“If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”

This sentence is the preface to “A Moveable Feast”, a slim volume of Ernest Hemingway’s memoirs of his beginning years as a young writer in Paris between 1921 and 1925 and published in 1964 after his death.

In keeping with his renowned brevity, the vignettes and anecdotes in this work capture the environment and mood of American writers in Paris between the two world wars, or the “lost generation” as Gertrude Stein termed them. This famous phrase, which was subsequently taken up to describe the expatriate literary circle, was a remark Stein made in a conversation about the repair troubles she had with her Ford Model T. The garage shop owner had berated his mechanic, who had served in the war, as being incompetent and said to him, “You are all a genération perdue.”

“That’s all you are. That’s what you all are,” Miss Stein said. “All of you young people who served in the war. You are a lost generation.”
“Really?” I said.
“You are,” she insisted. “You have no respect for anything. You drink yourselves to death.”
“Was the young mechanic drunk?” I asked.
“Of course not.”
“The boy’s patron was probably drunk by 11 o’clock in the the morning,” I said. That’s why he makes such lovely phrases.”
“Don’t argue with me Hemingway,” Miss Stein said. “You’re all a lost generation, exactly as the garage keeper said.”
Then as I was getting up to the Closerie des Lilas with the light on my old friend, the statue of Marshal Ney with his sword out and the shadows of the trees behind him and what a fiasco he’d made of Waterloo, I thought that all generations were lost by something and always had been.
I thought of what a warm and affectionate friend Miss Stein had been and will always do my best to serve her. But the hell with her lost-generation talk and all the dirty, easy labels. When I got home, I said to my wife, “Gertrude is nice, anyway.”

“But she does talk a lot of rot sometimes.”

Thus the phrase made its inelegant entrance into the lore of American literature and stayed. But Gertrude Stein did not always talk rot. The most valuable instruction she gave to Hemingway was not to write anything that is inaccrochable (unhangable). “That means it is like a picture that a painter paints and then he cannot hang it when he has a show and nobody will buy it because they cannot hang it either.”

Hemingway imbibed copiously, wrote with great discipline and went to the race track as assiduously when money was flush. He was friends with Ezra Pound, whom he deemed a noble and generous and disinterested writer who admitted to have never read the “Rooshians” (Dostoevsky, Turgenev, Tolstoi) and advised Hemingway to stick with the French. “You’ve got a lot to learn from the French.” Hemingway thought that until he read Stendahl’s “The Chartreuse de Parme,” he had never read of war except in Tolstoi, and that wonderful account on Waterloo was an accidental piece in a very dull book. Tolstoi’s “War and Peace,” on the other hand, “made the writing of Stephen Crane on the Civil War seem like the brilliant imagining of a sick boy who had never seen war but had only read the battles and chronicles.”

For a student of literature, it is sometimes vindicating to hear the greats’ criticisms of each other’s works. Gertrude Stein thought Aldous Huxley’s writing was “inflated trash, written by a dead, dead man.” Hemingway himself couldn’t read D.H. Lawrence’s “Women in Love” even though he liked “Sons and Lovers”. Stein dismissed Lawrence with contempt: “He’s impossible. He’s pathetic and preposterous. He writes like a sick man.”

Hemingway recalls in detail the streets and places and watering holes and eateries he frequented as well as his impressions of his contemporaries. Ford Maddox Ford who was unkempt and had bad breath, the poor poet Evan Shipman who didn’t dress warmly enough for late fall. F. Scott Fitzgerald was between handsome and pretty, in love with Zelda and discombobulated by her. She once asked Hemingway, “Ernest, don’t you think Al Jolson is greater than Jesus?” It was then that everyone realized that [Fitzgerald] would not write anything more that was good (after The Great Gatsby) until after he knew that Zelda was insane.

For a mere 126 pages, this work is a gem of fond recollections of people and places that Hemingway assembles like actors on a stage and gives readers front row seats.

“There was never any ending to Paris and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other. We always returned to it no matter who we were or how it was changed… Paris was always worth it and you received return for whatever you brought to it. But this is how Paris was in the early days when we were very poor and very happy.”

