When things get hectic, heavy, or harried I sleep less and I read a lot. When things get really hectic, heavy, or harried I sleep even less and I read Hemingway. There’s a certain clarity to Hemingway’s writing that I find helpful, though it’s entirely illusory. Illusory because Hemingway’s too sophisticated a writer to put much stock in clarity, and illusory because clarity was never much of a factor in his personal life. But even knowing that it’s illusory, it is helpful to me. So this morning I stopped by the library and lucked out with a copy Hemingway’s posthumously published Paris memoir, A Moveable Feast: The Restored Edition.

I’ve read A Moveable Feast, the unrestored version, and remember loving it for the viciously catty masterpiece it is. (And there’s no writer as catty as Hemingway.) My favorite tale in the book is of Hemingway taking F. Scott Fitzgerald to the museum so that he might compare the size of his penis to that of the statues, and dispel worries caused by Zelda’s disparagement.

But there’s more going on, of course. And the most striking bit comes from Patrick Hemingway who provides “the true foreword” to the book, which is the last professional line by Hemingway, written after his first suicide attempt and the ensuing shock treatments. And which I can’t get out of my head.

This book contains material from the remises of my memory and of my heart. Even if the one has been tampered with and the other does not exist.

Good night.

Ernest Hemingway on the similarities between bull ring horse contractors and policemen, from Death in the Afternoon, which I’ve been re-reading pieces of lately.

So, in the afternoon you see the picador ride out the little horse and if the little horse gets ripped and, instead of killing him, the red- jacketed bull ring servant runs with him toward the horse gate to get him back where he can be patched up so the contractor can send him in again, you may be sure the bull ring servant has received or been promised a propina for every horse he can bring alive out of the ring, instead of killing them mercifully and decently when they are wounded.

I have known some fine picadors, honest, honorable, brave and in a bad business, but you may have all the horse contractors I have ever met, although some of them were nice fellows. If you wish and will take them, you may have all the bull ring servants too. They are the only people I have found in bullfighting that are brutalized by it and they are the only ones who take an active part who undergo no danger. I have seen several of them, two especially that are father and son, that I would like to shoot. If we ever have a time when for a few days you may shoot any one you wish I believe that before starting out to bag various policemen, Italian statesmen, government functionaries, Massachusetts judges, and a couple of companions of my youth I would shove in a clip and make sure of that pair of bull ring servants. I do not want to identify them any more closely because if I ever should bag them this would be evidence of premeditation. But of all the filthy cruelty I have ever seen they have furnished the most. Where you see gratuitous cruelty most often is in police brutality; in the police of all countries I have ever been in, including, especially, my own. These two Pamplona and San Sebastian monosabios should be, by rights, policemen and policemen on the radical squad, but they do the best they can with their talents in the bull ring. They carry on their belts puntillas, broad-headed knives, with which they can give the gift of death to any horse that is badly wounded, but I have never seen them kill a horse that could possibly be gotten on his feet and made to move toward the corrals. It is not only a question of the money they could make by salvaging horses to be taxidermed while alive so they may be reintroduced into the ring, for I have seen them refuse to kill, until forced to by the public, a horse there was no hope of getting onto his feet or of bringing back into the ring purely from pleasure in exerting their power to refuse to perform a merciful act as long as possible. Most bull ring servants are poor devils that perform a miserable function for a mean wage and are entitled to pity if not sympathy. If they save a horse or two that they should kill they do it with fear that outruns any pleasure and earn their money as well as the men do who pick up cigar butts, say. But these two that I speak of are both fat, well-fed and arrogant. I once succeeded in landing a large, heavy one-peseta-fifty rented, leather cushion alongside the head of the younger one during a scene of riotous disapproval in a bull ring in the north of Spain and I am never at the ring without a bottle of Manzanilla which I hope yet I will be able to land, empty, on one or the other at any time rioting becomes so general that a single bottle stroke may pass unperceived by the authorities. After one comes, through contact with its administrators, no longer to cherish greatly the law as a remedy in abuses, then the bottle becomes a sovereign means of direct action. If you cannot throw it at least you can always drink out of it.

From A Farewell to Arms.

I had seen nothing sacred, and the things that were glorious had no glory and the sacrifices were like the stockyards at Chicago if nothing was done with the meat except to bury it. There were many words that you could not stand to hear and finally only the names of places had dignity. Certain numbers were the same way and certain dates and these with the names of places were all you could say and have them mean anything. Abstract words such as glory, honor, courage or hallow were obscene beside the concrete names of villages, the number of roads, the names of rivers, the numbers of regiments and the dates.

For the KGB, no less. From the Guardian.

Its section on the author’s secret life as a “dilettante spy” draws on his KGB file in saying he was recruited in 1941 beforemaking a trip to China, given the cover name “Argo”, and “repeatedly expressed his desire and willingness to help us” when he met Soviet agents in Havana and London in the 40s. However, he failed to “give us any political information” and was never “verified in practical work”, so contacts with Argo had ceased by the end of the decade. Was he only ever a pseudo-spook, possibly seeing his clandestine dealings as potential literary material, or a genuine but hopelessly ineffective one?