Happy. Birthday. (Tersely.)

I stepped back from the cake.  I cocked my gun.  I drank some cheap whiskey.  I shot the cake.  Happy.  Birthday.

This is a short post about a man who writes long books:  Today is the birthday of one of my favorite writers of the past few years, Ernest Hemingway (okay, that’s when I’ve been reading him.  So there).  I have fond memories of letting summer Island afternoon slip away on a beach, reading The Sun Also Rises and A Farewell to Arms.  A friend gave me a copy of The Old Man and the Sea, several years ago, which I incongruously (he would’a hated that word) on the NYC subway.  And yes, I even read A Moveable Feast in Paris.

Earlier this year I was in Key West, and visited his home and writing studio.

So what can you do to commemorate the birthday of E.H., short of shooting yourself with a shotgun in your kitchen?  Well, you could read my sister Alexandria’s humorous take on a famous short story of his, or you could listen to Guy Clark’s song Hemingway’s Whiskey.  Or you could just go read.

Here I will write. In short sentences.

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One Response to “Happy. Birthday. (Tersely.)”

  1. alexandria Says:

    thanks for the shout-out!

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