Personally, I find the stories and myths about his life fascinating. Maybe it’s the era within which he lived, keeping company with Picasso, the Fitzgerald’s, and the fascinating Gertrude Stein.
Maybe I just love men who are assholes. That could very well be it.
There have been books written, tongue-in-cheek, on the ‘Heming-Way’; How to be a manly man. In case you can’t read the font, the cover of the book reads; “How to unleash the booze-inhaling, animal-slaughtering, war-glorifying, hairy-chested, retro-sexual legend within, Just Like Papa!”
After reading Hemingway in Love, I fell in love (writer to writer of course darlings) a little more with Mr. Hemingway. This from a woman who has written in his old haunts in Havana and Paris, France.
You see, the book is a tale of regret regarding lost love. Or rather, love pissed away by ego and, well, that’s it. Just ego.
Spoiler alert; during a twilight-years discussion with his dear pal F.Scott Fitzgerald, Hemingway admits to the failure of his grand affair (basically he left his first wife whom he met, fell in love with and married while he was a nobody, for a spoiled rich girl who got whatever she wanted, including Papa).
I made a mistake with Pauline, that’s all. A goddam fatal mistake….No mater what they tell you about reliving the past, it’s not a bridge…She tried to use her wealth to connect us, but it just put me off. I’d made it on my own and I had to keep it that way.
Ahh, yes, there you have it. “I’d made it on my own“.
So many women have made it on their own, in spite of….
…you name it; sexual abuse, poverty, physical abuse. Whatever it is, choose your poison.
Others have not had to face such adversity, and so, they have never had the necessity of having to cultivate their inner Heming-way; toughening up with no one to pour their pink champagne or hold them while they cry.
I for one have never had a father (brother, husband, uncle…..) look out for my best interest or protect his little girl. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done on my own and under my own steam.
Women who have had to walk with their heads held up high, without the benefit of daddy, husband or family-money funded Louboutin’s know what it’s like to have to maintain some rough edges in order to cut through the barbed-wire of independent life.
Kindness matters, yet sometimes a lady has to know when to drop an f-bomb to get the fair result of her efforts. A little booze-inhaling, retro-sexuality can go a long way as a salve to the harsh reality of single living, and letting the silver-spoon-in-mouth born crowd know that you mean business, and have the balls to carry that business out.
As Hemingway allegedly said, reliving the past is not a bridge. We all live, and we all learn. Bridges burn and crumble.
The Her-heming-way’s among us know what it’s like to cry yourself to sleep and plaster on a smile in the morning so you can bring home the bacon. They know that reliving the past is definitely not a bridge , and they’re glad that it’s not.
To all of the Her-Heming-Way ladies out there, I salute you.