Word: hemingway
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...help him with the big painting he rightly considered his first masterpiece: The Farm. Frontal as a nursery ark, bathed in the raking dreamlight of early morning and constructed with the geometrical clarity of a Renaissance townscape, this was Miro's summation of memory. As its first owner, Ernest Hemingway, wrote, ''It has in it all that you feel about Spain when you are there and all that you feel when you are away and cannot go there. No one else has been able to paint these two very opposing things.'' It was Miro's power of recall as much...
...wouldn't want to live along the Mississippi and drift down the river on a skiff? The buddy story of Huck and Jim was not only a model of American adventure and literature but also of deep friendship and loyalty. It's not hard to see why Ernest Hemingway said all of American literature can be traced back to Mark Twain. Plus, Twain was funny, the hardest trick...
...those heads swell, however. News in the form of edgy drollery may seem a brave new thing, but it can all be traced back to one source, the man Ernest Hemingway said all of modern American literature could be traced back to: Mark Twain. Oh, that old cracker-barrel guy, you may say. White suit, cigar, reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated--but he died back in 1910, no? White, male, and didn't he write in dialect? What does he have to do with the issues...
...freeways and crime rates and history and such. It's reminiscent of one of Tom Wolfe's billion-footed beasts, but it's even more reminiscent of the socially conscious early 20th century naturalism of John Dos Passos and John Steinbeck. Fittingly, Frey uses a hard-boiled, under-punctuated, Hemingway type of nonstyle that seems to growl, I'm giving you the straight dope here, son. (A sample: "They lived in a small town in an eastern state it was nowhere anywhere everywhere, a small American town full of alcohol, abuse and religion. He worked in an auto body shop...
...lover? Lahiri (who won a Pulitzer for Interpreter of Maladies) gives us nearly 60 pages of precisely narrated time and delicate emotional tension before the story finally gathers its energies for one sharp, perfectly aimed stab of achy sadness and hope. This is the short story as Hemingway practiced it--or Chekhov, for that matter--in all its demanding, reactionary glory...