With the 100-year anniversary of Ernest Hemingway’s birth (July 21, 1899) recently, the novelist still creates controversy amongst the reading and writing populous. It appears that in seeking out the reasons for the controversy, I’ve discovered that there are two major opposing opinions of Hemingway and his talents: Those who’d buy him a beer and those who would throw the first punch at him in a bar fight.
The first group tends to be in awe of Nobel Prize winner’s novels like “The Green Hills of Africa,” “A Farewell to Arms,” and of course, “The Old Man and the Sea.” These fans appreciate his succinct style of writing and burly subject matter. They insist that he creates great stories from the gut, rich in underlying meanings, through his terse dialoging. In fact, his work has inspired and influenced many other great writers. According to various sources, Hunter S. Thompson compared himself to Hemingway, most notably in his early novel, “The Rum Diary.” And he’s also been known to influence Charles Bukowski, Chuck Palahniuk, Douglas Coupland, Robert Ruark, Jack Kerouac and other Beat Generation writers.
With all of these writers together in one place, I imagine the setting of Hemingway’s birthday party is an extreme depiction of masculinity in few words: The crew of writers would be sitting outside near a fire, getting rowdy. They’d have lots of cheap, canned beer to compliment their cigar smoking. They’d have discussions about guns and hunting, and sloppy, distasteful talk of women. By the end of the night, a fully crocked, wife-beater-wearing Bukowski would give Hemingway his birthday present early, a knuckle sandwich. Hemingway, an amateur boxer and bullfighter, would take the punch as a challenge to his manhood, and the two would fight until they were both bloody. The remaining men, these unapologetic larger-than-life tough guys, drinkers, womanizers, violence- and action-seekers, would stand in a circle egging on the violence, until satisfied with the scene, they’d all passed out around the fire’s glowing embers.
Why would Bukowski have hit Hemingway in the first place? Some might say boredom.
The second camp of people would very much like to knock out Hemingway in a fistfight. Take, for example, something my friends have called “The Hemingway Incident.” It all began after a few drinks, when we discovered post-dinner and board games that my friend C’s biggest pet peeve was Hemingway’s writing style. C is a very quiet and mellow guy, nothing really seems to shake him up. But out of nowhere, at the very mention of Hemingway’s name, he raised his voice in opposition to our consideration of the author’s work. C vehemently opposes it, dismissing the unmistakable linguistics as nothing more than an extension of an alcohol-toting, female-stomping, rare-animal sport-hunting simpleton.
He spouted something along the lines of, “Don’t even get me started on that guy. He is the worst writer in the world. ‘I caught a big fish. It’s my birthday. I shot my gun. I was drunk. I wrecked the ambulance. Now, I’m in Africa. I’m drinking.’ It’s all boring crap ... macho B.S.” (Which isn’t too far off from Hemingway’s real prose style: “Nick stood up. He was all right.”).
After about five solid minutes of red-faced ranting, to which we all sat in wide-mouthed amazement getting the full effect of his rage, C put his arms down and calmly said, “OK, I’m good. Now, I’m going to get off my soapbox for the night.”
I suppose we hadn’t realized the severity of mentioning the author/journalist, but once the silence was broken with everyone’s burst of laughter, C took a kindly bow.
So whether you want to bar hop with Mr. Hemingway or clench your fists at his writing style, be sure to give someone 100 punches for his birthday, and then get that person a strong drink and a safari hat and send them on their way.
w
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