I saw him with his sacked lunch, made by his loving first wife Hadley, drinking out of a thermos (did they have those in the 1920s?) and tracing those bold brushstrokes with his eyes. I saw Hemingway drinking cups of French coffee at a cafe with black and white pictures on the wall, writing slowly, with lots of crossouts. If we misremembered, they would denounce us before God at those golden gates.īut Dr.
They were empty-eyed faces carved into cathedral stone, looking down on us to make sure we knew their names. The authors, if I had imagined them, were like statues in some museum, old cracked marble missing limbs, dust piled atop their heads. In college, I read Faulkner, Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy and all the other writers infamous among college students everywhere. When my English Literature professor, Marilyn McEntyre, told us Hemingway would write all day in small Parisian cafes and, afterward, take his lunch to the Musée du Luxembourg where he would look at Cezannes, it transformed how I looked at authors - and writing, for that matter - forever. Click here to download your guide instantly. Free Guide: Want to become a writer? Get our free 10-step guide to becoming a writer here and accomplish your dream today.
