I just read “The Moveable Feast” by Ernest Hemingway (restored edition) and I drove Bean crazy with it. One minute I loved it and the next chapter I was loathing it. Bean said the book made me bipolar. I think she was right. It was a book that was published posthumously which is why I can forgive its erratic nature. It was never really a finished piece and thus wasn’t really intended to be published.
Hemingway and I have always had a troubled past. In this book there were moments of just sheer brilliance.
“I thought of Miss Stein and Sherwood Anderson and egotism and mental laziness versus discipline and thought who is calling who a lost generation?”
“But Paris was a very old city and we were young and nothing was simple there, not even poverty, nor sudden money, nor moonlight, nor right and wrong nor the breathing of someone who lay beside you in the moonlight.”
These words are amazing and brilliant. Yet the work is littered with nonsensical messiness like the conversation with Scott Fitzgerald about his penis size. Somehow I guess this is how true brilliance works. It may have been that I had judged Hemingway to fiercely in my youth and I’m glad I gave him a second chance. He drove me a little mental but that’s okay because I know I will never forget this book for its greatness and its lack of greatness.
Like Bean said…this book has made me bipolar, lol.