Ernest Hemingway was born on this day in 1899.
"Always ready to lend a helping hand to the one above him." -- F. Scott Fitzgerald on Hemingway.
Cutterback tipped back his huge head and swallowed the rest of his Scotch. He idolized Hemingway. The writer sits down each day to face eternity, or the lack of it, he intoned. Bullshit, Sully told him. The writer sits down to face a blank page. Maybe that was what was wrong with Hemingway.
“What?” Cutterback said.
“He had to make a rite out of it?”
“A write? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“A rite. A ceremony.”
“He was a great fucking writer,” Cutterback growled.
“Sure he was. Did he even say that?”
“What you just said. About eternity.”
“Yes, he did.”
“He’s full of shit, then.”
-- Chapter 17, The Misforgotten.