Whatever you’re meant to do, do it now. The conditions are always impossible.
I’ll fight every inch of the way. I want to go on living even after I lose my skin. I’ll withdraw down into my toes. I’ll fall on the grass where it’s softest to fall like a bull. I’ll swallow death and pretend not to notice.
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”.