By Ernest Hemingway
Hemingway's stories of his existence as an unknown author dwelling in Paris within the Twenties are deeply own, warmly affectionate and whole of wit. He remembers the time while, bad, chuffed and writing in cafes, he stumbled on his vocation.
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Extra info for A Moveable Feast (Scribner Classic)
It would come in one day when the fall was over. We would have to shut the windows in the night against the rain and the cold wind would strip the leaves from the trees in the Place Contrescarpe. The leaves lay sodden in the rain and the wind drove the rain against the big green autobus at the terminal and the cafe des amateurs was crowded and the windows misted over from the heat and the smoke inside. It was a sad, evilly run cafe where the drunkards of the quarter crowded together and i kept away from it because of the smell of dirty bodies and the sour smell of drunkenness.
You are,' she insisted. 'you have no respect for anything. ' i asked. ' 'No. ' 'I've been drunk,' i said. ' 'Of course not. ' 'The boy's patron was probably drunk by eleven o'clock in the morning,' i said. ' 'Don't argue with me, hemingway,' miss stein said. 'it does no good at all. ' Later when i wrote my first novel i tried to balance miss stein's quotation from the garage keeper with one from ecclesiastes. but that night walking home i thought about the boy in the garage and if he had ever been hauled in one of those vehicles when they were converted to ambulances.
We ate well and cheaply and drank well and cheaply and slept well and warm together and loved each other. 'i think we ought to go,' my wife said. 'we haven't been for such a long time. we'll take a lunch and some wine. ' 'we'll go on the train and it's cheap that way. but let's not go if you don't think we should. anything we'd do today would be fun. ' 'no,' she said arrogantly. she had the lovely high cheekbones for arrogance. ' so we went out by the train from the gare du nord through the dirtiest and saddest part of town and walked from the siding to the oasis of the track.
A Moveable Feast (Scribner Classic) by Ernest Hemingway