October 26, 2016 by Sarojini Seupersad
I picked up A Moveable Feast for the first time about 15 years ago in the Shakespeare & Company near Hunter College (I hope it’s still there…I really don’t know). At the time, my younger sister just started at Hunter as an undergraduate student, and I’d go with her so she wouldn’t get lost, spend a few hours by myself walking around, and then we’d meet up later in the day and go home together. On the first day’s solo wanderings, a grey rainy day, I walked into Shakespeare & Company and purchased A Moveable Feast on the very perceptive recommendation of the knowledgeable bookseller in the store. She asked me what I liked, we had a brief discussion, and she said, “Oh, I know! I have the perfect book for you.” And she handed me this book as if she were handing over the keys to the kingdom. And she was. That Shakespeare and Company played such a huge prominence in A Moveable Feast, and in Hemingway’s life, I had no way of knowing at the time.
Published posthumously in 1964, A Moveable Feast is more than an intricate love letter to a magical Paris of the 1920’s; more than a window into the personal lives of the luminaries of his time – Gertrude Stein, Ezra Pound and most prominently, F. Scott Fitzgerald and is wife Zelda – but also a first-person account of his relationship with his first wife Hadley, of living well in poverty on his meager earnings and working on his novel through it all. It’s a writer’s manual; a gossip rag; an ode to simple joys and human imperfections. Of course, it is also sentimental memoir and ends with this bittersweet note:
“But this is how Paris was in the early days when we were very poor and very happy.”
I recently read my old copy of A Moveable Feast (not the new edition of 2009 sadly, which has added material and is reportedly kinder to Hemingway’s second wife Patricia, probably because the new edition was put together by Patricia’s son and grandson) and I’d forgotten about Hemingway’s simplicity and economy of word. And while this book is about many things, one thing is constant: His love for his first wife Hadley. Although we know better, we can’t imagine a couple more in love. At the same time, she’s depicted as almost one dimensional, always agreeable, always in the background waiting for him. Any mention of Hadley is positive, and sometimes forboding, and one must wonder if this was his way of apologizing to her. What else could it be?
So many great vignettes in this memoir, but the beauty really lies in his insight into human behavior, simple observations and also, his omitions. What were Gertrude Stein and her partner Alice arguing about? Hemingway forces the reader to use their imagination and fill in the blanks, which is a curious yet fascinating way to keep us turning pages. After all, the argument doesn’t really matter, we can never really know what makes people do the things they do, and it was time for Hemingway to acknowledge Gertrude was a mere mortal like him, and not a god. He saw her hypocrisy (and was not happy about it) and had to move on, but not before fulfilling his social obligations to her, making the few last “necessary appearances,” and slowly watching her become more and more disagreeable with everyone she knew. He notes, with some cruelty:
“Finally she even quarreled with the new friends but none of us followed it any more. She got to look like a Roman emperor and that was fine if you liked your women to look like Roman emperors. But Picasso had painted her, and I could remember her when she looked like a woman from Fruili.
In the end everyone, or not quite everyone, made friends again in order not to be stuffy or righteous. I did too. But I could never makes friends again truly, neither in my heart nor in my head. When you cannot make friends any more in your head is the worst. But it was more complicated than that.”
That Hemingway could often be cruel is no surprise, he was notoriously thinskinned and used real people as characters in his books and didn’t try to hide it. That he could be this cruel and dismissive of Stein’s talents, however, shows a forced-level of pettiness and a break in the smooth facade of his distant, dreamy Paris life. But we also know that at the time of this writing, Hemingway was not doing his best. He wrote this towards the end of his life, and as we all now know, was suffering from serious depression.
Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald were good friends in Paris, but later in life became desperate enemies. From the late 1930’s on, Hemingway lost no opportunity to badmouth him, going as far to tell Arthur Mizener, Fitzgerald’s biographer, in a letter from 1950, “I never had any respect for him ever, except for his lovely, golden, wasted talent. If he would have had fewer pompous musings and a little sounder education it would have been better maybe. But anytime you got him all straightened out and taking his work seriously Zelda would get jealous and knock him out of it.” This doesn’t sound like your old warm, drinking friend from Paris, does it F. Scott? It doesn’t to us either.
(Interestingly enough, the letters between Hemingway and Mizener in which Hemingway describes F. Scott Fitzgerald were auctioned at Sotheby’s in 1972 at Mizener’s request. You can see the archived October 25, 1972 NY Times article describing the letters and the sale in the link below. You can read the full text and also see an archived photo of the pages via the NY TimesMachine. It’s chock full of 1972 movie advertisements, including one for Alan Arkin, Woody Allen and Super Fly. It’s probably paywalled, but it’s a really fun window into the past and very worth your time.
At the time Hemingway wrote A Moveable Feast, it certainly sounds like he hated Fitgerald. But honestly, who knows, we haven’t figured out the science to read minds yet, and it’s probably harder to read a dead person’s mind. For some added confusion, also from A Moveable Feast, is this beautiful, sensitive lone paragraph (an epitaph?) which opens the chapter on F. Scott Fitzgerald:
His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly’s wings. At one time he understood it no more than the butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. Later he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any more because of the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been effortless.
Was he sorry? Did he hate Fitgerald for wasting his talents? And did it torture him, so many years later? Was this his version of “Candle in the Wind?” What exactly is going on here, I have no idea. As it often goes, when you look back on your life, things are misremembered, things are misunderstood, glasses the color of rose are often the lens by which we view the past. Hemingway started writing this memoir in 1957, 30 years after his time in gay Paris, and A Moveable Feast was not complete when he commited suicide in July of 1961. What he wrote seems to be a last ditch effort to get back at old nemises for insulting his genuis or because they were awful, to pay homage to people and above all, to try to be kind, all the while forgetting the part he played in his own history. That doesn’t make it less enjoyable or less fascinating to read or true or false. People flock to this book and it is still popular 50 years later because of America’s love for everything Hemingway and Paris, because of its timeless writing, Hemingway’s sensitivity and also, let’s be honest, the gossip is delightful. But like most books we read, it’s hard to trust the narrator. But in this case, that doesn’t bother us one bit.