Reflections of a working writer and reader
Literature was born not the day when a boy crying wolf, wolf came running out of the Neanderthal valley with a big gray wolf at his heels: literature was born on the day when a boy came crying wolf, wolf and there was no wolf behind him. That the poor little fellow because he lied too often was finally eaten up by a real beast is quite incidental. But here is what is important. Between the wolf in the tall grass and the wolf in the tall story there is a shimmering go-between. That go-between, that prism, is the art of literature. Vladimir Nabokov
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.