Personally, I’d like as many children as I can pop out, I reckon. You come from a happy family; you want to create a happy family. And in the same breath, I’d like to be on stage at England’s National Theatre, doing Miller and Chekhov.
That’s the spot
Have some Wolf Bigby and Miss Snow
He’s smiling. He’s proud of himself.
He’s saying “Look at me, that’s right, I’m balancing myself on this little stub of a branch. I am as majestic as a bird on its perch.”
Hemingway and James Joyce were drinking buddies in Paris. Joyce was thin and bespectacled; Hemingway was tall and strapping. When they went out Joyce would get drunk, pick a fight with a bigger guy in the bar and then hide behind Hemingway and yell, “Deal with him, Hemingway. Deal with him.”
[x] (via newzerokaneda)
Between this and the story about him reassuring F. Scott Fitzgerald re dick size, I’m developing a picture of Hemingway as the mother hen of the disaffected white male literary set of the early 20th century.
He probably called up Steinbeck sometimes and was like I CAN’T EVEN WITH THESE DIPSHITS and Steinbeck was all “That’s what you get for living in Paris, asshole”.
(via copperbadge) —