Hemingway
I don't know whether I'm shamed or proud of my messy office.
I've been reading A.E. Hotchner's bio of Ernest Hemingway, and he describes Hemingway's office in terms not so unfamiliar to mine. I can't remember if I already wrote these thoughts, but I'll continue in case I haven't.
Hemingway's office was piled high with paper and books, his floor littered with the same. Looks much like mine - at least in my mind's eye. The funny thing was, he didn't actually do any of his writing in his office. He opted to write in bed, so his bedroom was in similar shape. At the time Hotchner met him, Hemingway stayed in his room by himself, and his wife (I think it was Mary) had her own room. I'm sure the mess had a big part to play.
Aside from the wife in another bedroom deal, I sometimes think I'd like to live a Hemingway-esque life. The guy was incredible in terms of being a Romantic hero. Granted, his life was quite significantly depraved in many respects. He was incredibly self-centred, although he could be quite giving. Eventually, he shot himself in the face. So don't get me wrong, there are significant drawbacks to Hemingway's life. Yet, at the same time, when I read about it, I get the same feeling as when I read On The Road. There's a care-free sense I get when I read it.
Could I be someone who joins up in the Spanish Civil War out of principle? Could I live a Bohemian lifestyle all over Europe, writing small pieces to keep me in fancy hotels? Could I dine with the cool of the day? What about living in Cuba, setting up my fishing boat as a type of coast guard against the Nazis which really was only an excuse to party? Could I deep sea fish for Marlin in the sea? Could I have my own daquari named after me??
Alas.
I'll update on my weekend later.
Out.