A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway

I never read Hemingway before. A choice of his last and unfinished A Moveable Feast was did due of Paris of twenties, a city always attractive in time of modern history for me. I had edition of a book in original author’s view with not included tellings and variants of unwritten introduction and final.

Reading of A Moveable Feast couldn’t not recall own memories in recognition of places I was walking too. I’ve felt that spirit again. A decade where was living an incipient writer was finishing of implementation of city’s reconstruction by a plan of Georges-Eugene Haussmann that began in sixties of previous century by Napoleon III’s order by which origins contemporary Paris. Hemingway was there in interesting time about which he wrote uninteresting stories.

In narration frequently appears people of art, what doesn’t influence on passive mood in reading. Written words and conversations happen to disgust. And from these talks I was emitting a scent of fiction, which the author many times confirms in unwritten introductions on whole book. I was repelling from mentioned artistic people, which all of them were looked from a height and had lonesome lifes. Hemingway writes about own extremely poor life, which was for him, because in this filled of confirmations book he had a family, money were spending on often drinking, visits of restaurants and cafe, buying of pictures, skiing in Austria and travel in Spain. He made unreasonable mistake to leave journalism, which was a source of earning. I so many times heard this trivial story about lack of money. That’s very funny.

I was recalling A Russian Journal by John Steinbeck, whose travel with a photographer Robert Capa in the Soviet land strictly controlled and they haven’t a free choice in movement. An author despite on iron circumstances described his visit colorful with mindful observations and great sense of humor.

I like in Hemingway’s style seamless transitions in sentences, but it wasn’t always. Buildings of phrases could collapse. There were needless aspirations in describing. In a couple of sentences was disrespectful to give metaphors to death of poor people. Coming to the end of the book, I saw stories without a point and in text felt that weren’t made last corrections, because author committed a suicide. A feeling of unfinished sharps in long writing about remoting from a first wife and marriage on a second. A kind of stories, which I haven’t wish to listen. There metaphors out from a sense, which I never saw in the book. I closed it and one happiness was in finishing of it, what I could do more earlier. A short size hold me.