A Moveable Feast
by Ernest Hemingway
126 pages


Typically, when a novel opens, the author takes at least a page or two to plant his settings and place his characters, story, and pace. In “Water Music”, it only takes T. C. Boyle a short paragraph to do so. His opening rouses you like a sudden thunder clap or a swift cuff across the face that makes you sit up sharp and pay attention.

At an age when most young Scotsmen were lifting skirts, plowing furrows and spreading seed, Mungo Park was displaying his bare buttocks to al-haj’ Ali Ibn Fatoudi, Emir of Ludamar. The year was 1795. George III was dabbing the walls of Windsor Castle with his own spittle, the Notables were botching things in France, Goya was deaf, DeQuincey a depraved pre-adolescent. George Bryan “Beau” Brummell was smoothing down his first starched collar, young Ludwig van Beethoven, beetle-browed and twenty-four, was wowing them in Vienna with his Piano Concerto no. 2, and Ned Rise was drinking Strip-Me-Naked with Nan Punt and Sally Sebum at the Pig & Pox Tavern in Maiden Lane.

Mungo Park, for those who have never heard of him, was a Scottish explorer who wanted to chart the course of the Niger in the early 1800’s. He was blond and bonny, and he was an adventure lust whose ambition was to plumb the dark recesses of Africa and tell all of Europe about it. Ned Rise, on the other hand, was a victim of the grimness of London’s poor classes which through TCB’s descriptions made Dickens seem like a fairy tale writer. His life was a concatenation of misfortunes that sadistic fate dealt out with formulaic precision. The destinies of the two men would ultimately collide in Africa, with Ned Rise joining Mungo Park’s efforts not so much for the glory of his mission as the necessity of saving his own hide.

The author makes no bones about the historical accuracy of his tale. But inasmuch as the facts surrounding Mungo Park’s disappearance in Africa were mostly speculation anyway, his account is as good as any. And much more entertaining too.

TCB spares us nothing of the gory details of filth, crime, illness, disease, abandonment, death and resurrection. Readers are drawn into his tale like a freak show that piles horror upon heartbreak upon horror and stay until the morbid end, all the while hoping for some kind of salvation. We follow Mungo Park along his foolhardy enterprise not so much because we care about the Niger as to protect him from harm which will inevitably befall. Rolling along in his palpitating pace, TCB gives us no rest from his heroes’ head-spinning and mind-reeling adventures. Writing in his signature stylish prose and amplitudinous vocabulary (which you can understand with a smattering of French, Latin, Arabic and your imagination from the context), TCB is also a master of local dialect. After Water Music, you could almost come out speaking like a Scotsman who’s imbibed too much gin, or grunt with bared teeth like bushmen cannibals.

Heartbreaking but far from being a nihilistic tale, this novel is about hope and fervor, told in the style of tragic comedy. TCB is a deft story-teller who takes you on an amazing ride, finely tuned and orchestrated as if he were conducting a flawless symphony. Which is what Water Music is.

And by the way, this spectacular masterpiece was TCB’s first novel in 1981.

Water Music
by T. C. Boyle
464 pages

Beginning to read “Ship of Fools” was like putting together a 2000 piece puzzle. The personages embark on a ship in an exotic Mexican port. They are as dissimilar and disparate as grains of sand. Yet as the sea voyage progresses from Mexico to Germany, the passengers come together in a fascinating interaction that reveals each individual’s inner motivations, failings, wickedness, and compassion. The final image is a rich spectrum of humanity. One almost regrets it when the voyage ends.

It took Katherine Anne Porter 20 years to write this book. It didn’t take me 20 years to read it, but almost. Patience is the byword.

From blurb: The story takes place in the summer of 1931, on board a cruise ship bound for Bremerhaven, Germany. The passenger list is long and portentous, and includes a Spanish noblewoman, a drunken German lawyer, an American divorcee, a pair of Mexican Catholic priests, and a host of others. This ship of fools is a crucible of intense experience, out of which everyone emerges forever changed. Rich in incident, passion, and treachery, the novel explores themes of nationalism, cultural and ethnic pride, and basic human frailty that are as relevant now as they were when the novel first appeared in 1962.