Bill [Bird] is getting out my book, it was promised by the bindery three weeks ago— different dates have been set since. After awaiting various set dates by the binder I have lost the fine thrill enjoyed by Benjamin Franklin when entering Philadelphia with a roll under each arm. Fuck Literature.
I am writing some damn good stories. I wish you were here to tell me so, so I would believe it or else what is the matter with them. You are the only guy that knows agod damn thing about writing.
Letter to Ezra Pound, July 19, 1924:
Dear Ezra—
Here, at 900 meters above the Nivel del Mare on the Spanish side of the Pyrenees is a good place to observe the ruin of my finances and literary career. Shit. I appeared in the bull ring on 5 different mornings—was cogida 3 times—accomplished 4 veronicas in good form and one natural with the muleta, the last morning, received contusions and abrasions in the pecho and other places, was drunk twice, saw Bill drunk twice…We haven’t enough pesetas now to pay our hotel Bill and dont know how we’ll get away from here.
…Having been bitched financially and in a literary way by my friends I take great and unintellectual pleasure in the immediate triumphs of the bull ring with their reward in ovations, alcoholism, being pointed out on the street, general respect and the other things Literary Guys have to wait until they are 89 years old to get.
The Plaza is the only remaining place where valor and art can combine for success. In all other arts the more meazly and shitty the guy, I.E. Joyce, the greater the success in his art…
Then when a guy has a few decent human instincts like yourself what do they do to him? I wish to hell I was 16 and had art and valor.
…I am going to have to quit writing because we haven’t any money. The Transatlantic killed my chances of having a book published this fall and by next Spring some son of a bitch will have copied everything I’ve written and they will simply call me another of his imitators.
Now we haven’t got any money anymore I am going to have to quit writing and I never will have a book published. I feel cheerful as hell. These god damn bastards.
See you about the 27th of the month.
Love to Dorothy—
Hem.
The only fact I could recall about Ernest Hemingway was that he was a writer. I had no information on where he was from, what books he had written, or any interest in him, until a few days ago, that is. I am pretty busy with studies. The finals are coming up soon, and I am not feeling too well. Nonetheless, classroom boredom led me to read random articles online, and I happened to come across these ones. The article portrayed various letters Ernest Hemingway had sent to his friends. The hot issue was that he had been quoted to write, “Fuck literature.” With a little research, I had come to know that he was a Nobel Prize winner, of course, for literature. For someone of such high accolade, it is quite fascinating to see him say such words. I do acknowledge that this was rather his younger years, and private letters should not be quoted as the man’s general perspectives, but it was quite a relief to me. The frustration probably came from his love for writing intertwined with the realities of his economic status. It was nice to see that even the masters are prone to dislike their subject specialties. It was also nice to see that anger against does not always have to be negative, rather a heightened expression of love.
I am writing some damn good stories. I wish you were here to tell me so, so I would believe it or else what is the matter with them. You are the only guy that knows agod damn thing about writing.
Letter to Ezra Pound, July 19, 1924:
Dear Ezra—
Here, at 900 meters above the Nivel del Mare on the Spanish side of the Pyrenees is a good place to observe the ruin of my finances and literary career. Shit. I appeared in the bull ring on 5 different mornings—was cogida 3 times—accomplished 4 veronicas in good form and one natural with the muleta, the last morning, received contusions and abrasions in the pecho and other places, was drunk twice, saw Bill drunk twice…We haven’t enough pesetas now to pay our hotel Bill and dont know how we’ll get away from here.
…Having been bitched financially and in a literary way by my friends I take great and unintellectual pleasure in the immediate triumphs of the bull ring with their reward in ovations, alcoholism, being pointed out on the street, general respect and the other things Literary Guys have to wait until they are 89 years old to get.
The Plaza is the only remaining place where valor and art can combine for success. In all other arts the more meazly and shitty the guy, I.E. Joyce, the greater the success in his art…
Then when a guy has a few decent human instincts like yourself what do they do to him? I wish to hell I was 16 and had art and valor.
…I am going to have to quit writing because we haven’t any money. The Transatlantic killed my chances of having a book published this fall and by next Spring some son of a bitch will have copied everything I’ve written and they will simply call me another of his imitators.
Now we haven’t got any money anymore I am going to have to quit writing and I never will have a book published. I feel cheerful as hell. These god damn bastards.
See you about the 27th of the month.
Love to Dorothy—
Hem.
The only fact I could recall about Ernest Hemingway was that he was a writer. I had no information on where he was from, what books he had written, or any interest in him, until a few days ago, that is. I am pretty busy with studies. The finals are coming up soon, and I am not feeling too well. Nonetheless, classroom boredom led me to read random articles online, and I happened to come across these ones. The article portrayed various letters Ernest Hemingway had sent to his friends. The hot issue was that he had been quoted to write, “Fuck literature.” With a little research, I had come to know that he was a Nobel Prize winner, of course, for literature. For someone of such high accolade, it is quite fascinating to see him say such words. I do acknowledge that this was rather his younger years, and private letters should not be quoted as the man’s general perspectives, but it was quite a relief to me. The frustration probably came from his love for writing intertwined with the realities of his economic status. It was nice to see that even the masters are prone to dislike their subject specialties. It was also nice to see that anger against does not always have to be negative, rather a heightened expression of love.
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