I remember James telling me how Hemingway wouldn’t approve of how I talked in such long sentences and make a face.
“And your style is much more feminine than his.”
“Feminine? So my v****a is showing, is that what you’re saying?”
She sounds cross. “Oh, stop it, you know very well what I’m saying. A brick wall is more feminine than Hemingway, for God’s sake. May I continue, or would you prefer to sit there and feel sorry for yourself?”
I grumble something about going ahead and swallow another swig of bourbon.
“The thing you have most in common with Papa Hemingway is the themes in your work.”
My ears perk, and I sit straighter in my chair. This is something no one’s ever told me before. “Such as?”
“The futility of war. The beauty of love. The sacredness of life. The struggle we all sha
