Winter 1966 • Vol. XXVIII No. 1 NonfictionJanuary 1, 1966 |

Hemingway and Me: A Rather Long Story

July 2, 1961. It was late if a hot bright Sunday morning when my phone rang with the news of Hemingway's sudden departure from the living. All the instruments agreed: the day of his death was a hot bright day, and the shock of it ran the whole world round. His scorn for the "cowardice" of self-destruction—especially as he planted it in the thoughts of the protagonist of For Whom the Bell Tolls—seemed to rule it out for him. But that was on the entirely foolish assumption that a man who had expressed his bitter distaste for the idea of suicide could not in another country, era, and condition commit it. In 1953 I published a book called Ernest Hemingway. It had emerged as the survivor in a long epistolary drama which was more in the nature of farce than tragedy, but to me there remains a dark, unverifiable suspicion that the Happy Event of February 26, 1953 could just possibly have had some obscure part in the reverberation of that summer morning nine years later. At this point

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Our Hemingway Man

By Philip Young

July 2, 1961. It was late if a hot bright Sunday morning when my phone rang with the news of Hemingway's sudden departure from the living. All the instruments agreed: […]

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