Showing posts with tag: Paris
Hemingway is used as a barometer for the manly or literary class. He is everywhere, his name employed as an easy endorsement. In Spain, Cuba, France and the United States you will stumble on “the café where Hemingway wrote”, “the bar where Hemingway drank”, “the drink Hemingway invented”.
I have fallen sucker to that same trick, no matter how honest, and tried to steal a little of what it meant to be the great man.Read more →
There was a message from Gertrude Stein the day he arrived back in Paris. The desk clerk at his hotel gave him the card. It had a picture of a farmer’s market somewhere in the 17th arrondissement, and said: “Ernest. Looking forward to seeing you. Let’s meet on Friday. Gertrude.” It was Friday, and the message had been there for some time.Read more →