Tears are still caught in my throat; I’ve just finished reading this intensely riveting novel, brilliantly told. The narrative never falters, the interest never slackens as the reader is drawn into a sweeping tale of the early writing life and first marriage of Hemmingway, in the voice of his first wife – Hadley Richardson.
Because of the interest in the private life and craft of the great writer, all details were savoured – from his dressing and hairstyles to his disciplined writing schedule – he was dedicated to a fault – the daily grind and the agony, the delight in having written ‘something!’; his vulnerability in relationships and lack of trust that came from his early childhood and family situation as also from witnessing the horrors of WWI in which he was wounded with shrapnel lodged in his legs, and in covering the Greco-Turkish War (1920-1922) as a correspondent – of a man who did not seem to trust his allies and dropped his early mentors and closest friends. The sureness and confidence he had in his writing, he did not in his relationships.
I felt a keen stab of loss when all his early, painstakingly-written manuscripts were lost by none other than the beloved wife. His consequent coming to terms with it at once and not holding her responsible, was heroic. On her part, I did not think Hadley showed enough remorse and not for long. But when he begins to write afresh and the writing is finer and sharper, I felt perhaps all writers should lose their initial drafts to get rid of the scum and reveal only that which is deep and true and beautiful.
Though I often looked for one, I finally had to admit that there could be no cure for Paris. Part of it was the war. The world had ended once already and could again at any moment. The war had come and changed us…. (that was) Why we couldn’t stop drinking or talking or kissing the wrong people no matter what it ruined…The crisp and beautiful prologue prepares one for a peek into the life of the ‘lost generation’ – the absolute empty, meaningless lives of the rich, famous and the super creative in Paris during the early 1920s after the WW1, when allegiances forever shifting, and no relationship was sacrosanct. ‘Paris was Ernest’s smorgasbord.’
I felt every feeling that Hadley did in love and when it was slipping away till it had, irrevocably. But her character, very believable, came across in hindsight, as miss goody two shoes – she’s too nice and warm and beautiful to be real flesh and blood. When Hemmingway leaves her for Pauline, they have their tiffs and outbursts but when the friends ask her to fight back, she only says: ‘People belong to each other only as long as they both believe. He’s stopped believing.’
Deep down she knew that it was over and had weighed her chances well: What could I do or say? He might ultimately fall out of love with Pauline and come fully back to me – that was still possible – but nothing was in my control. If I gave him an ultimatum and said she couldn’t stay, I would lose him. If I got hysterical and made public scenes, it would just give him an excuse to leave me.
Her helplessness and hopelessness were heart-breaking. But Hemmingway was a victim too – a victim of his mind, a flawed human. ‘You make your life with someone and you love that person and you think it’s enough. But it is never enough, is it?’ It was absurd and very infuriating that he and Pauline were living as a couple with Hadley and he expected Hadley to accept it because he loved her too. He wanted both. ‘The arrangement could be deadly, but couldn’t marriage also be, if it banked the coals in you? You could grow very quiet in a marriage. A new girl got you talking and telling her made everything fresh again. She called you out of your head and stopped the feeling that the best part of you was being shaved away, inch by inch. You owed her for that. No matter what happened, however terrible, you wouldn’t forget it.’
The most poignant part was when he calls to speak with Hadley almost forty years later (the last time they speak with each other) – a world celebrated writer, so defeated in bearing out the consequences of his choices and leadings of his heart.
Because of the interest in the private life and craft of the great writer, all details were savoured – from his dressing and hairstyles to his disciplined writing schedule – he was dedicated to a fault – the daily grind and the agony, the delight in having written ‘something!’; his vulnerability in relationships and lack of trust that came from his early childhood and family situation as also from witnessing the horrors of WWI in which he was wounded with shrapnel lodged in his legs, and in covering the Greco-Turkish War (1920-1922) as a correspondent – of a man who did not seem to trust his allies and dropped his early mentors and closest friends. The sureness and confidence he had in his writing, he did not in his relationships.
I felt a keen stab of loss when all his early, painstakingly-written manuscripts were lost by none other than the beloved wife. His consequent coming to terms with it at once and not holding her responsible, was heroic. On her part, I did not think Hadley showed enough remorse and not for long. But when he begins to write afresh and the writing is finer and sharper, I felt perhaps all writers should lose their initial drafts to get rid of the scum and reveal only that which is deep and true and beautiful.
Though I often looked for one, I finally had to admit that there could be no cure for Paris. Part of it was the war. The world had ended once already and could again at any moment. The war had come and changed us…. (that was) Why we couldn’t stop drinking or talking or kissing the wrong people no matter what it ruined…The crisp and beautiful prologue prepares one for a peek into the life of the ‘lost generation’ – the absolute empty, meaningless lives of the rich, famous and the super creative in Paris during the early 1920s after the WW1, when allegiances forever shifting, and no relationship was sacrosanct. ‘Paris was Ernest’s smorgasbord.’
I felt every feeling that Hadley did in love and when it was slipping away till it had, irrevocably. But her character, very believable, came across in hindsight, as miss goody two shoes – she’s too nice and warm and beautiful to be real flesh and blood. When Hemmingway leaves her for Pauline, they have their tiffs and outbursts but when the friends ask her to fight back, she only says: ‘People belong to each other only as long as they both believe. He’s stopped believing.’
Deep down she knew that it was over and had weighed her chances well: What could I do or say? He might ultimately fall out of love with Pauline and come fully back to me – that was still possible – but nothing was in my control. If I gave him an ultimatum and said she couldn’t stay, I would lose him. If I got hysterical and made public scenes, it would just give him an excuse to leave me.
Her helplessness and hopelessness were heart-breaking. But Hemmingway was a victim too – a victim of his mind, a flawed human. ‘You make your life with someone and you love that person and you think it’s enough. But it is never enough, is it?’ It was absurd and very infuriating that he and Pauline were living as a couple with Hadley and he expected Hadley to accept it because he loved her too. He wanted both. ‘The arrangement could be deadly, but couldn’t marriage also be, if it banked the coals in you? You could grow very quiet in a marriage. A new girl got you talking and telling her made everything fresh again. She called you out of your head and stopped the feeling that the best part of you was being shaved away, inch by inch. You owed her for that. No matter what happened, however terrible, you wouldn’t forget it.’
The most poignant part was when he calls to speak with Hadley almost forty years later (the last time they speak with each other) – a world celebrated writer, so defeated in bearing out the consequences of his choices and leadings of his heart.
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