Word: hemingways
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...good book has ever been written that has in it symbols arrived at beforehand and stuck in," says Hemingway. "That kind of symbol sticks out like raisins in raisin bread. Raisin bread is all right, but plain bread is better." He opens two bottles of beer and continues: "I tried to make a real old man, a real boy, a real sea and a real fish and real sharks...
...looks ahead at some floating sargasso weed, where some flying fishes are skittering through the air. "Could be fish there," he says. A reel gives out a soft whine, and Hemingway goes into action again. "Beautiful!" he cries. "Dolphin. They're beautiful." After landing his fish, shimmering blue, gold and green, Hemingway turns his attention to his guest. "Take him softly now," he croons. "Easy. Easy. Work him with style. That's it, up slowly with the rod, now reel in fast. Suave. With style. With style. Don't break his mouth." After the second fish...
This feeling about style, perhaps more than anything else, has always been Hemingway's credo-whether it concerned the right way to kill a bull, track a wildebeest, serve Valpolicella or blow up a bridge. And it was usually the redeeming feature and ultimate triumph of his characters: they might die, but they died with style. They left behind them some aura of virtue, some defiant statement of this-is-the-way-it-should-be-done that amounted to a victory of sorts...
Judgment & Pride. The matter of style reminds Hemingway of many things, including his Nobel Prize. He knows just what he would like to say if he went to Stockholm for the acceptance ceremony. He would like to talk about a half-forgotten poet and great stylis-Ezra Pound. Poet Pound used to look over Hemingway's early manuscripts in Paris and returned them, mercilessly blue-penciled, the adjectives gone. Indicted for treason for his pro-Fascist broadcasts in Italy during World War II, Pound was declared "mentally incompetent" in 1946 and is now in Washington's St. Elizabeth...
Alongside the Pilar, the bait keeps bobbing and Dante gives way to the dolphins, In little time the Pilar boats 15 beauties. Excited as a boy, Hemingway overlooks a promise to quit early and take a late-afternoon nap. Not until almost dusk does the boat put in to harbor. The sun seems to be setting only a few yards off a corner of Havana, four miles distant, and Hemingway savors it as if it were his first sunset-or his last. "Look!" he exclaims...