I started college early by going to summer school at the University of Kansas
I became enraptured of him and his books. In the room next
to mine was an older man who had finished his Navy tour and was taking courses
to go to medical school. He had books. Art books, too that featured
reproductions of fine art by Michelangelo, Di Vinci, and other famous artists.
All this was wonderful and new to me.
Through that first person, John Kiely (who would be come a
friend, future roommate, mentor pictured right and now, sadly, long dead), I encountered Ernest Hemingway.
Hemingway wrote in a simple, straightforward way that
communicated directly with one’s perception by creating through words a sense
of the reality of life. How is that possible using words? It amazed me. He
created scenes, but also emotions. A couple of examples:
From the Nick Adams stories:
“In the fall the war was still there, but we did not go
there anymore.” Wonderful use of the self-reflective “we” instead of the
technically accurate “I.” And the repletion of “there” when most advice says
don’t repeat the same word. Through his prose he distilled and found the
essence of things.
The first sentence from A
Farewell to Arms: “In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a
village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains.” That
cascade of prepositions carries you along and again “in a house in a village”
repeats a preposition that works perfectly.
His style entices young writers to imitate him. And, of
course, brings the danger of being a copy cat. I took a fiction writing class
at KU. The Southern writer Reynolds Price came to visit and would read what we
presented to him. I had only a few paragraphs. Here’s one of them:
March Snows
The snows came in March and it was unfair because that same
morning there had been the smell of spring in the air. But during the night the
snows came, and I awoke when I heard the wind. I got up and parted the curtains
and looked out at the street lamp and saw the snow blowing as it collected in
drifts around the trees and her car in the driveway. A happiness I did not
understand filled me when I looked down at the bed where she slept. I slid down
under the covers again and she stirred, her lips slightly parted and her yellow
hair everywhere. I pulled her close to me and slowly inhaled our warmth—man
warm and woman warm together—as the wind continued to howl
Price called the paragraphs “quite lovely.” But then he was
a lovely man. The Hemingway imitation is obvious. But I still like those
paragraphs and I hope I learned that finding rhythms and sentences is a virtue,
not an imitation.
Hemingway himself became a caricature of his macho self. And
the prose ran its course in the same manner. Much wonderful stuff and should be
read, of course. But I don’t need them anymore.
There is one Hemingway novel I will, however, keep. Oddly
enough, it is one of his most panned works: Across
the River and into the Trees. I still don’t understand why, but the evening
of the day I received the phone call from my aunt telling me my father had
died, I pulled that novel from the shelf and reread it with pen in hand. I
underlined passages that were important to me at the unique time in my life.
I will keep that now battered, mutilated book. The other
Hemingway books are now gone. Not gone is my desire to complete a simple
sentence with the right rhythm to cast the right spell upon a reader.
Faulkner, with his denser prose, could cast spells, too. I
enjoyed my swimming, wading, and sometimes slogging through his stories and
sentences. But I have no desire to reenter his waters, lush though they were. Hemingway's popularity continues. The son of a couple we are good friends with opened a bar in Westport called "The Pressed Penny Tavern," which many Hemingway fans may recognize. He has an alcove of Hemingway books and memorabilia. I had given him many early editions of Hemingway's work and books about Hemingway. Encourage my KC Facebook fans to stop in and at find out why Gordon Roberts gave his bar that odd name.
So the Hemingway and Faulkner portions of my library have
been purchased by owners of Wise Blood, a soon-to-open used bookstore at 300
West Westport Road here in Kansas City.
Selling those collections gave me enough cash for a couple
of drinks over which I contemplated my few successes and my many failings. And
realizing I am thankful for both and the so many people I have met along the way.
