Word: hemingways
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From the outset, one must get the cast straight. "Look at it this way," Callaghan pleads. "Scott didn't like McAlmon. McAlmon no longer liked Hemingway. Hemingway had turned against Scott. I had turned up my nose at Ford. Hemingway liked Joyce. Joyce liked McAlmon...
...Soon. Morley was able to match anyone in the regional game of literary oneupmanship, and he knew who was meant when some one mentioned Eliot.* He proudly recalls the day he put in their places a couple of young squirts who thought they were In because they could recognize Hemingway in the streets. They thought a little man who followed Hemingway carrying a bag was his butler. "No, that's Miró," Morley said quietly. "Miró! The Spanish painter," they squeaked, and slunk away abashed...
...moreover, contained Hemingway's boxing gloves and the clue to why Morley could sit in a cafe with Ernest when Scott could not. Hemingway was hooked on boxing; he was so self-deluded about it that he told a friend, "My writing is nothing. My boxing is everything." Though he was seven years older, he had known Morley back when they were both reporters on the Toronto Star. He and Morley, a competent amateur middleweight, liked to box together. It was as simple as that, but Scott felt "pushed aside and not needed." One fatal day he wangled himself...
...With Hemingway and Faulkner dead, this is not a time of giants. The public is too easily preoccupied with giantism-an understandable result both of the publishers' belief that bestsellers sell best, and of the wistful ache of uncertain readers to be in the mode. But literature has never been a procession of giants. Nor do they arise, like occasional Poseidons, from a featureless sea. Rather, they form part of a moving and sustaining stream of literature, which is and must be fed by tributaries. Minor writers are needed to produce major ones...
Gertrude Stein's disenchantment with Hemingway touched off a literary brawl between the two that was better publicized than most but considerably tamer than some-as this lucid and witty guide to literary feuding demonstrates. The casual insult. Author Land points out, is not enough to constitute a feud. Carlyle, for instance, was not feuding with Emerson when he referred to him as "a hoary-headed and toothless baboon," or with Swinburne when he refused to meet him on the ground that he did not want to know a man who was "sitting in a sewer and adding...