يقول هيمنجواي " هكذا كانت باريس عندما كنا فقراء جداً وسعداء جداً
مذكرات هيمنجواي الشاب في باريس في أوائل عشرينيات القرن الماضي
كتبها على مدار 3 سنوات, ونُشرت عام 1964 بعد 3 سنوات من انتحاره
وليمة متنقلة بين الذكريات والأدب ومعالم باريس.. المقاهي والمطاعم والمكتبات
حكايات عن صداقاته المختلفة للأدباء وعلاقته الجميلة بزوجته, قراءاته وأعماله
فترة غنية في حياته برغم الفقر المادي, محكية بسلاسة وبأسلوب بسيط

Real Rating: 2.5* of five

I am not a Hemingway fan. Next to D.H. Lawrence and Ivy Compton-Burnett, he's my least favorite English-language writer. This sly, arch memoir of Paris in the 1920s contains unkind and unflattering portraits of people who were kind to Hemingway back in the day, as well as some deeply homophobic stuff that reveals the author's life-long anxiety about his own sexuality. He was quite pretty in his youth:

He was always hostile towards "otherness" and I suspect, given how vividly Manly his pursuits were, that they sprang in part from his anger and fear at being pigeonholed as "arty" or "an artist" which was code for queer in that time. He even turned on famously Sapphic Gertude Stein, whose aperçu "Ernie's remarks do not constitute literature" is the single best thing in her own tediously overwrought ouevre, and still whose support for him in his initial Parisian foray was key to his success.

So my response to this book, read after the extraordinarily excellent The Sun Also Rises and his uniformly good, frequently excellent, short fiction, came off badly in my eyes. (I dislike The Old Man and the Sea almost but not quite as much as Sons and Lovers and slightly more than Manservant and Maidservant, both perfectly horrible books.) I won't read the bits of his ouevre I've escaped, and I don't recommend him to you as a reader. I actively, forcefully discourage you from reading his work if you're an aspiring writer. The temptation to emulate his style *must*be*resisted* because, trust me on this!, you cannot reach its heights.

I don't like his stuff but I do acknowledge his hugely effortful and massively talented foray into stylistic innovation.

I suspect, though I cannot prove, that Hemingway won't survive the ages. I'm not at all sure novels will survive the ages as a means of consuming stories. It seems to me that the storytelling medium to beat is, and will continue to be as it grows and refines itself, video/computer games. Their complexity and their sheer scope quite overpowers mere imagination-driven reading. Novels will be as dead as poetry is.

O brave new world....

If you haven't been to Paris, you just won't get A Moveable Feast...
If you aren't already a fan of Hemingway, don't bother reading A Moveable Feast

Look, I'm struggling to get a start on this review and those were the first two statements that popped into my head. I don't know if they are true. I don't know if they are fair. So I crossed them out. What I do know is this work - fiction, memoir, sketches, a polished diary - whichever of these it may be - wouldn't exist without Paris. Obviously, right? No, that's not what I mean. I mean Paris is to writers as Burgundy is to Pinot Noir. It's all about terroir - that sense of place, climate, geography, culture that shape the flavor and texture of a thing. You can make great wine out of pinot grown in Oregon, New Zealand, Chile - but it will never, ever approximate the glory of Burgundy. Writers can write with greatness anywhere in the world, but a writer in Paris - and goodness, a writer in the vintage years of the early-mid 1920's - is a singularly-blessed creature who may pour forth with words that change the world.

Hyperbole? Ah, well, I guess you've never been to Paris.

I bought a cheap, paperback copy of A Moveable Feast at Shakespeare and Company last winter. I'd spent the day retracing the steps of the Lost Generation through the 5eme and 6eme Arrondissements: the Luxembourg Gardens, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, Rue Mouffetard, Rue du Cardinal Lemoine, La Place Contrescarpe, Rue Descartes, Quai des Grands-Augustins -- the haunts of Hemingway, Scott Fitzgerald, Picasso, Gertrude Stein, Ezra Pound, Ford Maddox Ford as they drank and smoked and wrote their way between the wars. Other than the now-phony tourist traps of Les Deux Magots and Café de Flore and the relocated Shakespeare and Company bookshop (opened in its current location at 37 rue de la Bûcherie in 1951 after the original shop was closed in 1941 during the Occupation of Paris), much is as I imagined it was in 1924. The light shines golden and bittersweet in the narrow streets, landlocked Parisians flock to chaises longues in the Luxembourg Gardens to soak up an unseasonably warm February sun, students at the Sorbonne crowd the coffee shops in between classes, smoking, flirting and speaking in a rapid-fire Parisian slang that I was hopeless to comprehend.

My paperback copy of A Moveable Feast is now dreadfully dog-eared. I have marked passage upon passage in which Hemingway talks about writing - he was so disciplined and therefore so productive - which weakened my knees: "I would stand and look out over the rooftops of Paris and think, "Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence, and go on from there."

or about Paris: "You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light. But you knew there would always be spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen."

or about wine "In Europe then we thought of wine as something as healthy and normal as food and also as a great giver of happiness and well-being and delight. Drinking wine was not a snobbism nor a sign of sophistication nor a cult; it was as natural as eating and to me as necessary... "

This is a collection of sketches of a writer as he remembers his happiest, purest days spent healing from the injuries and horrors of World War I, in love with a devoted wife and a round, sweet baby, being discovered by artists of influence and nurturing others through their own addictions and afflictions. Of course we know that Hemingway's own story does not end well. As he pens what will become the final paragraphs of A Moveable Feast many years later, he recognizes how fragile and temporary were those years: "But we were not invulnerable and that was the end of the first part of Paris, and Paris was never to be the same again although it was always Paris and you changed as it changed.... this is how Paris was in the early days when we were very poor and very happy."

Perhaps the one true condition of enjoying this memoir is that one must be an incurable romantic. An affliction I bear with pride.