Sublime

Hemingway and Fitzgerald each went his own way that summer, 1925. Ernest and his wife Hadley journeyed to Pamplona for the running of the bulls, Scott and Zelda to the south of France.

Saint-Exupéry died because he was bound to die. I want to honor his way of living. It shouldn’t matter if one has setbacks, or dies from drink, or dies in an airplane. We all have the right to make that choice, and we should be entitled to it. There’s no need for all of us to live in a healthy way, always being positive. Poets in particular should

« Patrice était là, il tenait dans ses bras sa femme en train de mourir et, quel que soit le temps qu’elle y mettrait, on pouvait être sûr qu’il la tiendrait jusqu’au bout, que Juliette dans ses bras mourrait en sécurité. Rien ne me paraissait plus précieux que cette sécurité-là, cette certitude de pouvoir se reposer jusqu’au dernier instant dans

Ces deux hommes ont écrit les meilleurs romans sur cette guerre : Malraux avec L’Espoir, et Hemingway avec Pour qui sonne le glas (moins bon que celui de Malraux).

A man dying for his country does not talk as if local preferences could change.

It is sad to forget a friend.

The latest story concerned Hemingway’s knocking a man down for calling him a big fat slob. “You can call me a slob,” Hemingway had said, “but you can’t call me a big fat slob.” Then he struck him down. The natives of Bimini set the incident to music, and if they were sure Hemingway was not within earshot, they would sing in a calypso beat, “The big