io non ho mai letto e di cui lui ha un'idea molto particolare. In quel periodo Hem leggeva molta letteratura russa, più che altro perché la prendeva in prestito dalla biblioteca. Alla fine gli ho detto... Hem, senti, lo leggeresti il mio pessimo libro? So già che è pessimo perché ho tentato di copiare il tuo stile, quello dei tuoi contemporanei e quello di coloro che sono venuti dopo di te, ma lo leggeresti lo stesso? Poi mi mandi il tuo parere in un altro libro sulla Parigi degli anni '20, dove dirai di aver incontrato Marco Tamborrino ed esserti sbronzato di whiskey insieme a lui. Ti va? Io ci metto la firma.
—Marco Tamborrino
Reading A Moveable Feast was a strange combination of pure pleasure and pure torture for me. On one hand, what could be better than reading a pseudo-memoir written by the unabashedly self-absorbed, and yet enduringly charming, Hemingway--all white wine, manliness, and burgeoning craft, with an excess of anecdotes and remembrances (often unflattering and unfair, god bless him) of his eccentric and luminous contemporaries? Not much. Especially with such memories: of Gertrude "Aldous Huxley writes like a dead man" Stein, of Wyndham "Eyes of an Unsuccessful Rapist" Lewis, of confirming for Scott Fitzgerald that his endowment was of a sufficient dimension to please any decent woman (compared, when it was, with statues at the Louve). Everything is romantic: unheated Parisian cafes, living on money borrowed from the woman who owns the bookstore/library, having dinner with fire eaters, skiing up into the tip-top of the Alps to learn about avalanches in the winter, losing 6 months' savings on the ponies, boxing with Ezra Pound, donating money to fund T.S. Elliot's departure from his humdrum bank job. Eating and drinking. Not eating and drinking. But especially, 'Working.' That up-with-the-sun-to-work-on-my-craft self-imposed grindstone that one sweats over as one might laying bricks and mortar all day. For from the way Hemingway describes it, writing--working--is hard, physical (manly) labor. It taxes you and it costs you and it takes a whole morning to get a paragraph written, but all the better! Like a good climb up a tall mountain, your exhaustion only proves that you've done something real and worthwhile. Which is a sentiment that can make any writer-in-training feel grand and important. This isn't art or creativity or any pansy self-expression. This. Is. Work.And yet...Hemingway tells us of a time when one could travel through Europe on a seasonal basis, drink bottles of wine by the liter, eat out in cafes all the time, and still be considered poor. When you could make a living selling magazine stories and the odd piece of journalism. When these combined payments were not only enough to fund an apartment for you and your wife and son, but also for a nursemaid, and for a separate hotel room in which you could work (naked, if need be). It's a particularly classy brand of poverty that doesn't sound impoverished at all. Alas and alack. But it's still fun to read about.
—Larissa
