I’ve now read Michael Reynolds second volume of his five-volume biography if Hemingway three times, and I have to say that it stands out among the biographies of the old fraud (not a verdict I’m suggesting was shared by Reynolds), although it does have its flaws.
I read somewhere of other (not in one of these volumes) that Reynolds’s interest is in (what I think he called) the archaeology of biography, that is the snippets and nuggets of facts he can dig up. These, he said, were what were important to build up a comprehensive picture of the subject.
So he will spend an inordinate amount of time checking one fact against another to do his best to verify it; and if he cannot independently verify a ‘fact’ about Hemingway, he has not included it in his biographies.
So, for example, Hemingway claimed that to write in peace and undisturbed, he had rented a garret room in a cheap hotel near his flat in rue du Cardinal Lemoine in Paris in which the poet Paul Verlaine had died. Reynolds points out that the only source for that piece of ‘information’ was Hemingway himself so he did not include it.
Other biographies repeat that ‘fact’ unquestioningly and it has become part of the ‘Hemingway story’, but is it true? We don’t know. And on the debit side Hemingway played fast and loose with ’the truth’ and the ‘facts’ about his life. He did not lead a battalion of famous Italian Arditi troops up Monte Grappa in World War I as he claimed. His sole wartime experience was driving a Red Cross ambulance for two weeks well behind enemy lines, then running an R&R unit closer to the fighting, handing out cigarettes and chocolate to the frontline troops when they arrived. Because he craved ‘more excitement, he took to delivering the ciggies and chocs to the front line and got himself blown up.
Why did he lie? No one knows. But he had told tall stories about himself since he was young. He did not take part in the mass execution by Loyalists of Spanish falangists as he claimed. He did not take part in the D Day invasion as he claimed. (He observed it from one of the landing craft, then returned to Britain with that craft.) And on it went, from fib to lie, from lie to fib. Some people are like that. ‘Papa’ Hemingway certainly was.
Reynolds’s scepticism is refreshing. Previous biographers, notably Carlos Baker, Hemingway’s ‘official’ biographer, pretty much repeated the bullshit as truth, though to be fair to Baker, he was writing within a few years of the ‘great’ man’s death, tasked by his widow, Mary, who had shown herself to be prone to litigation if she was upset.
She sued A E Hotchner, a young writer who had become one of Hemingway’s confidantes (mainly because he was fawned rather well) because in a memoir five years after Hemingway’s death he had revealed that the famous novelist had killed himself. Mary insisted the world should believe his death was the result of a shotgun accident. She did lose her suit, though, appealed, and lose her appeal, too. So Baker who was certainly not uncritical felt obliged to tread carefully. (NB At the time of writing, Hotchner died only three months ago at the age of 102.)
One flaw in Reynolds, though, is that his readable, somewhat novelistic approach to writing his biography does worry sometimes. To be told that on a specific trip from their flat to the Gare de Lyon, Hemingway and his wife Hadley could not see the street lights because it was too foggy (something that unlike most of what Reynolds claims) is not sourced does jar a little. Admittedly, he seems to be scrupulous in most of with he writes and such writing does add colour, but this reader would be a little happier without the speculation.
I am engaged on a long project (getting longer as time goes on, dammit) on Hemingway and how such a — in my opinion rather middling — writer who produced comparatively little work achieved such extraordinary global prominence. I have read a great deal directly and around the subject and I am struck at how some accounts almost contradict each other (and oddly hardly any talk about his work at all much, especially his silly ‘iceberg theory’ and his ‘theory of omission’ and his supposed ‘modernism’).
Among those works (which, I have to add, are all interesting and worth your time) Reynolds’s contribution does stand out. If you are considering buying it, go for it. And I agree it is very much a 4.5/5 read.
Although I don’t rate Hemingway much as a writer, though his influence on the course of English literature most certainly cannot be denied, his life story, and feuds and fantasies (look up The Crook Factory he ran) are something else and very entertaining.
I am just about to embark on Kenneth Lynn’s the most recent. I shall review that, too.