Hemingway often says in this book that in Paris you get hungry a lot because of all the cafes and the delicious food that are placed invitingly to a half empty stomach. A Moveable Feast had the same effect of me. I hunger for this Paris of the past. No so much because the place itself was beautiful, but because of all the people and the conversation. Like Paris stayed with Hemingway for the rest of his life wherever he went, this book shall stay with me.
Interspersed in this beautiful tribute and memoir, Hemingway's advice on the craft of writing shines ever as bright. There's sincere conversation about craft and what it means and takes to be a craftsman. The chapter on Dostoevsky was entirely too relatable; I'm sure more readers of the literary giant felt the same.
Sincerity despite one's intention betrays Hemingway's true nature here though. I'm not sure if I'm to praise him for this or find him lacking in self awareness. Despite his best efforts or perhaps because of them, I'm left with the thought that Ernest Hemingway was a deeply insecure man. Not an insecure artist, which is understandable. He is an insecure man. And I say that with pity more than anything. He is a brave man. He has been to war at a time most people go to college. His life is full of feats of bravery and thrill. But that is the case against him. One can only be brave, one can only be tough- these are the rigid structures he's imprisoned himself in.Vulnerability can only come out at frustration and is to be quickly dismissed. Looking artsy is 'feminine' so he must not look artsy. Yet this memoir is full of him doing 'feminine' stuff. I wonder if he's good friends with Fitzgerald because he didn't suffer those rigid constraints as much as Hemingway did. But one must not shy away from praising his sincerity. Hemingway's advice of 'Write one true sentence that you know' stays intact.
by tomassabina