Key
West was my first introduction to the legacy of Earnest Hemmingway. His famous
six-toed cats and the walkway to his writing tree house kept me in suspended
animation. That was long before I decided to focus my attention on writing and
creating stories of my own for others to enjoy
That
was a long time ago.
But
it was Cuba that gave me a new insight into the man and his passions. It solidified
the image and the legend of Papa as he was affectionately known. Wandering the narrow cobble-stone alleys and
walkways of old town, Havana brought back a plethora of sights and sounds that
Hemmingway must have embraced and embellished when he was around.
Rumors
abound about the Hemmingway of old and his escapades in the Hotel Ambos Mundos in Old Town Havana. The lobby is adorned with
large photographs of Papa when he hung around the lobby, mixing stories with
other ex-pats in town and eyeing the local scenery.
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| Mojito |
So
as I sat in one of the old leather chairs that Hemmingway supposedly sat in and
listened to the jazz combo playing something from the forties I couldn’t help
but imagine another world in which he lived and loved and grew his legend. I
let myself ask what, if anything, I shared with that genius with a tortured
soul. He was a man obsessed with his own image and his place in literary
history. I just want to write.
Despite
his wonderful writings, Hemmingway was a tortured writer and a conflicted human
being. His father and brother both committed suicide and he followed suit.
Hemmingway represented an old fashioned vision of what it meant to be a man. I
think it was this narrow focus and blind determination that caused him so many
of his internal conflicts.
I
don’t think a man should be judged by the size of his gun barrel or his
capacity to get stinking drunk. I don’t think the number of wives a man
acquires or outside marital interests mark his greatness as a man.
I’m
guessing near the end of his life, Hemmingway felt a tremendous insecurity at
the thought of his sinking ability to write something great. It was almost as
if He was doomed by the same passion, focus, determination and blind faith that
lead him to greatness in the first place. Whatever balance that might have
existed in his life had dissipated by then.
Hemmingway
solidified his place in literary history but at a terrible price by my
Midwestern standards. He had four wives, numerous liaisons and a serious
drinking problem. In the end, he made the literary grade while I’m still
plugging away. But I’ve got my health, a solid relationship and great kids.
Probably not much of a comparison but I like where I’m at. I’ll still climb
mountains, ride bikes and do other physical things but nothing in comparison to
Hemmingway.
In
the end, that’s OK. He did it his way even to the end. I’m in control as he was
and I’ll do it until I can’t any longer…my own way. Good for both of us.
