Ernest Hemingway: The Short Stories. I got it for $5US on the sale table at Borders. (They call it the sale table; that’s much nicer than “ remainders pile.”)
It’s strange, re-reading these stories after so many decades. I belong to that generation Leslie Fiedler described as “born older than [Hemingway] will ever get.” But the fact is, Leslie be damned, I admired much of Heminghaw (my youthful name for him) while disparaging at least as much more.
Now? Well, his stuff is even more topsy-toopsey than years ago. “The Short Happy Life of Francis McComber,” the lead story, is creepily backassward. Hem means it to be a dead-serious coming-of-age story, but the aging trophy wife, no prize herself, utters the only sensible line: “You’re talking rot. You chased some helpless animals in a car and now you’re talking like bloody heroes.”
Other stories can be creepily homoerotic. The pretty assistant waiter, Paco, in “The Capital of the World,” has “skin that his sisters envied.” “The End of Something” reads like a gay man renouncing his attempt at a hetero relationship, complete with his boy friend arriving on-scene to console him. One of the skiing stories (I forget the title at the moment) is actually buddy-maudlin: Gee, Nick, don’t’cha wish we could just go off together?
Hemingway would swing on me for saying the above – but I’d still say it, or anyway print it if I thought he could read it. Coupled with his consistent misogyny (Mrs. McComber actually shoots her born-again-to-slaughter-animals hubby!), and with his remarkably bitchy way of ridiculing other writers, it constructs a seriously feminine persona.
My girl friend, a classicist rather than a student of Anglophone literature, saw the picture of a youngish Hem on the cover, and remarked, “He really looks swishy.” B’damned if she ain’t right: Looking now, with the insights of forty years, I see – well, not a flaming but certainly a smoldering beauty with both hands locked around the inside closet door.
Well, so what? I always recall what George Orwell said of For Whom the Bell Tolls: “You simply cannot put it down. What a wizard writer!”