A review of Paula McLain’s The Paris Wife.
Hemingway’s classic, A Moveable Feast, is a well-stewed blend of contradictions, much like the man himself. It is a crucible of a valentine, wrapped in vellum and barbed wire. Notorious for holding grudges and for viciously estranging himself from his peers, Papa’s trip down memory lane means not only warmed-over reminiscences, but also an opportunity to spit acid at Gertrude Stein, Ford Madox Ford, and Scott Fitzgerald, to name several. The bruised innocence underlying Hemingway’s sketches, reminds me of the Leonard Cohen lyrics (from “Tower of Song”): I ache in the places/where I used to play.
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