Ernest Miller Hemingway was an American novelist, short-story writer and journalist. Best known for an economical, understated style that significantly influenced later 20th-century writers, he is often romanticized for his adventurous lifestyle, and outspoken and blunt public image. Most of Hemingway's works were published between the mid-1920s and mid-1950s, including seven novels, six short-story collections and two non-fiction works. His writings have become classics of American literature; he was awarded the 1954 Nobel Prize in Literature, while three of his novels, four short-story collections and three nonfiction works were published posthumously. Hemingway was raised in Oak Park, Illinois. After high school, he spent six months as a cub reporter for The Kansas City Star before enlisting in the Red Cross. He served as an ambulance driver on the Italian Front in World War I and was seriously wounded in 1918. His wartime experiences formed the basis for his 1929 novel A Farewell to Arms. He married Hadley Richardson in 1921, the first of four wives. They moved to Paris where he worked as a foreign correspondent for the Toronto Star and fell under the influence of the modernist writers and artists of the 1920s' "Lost Generation" expatriate community. His debut novel The Sun Also Rises was published in 1926. He divorced Richardson in 1927 and married Pauline Pfeiffer. They divorced after he returned from the Spanish Civil War, where he had worked as a journalist and which formed the basis for his 1940 novel For Whom the Bell Tolls. Martha Gellhorn became his third wife in 1940. He and Gellhorn separated after he met Mary Welsh Hemingway in London during World War II. Hemingway was present with Allied troops as a journalist at the Normandy landings and the liberation of Paris. He maintained permanent residences in Key West, Florida, in the 1930s and in Cuba in the 1940s and 1950s. On a 1954 trip to Africa, he was seriously injured in two plane accidents on successive days, leaving him in pain and ill health for much of the rest of his life. In 1959, he bought a house in Ketchum, Idaho, where, on July 2, 1961 (a couple weeks before his 62nd birthday), he killed himself using one of his shotguns.
I was happy to read a previously unpublished Hemingway story in the New Yorker today. There were a few moments that seemed too Hemingway-esque, but if a writer creates a style, that writer is allowed to quote from it, if you will. It was interesting to read some commentary on Cuban politics in the story.
The five stars describes the enjoyment I had in reading the story. It's not in any way a comment on the work in relation to Hemingway's oeuvre.
Edit - I just read an interview with Ernest Hemingway's grandson, in which he points out that the story is set in 1933 and that Gerardo Machado was the head of the Cuban government at that time. I have deleted my comment about Batista and I apologize for my ignorance of Cuban history and politics. The older I get, the more I realize how little I know.
This previously unpublished short story Pursuit as Happiness written by Ernest Hemingway appeared in The New Yorker in June 2020. It had been found among Hemingway's personal papers and manuscripts housed at the John F. Kennedy Library and Museum by his grandson Sean Hemingway.
This short story Pursuit as Happiness was reminiscent of Ernest Hemingway's critically acclaimed The Old Man and the Sea, featuring Ernest going out daily month after month off the shores of Cuba in hopes of catching the big marlin. For the first time I felt like I understood Hemingway's draw to deep-sea fishing and his ties to Cuba. It was a wonderful short story, most likely autobiographical.
One of the only regrets I'd had about living in the now, was not being able to read a Hemingway when it'd just come out.
Papa is the king of the quietly dramatic narrative, usually set in terrain you long to see, visit and stay in -an adroit writer of travel porn for the mind.
In a very unlikely turn of events - as unexpected as a pandemic would suddenly grind the world to a standstill - one of his pieces of prose, a novel of sorts, was discovered, dusted off, titled and published. Seeing his name byline this week's New Yorker fiction section sent a very pleasant shiver of excitement down my spine.
And in reading it, I was reminded of how few maestros are as deft as he was in sketching out a rugged parable, using the shortest of words to immersing the reader in his chosen setting before masterfully concluding with the absence of commentary to reveal what is felt, but never said.
The story, somewhat autobiographical, mirrors that of The Old man and the Sea - perhaps less poignant given that the characters appear to have more hopeful story arcs at the denouement (of sorts).
It does not matter even if they do not.
What happens on shore and the fears they foretell at the end of day, matters far less to the narrator and his friends, than the pursuit of the fish, the daily grind, the task at hand. And immersed as they are in the admiration of the prey, the thrill of the chase ultimately supersedes the successes won, failures wrought and temporary beatings to souls and bodies.
I like to read it as Papa's timely call to his readers from beyond the grave, to see the beauty in the everyday even as one endures the rigour of daily routines, to eke out the pleasure of living in the now.
"And work probably kills more people than any other habit" he states and I agree.
Sometimes I'd spend too much time dreaming and, thus, setting unrealistic goals for myself, but these just make me distracted from actual great stuff of everyday life.
Pleasantly surprised to see this pop up in the most recent New Yorker. Enjoyable quick read. Kind of fun getting to "discover" Hemingway in real time as if we were around while he was writing.
Reading this almost gave me deja vu -- I haven't read Hemingway in a long time, but the writing is so rapidly familiar, so eerily sharp, and yet quietly absurd. Sometimes I wonder how Hemingway can so confidently put me in a world that is devoid of details and setting but keeping painting pictures that I want to stay and stare at. The short story itself is humorously nonchalant about overworking and finding great purpose in that work -- it is a cute footnote to Old Man and the Sea (which I haven't read...).
Who am I kidding???!!!! I am changing my rating to a five star! What other author can make a 60 year old female who hates being wet, hates fishing... now after reading this want to go Marlin fishing so I can feel the sun beat down on me, feel the tension of the Marlin pull against the fishing pole and have salt water pored over her back to cool her down? I’m even ready to divvy up the Marlin steaks back on the dock and end my day with a ice cold Hemingway daiquiri.
This story is flat and dull. It has none of the color or feeling of Hemingway’s better prose. The characters have no personalities, the scenes are barely drawn, and there’s no motion to the story itself. Even the dialogue is more wooden and stilted than his usually is. It’s just a bunch of bluster. No wonder it never found a publisher. Running it in The New Yorker seems like a crass, mercenary decision on the part of its editors.
Every now and then, I don’t whether it was a certain word or letter, or combination of letters, or sequence of words, but I had this uncanny suspicion that I was reading something written like it was written by Hemingway. I can’t put my finger on it, but this seemed almost too precisely hemingway-esque. While Pursuit as Happiness deeply interests me, it doesn’t seem entirely inevitable. Very mysterious.