In A Moveable Feast, Ernest Hemingway had two paying outlets for
his work. Der Querschnitt and Frankfurter Zeitung. Nothing in America.
Not all that much in Paris. The Transatlantic Review paid in copies.
Most editors were snooty. They thanked him for his contes. Which they
returned. Bill Bird published in our time, short prose vignettes Hemingway
later used as interchapters of the longer In Our Time. Think
Three Stories and Ten Poems. Published by Robert McAlmon.
I guess "Up in Michigan" wasn't inaccrochable after all.
Hemingway punched McAlmon out.
McAlmon called Hemingway a fairy.
Being Geniuses Together.
We're all Hemingway wanna-bes.
Aren't you? Wasn't he?
Nobody wants to hear
that shit. But we might need to.
Old Hem never came to terms with
who he was and who he wasn't.
Be believed his own press releases.
He was his own press agent. His own gossip columnist.
From Life, to the "People" section of Time, to People magazine.
He married Mary Welsh. He married Martha Gellhorn. When he
married Pauline Pfeiffer she worked for Vogue in Paris.
Hadley was the only one who wasn't avaricious.
Her inheritance wasn't big enough.
Apropos of pilot fish.
As for wanting to fuck Gertrude Stein,
she always looked like a Roman general to me.
I'd be afraid to stick it in there.
Come on, big man. Stick it in here.