Reflections of a working writer and reader
No true account can be given of how or why you became a writer, nor is there any moment of which you can say: This is when I became a writer. It all gets cobbled together later, more or less sincerely, and after the stories have been repeated they put on the badge of memory and block all other routes of exploration. There's something to be said for this. It's efficient, and may even provide a homeopathic tincture of the truth. Tobias Wolff
With thanks and acknowledgements to Hemingway’s Paris and Jacob Russell’s Barking Dog
But if your browser won’t let you watch the video, goto YouTube and watch it there.
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Plus fours – surely due for a revival.
There’s something very poignant about old photographs – small parcels of time, captured and frozen, leaving you wondering what had gone before, and what happened next?
What was each of them thinking behind the posed smile and the raised glass? And those in the background, making one-off random appearances in history’s scrapbook, nameless and unremembered. What became of them after going home and saying, “I saw Ernest Hemingway tonight”?
Fascinating. Is Hemingway wearing Chico Marx’s hat or did Chico nick it from Hemingway? I think we should be told.