the other night admitted his
fascination
and adoration of
Earnest Hemingway.
He
lauded his achievements,
and his
toughness,audacity,
and courage,
as well as his being
an ass.
He
touted Earnest’s adventures,
his
loves,his devil may care attitude,
and generally seemed to
wish that he had known him.
I
thought to myself that if
Earnest
Hemingway was thestandard of which to judge our
own lives against then we’re all in
trouble.
I never
fought a bull,
I never
was a war correspondent,I didn’t get to hang out with
Picasso or Flynn. I don’t have
a strange affinity for cats.
I have,
however, loved with
passion,
patience, rage, andjealousy. I have thrust myself
against the ignorance of commonality and
been broken on the beach, only to find
out that I was actually standing at a
bar complaining about the lack
of napkins,
after I
spilled my own beer,
because
I was gesturing wildly about something stupid.
Hemingway
is a tough
standard
to compareyourself against.
And
perhaps admiration
is
due,
but I’ll
never
know
what old manwill talk of me,
with honored and
cherished tones,
once I shuffle
off.
Hemingway
always
winning.
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