No hemming and hawing about it

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.

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?”
“What you just said. About eternity.”
“Yes, he did.”
“He’s full of shit, then.”
  --  Chapter 17, The Misforgotten.

No hemming and hawing

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?”
   “What you just said. About eternity.”
   “Yes, he did.”
   “He’s full of shit, then.”
                                          --  Chapter 17, The Misforgotten.

An Earnest appraisal

Ernest Hemingway died today in 1961.

"Hemingway was a jerk."  --  Harold Robbins.

Arrogant, overbearing, bull-necked and barrel-chested, fleshy lips (speckled with bits of bun) drawn back now to disclose a row of alarmingly enormous teeth, rolled-up sleeves showing off a pair of swarthy hams, eyes at half-mast, 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.  --  Chapter 17, The Misforgotten.