“1922–Hemingway publishes his first story, ‘A Divine Gesture,’ in the New Orleans literary magazine The Double Dealer. Throughout the following decade Hemingway continues an active, though often contentious, relationship with literary magazines….” (393)
I have a dislike-hate relationship with Ernest Hemingway in addition to any and all other authors who would reduce the already-bland sentence “John sat down to dinner with his wife” to “He ate with her.” Knowing Hemingway’s disposition, the sentence might more accurately read as “He ate.” And again, knowing Hemingway, we’d see that two-syllable sentence many times over the course of the novel in which it appeared, the contents of a soup given greater play than interpersonal relationships and/or internal musings. The current school of fiction-writing dictates that terseness is next to godliness; I have seen far too many Hemingwannabes in my time. This is why I, perhaps erroneously, value the second paragraph of HP Lovecraft’s “Celephais” as one of the most beautiful and truthful pieces of English fiction. I search for and fail to find those “fountains that sing in the sun” among the pages written by the so-called father of modern fiction. I have a growing disbelief in the value of the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction and the Nobel Prize in Literature. And as an editor of my own inconsequential shit-stain of a collegiate literary magazine, part of me takes a fair amount of pleasure in knowing that my turn-of-the-century forefathers gave Hemingway something of a “contentious” time.
For the ill-fated ones among us who hold value in adjectives: Lovecraft’s “Celephais.”
For those who would rather read of pasta-consumption: The Hemingway Cookbook.