Word: hemingways
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...Russia, where he endures the blatant irony of having a huge salad of royalty rubles thrust on him, Bech and the head of the Soviet Writers' Union joust with vodka glasses: "He toasts Jack London, I toast Pushkin. He does Hemingway, I do Turgenev. I do Nabokov, he counters with John Reed." Elsewhere, Bech vainly attempts to charm Yevtushenko by describing his own position in America not as a literary lion but as a "graying, furtively stylish rat indifferently permitted to gnaw and roam behind the wainscoting of a firetrap about to be demolished anyway...
...hero is an American painter who takes up antisubmarine duties in Cuba during World War II. The novel, Islands in the Stream, should have a start on this fall's bestseller list. It was written by that old man of the sea Ernest Hemingway. After months of poring over the 20-year-old manuscript, Papa's widow Mary asserts that it is "as good as anything he has ever written...
...Best. O'Hara had little patience with writers of the '60s; he was of an earlier era, a contemporary of Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway and Sinclair Lewis. "I've never been able to read Norman Mailer," he complained in 1967. "Mailer is a dirty Saroyan." Bernard Malamud and William Styron received the same short shrift. Most young writers, however, confess to at least a degree of admiration for O'Hara. "He has more genius than talent," John Updike wrote in 1966. "Very little censoring went on in his head, but his best stories have the flowing...
...tensions arising from the cross-purposes of whites and blacks would also not have existed. Not only would there have been no Faulkner; there would have been no Stephen Crane, who found certain basic themes of his writing in the Civil War. Thus, also, there would have been no Hemingway, who took Crane as a source and guide. Without the presence of Negro American style, our jokes, our tall tales, even our sports would be lacking in the sudden turns, the shocks, the swift changes of pace (all jazz-shaped) that serve to remind us that the world is ever...
Died. Waldo Peirce, 85. American impressionist painter, a bewhiskered giant of a man noted as much for his exuberant life-style as for his bold, spontaneous art; of pneumonia; in Newburyport, Mass. Peirce lived with all the verve and gusto of his lifelong friend and traveling companion Ernest Hemingway, even to the point of taking four wives and running with the bulls at Pamplona. His splashy, sensuously colored paintings, said one critic, "smell of sweat and sound like laughter...