Before reading A Moveable Feast, I had read only one book by Hemingway. That book was A Farewell to Arms which I read almost exactly one year ago for my AP Literature Course in high school. So going into this most recent foray into Hemingway, I knew a few basic facts about his life and work.
I knew Hemingway was a member of the so-called "Lost Generation" which lived and wrote in Paris in the aftermath of World War One. I knew that he committed suicide by putting the barrel of a gun in his mouth, that he had worked as an ambulance driver on the Italian front during the Great War and that he had multiple marriages to different women. Furthermore, I knew him as a lauded writer who wrote terse, somewhat blunt prose that matched his forcibly male persona.
Now, after reading his memoir, I find that many of my preconceptions of Hemingway have been affirmed. He certainly was a self-described man's man, the kind of guy who tries to teach his friend's boxing, drinks and gambles with equal gusto and indulges in fine food and pretty young women. The way he interacted with other writers of "The Generation Perdue" was fascinating--from his homophobic disgust for Gertrude Stein to his sudden friendship with F. Scott Fitzgerald. Similarly intriguing was the insight A Moveable Feast provided into Hemingway's internal relationship with his own writing. The book certainly made me respect Hemingway for the methodical, thoughtful approach he took to his writing, how very seriously he took it. At one point he mentions spending entire mornings just writing one paragraph of a story! However, overall, it did not change my view of Hemingway as a person and historical figure. He was just as blunt and virile as I had assumed he would be... there was certainly a powerful, calculating mind behind his stern countenance, but that revelation came as no real surprise either.
Regardless, Hemingway still possesses the commendable ability to put me to sleep with his writing. (or maybe I should just get more sleep?)
No comments:
Post a Comment