Ernest Hemingway – don’tcha love ’im? That big strong he-man with the teeth, running all over the earth just to root out the rarin’est bulls, the meanest wars, the biggest martinis, the coldest champagne and the prettiest gals? And writing that prose, my gawd, without those sissy modifiers so that you could just drop dead from its straight-from-the-hip lapidary American masculine themey beauty?
Ernest Hemingway – aren’tcha sick of ’im? With that big beer belly and purple face and vacant look, falling over at Claridges and throwing up all over Paris and Africa with those giant dead fish, and that need to be mothered and called Papa at the same time and that very unwinning inability to be alone for even a single solitary second?
Anyway. To the man and woman in the street, Ernest Hemingway was novel-writing, for decades. Until he began…
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