a lot of people have an issue with ernest hemingway.
listen, i promise this has a point.
a lot of people have a problem with ernest hemingway. his books are too long. too short. full of absolutely nothing. drinking and partying and vulgarity. his sentences are too short. his meaning is nonexistent. his sentences are too short. his style is weird. his sentences are too short.
a lot of people have a problem with ernest hemingway. but i am not one of those people.
his style is awkward, stilted, and lovely. contradictory. confused with everything he is saying and also not saying about life and people and toast on a sunday morning. wine on a monday evening. loss on a tuesday afternoon and beer the following evening.
his sentences are abrupt; they cut off so close to the seam that you almost wonder if he cut against the thread weaving through. they’re short, straightforward, and meaningless; and they’re also weighted down, dripping, drenched with thought. balancing on edge with the burden of everything that he never says, tied back with a bow of one strand of spidery silk.
the stifling air of the unspoken on fluttery, paper-thin wings.
listen, a lot of people have a problem with ernest hemingway.
but i think i understand what it means to write a little and say too much.