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I'm a vegetarian so you can guess what I make of all this mindless slaughter. But it is best to go back to the writing. Indian Camp is still one of the best short stories I have ever read and the ending is pure mystical brilliance about death. comradely Gary On Tue, Aug 1, 2017 at 6:03 PM, Greg McDonald via Marxism < marxism@lists.csbs.utah.edu> wrote: > ******************** POSTING RULES & NOTES ******************** > #1 YOU MUST clip all extraneous text when replying to a message. > #2 This mail-list, like most, is publicly & permanently archived. > #3 Subscribe and post under an alias if #2 is a concern. > ***************************************************************** > > Sounds more like a typical redneck than anything else. Never been a fan of > trophy hunting. > > On Mon, Jul 31, 2017 at 8:49 PM, Louis Proyect via Marxism < > marxism@lists.csbs.utah.edu> wrote: > > > ******************** POSTING RULES & NOTES ******************** > > #1 YOU MUST clip all extraneous text when replying to a message. > > #2 This mail-list, like most, is publicly & permanently archived. > > #3 Subscribe and post under an alias if #2 is a concern. > > ***************************************************************** > > > > BOOKFORUM JUNE/JULY/AUG 2017 > > > > Appetite for Destruction > > Ernest Hemingway’s death trip > > > > by JOY WILLIAMS > > > > The unusually striking photograph on the cover of Mary V. Dearborn’s new > > biography Ernest Hemingway shows the writer in his prime in 1933 sitting > on > > the cushioned stern of a boat, possibly his thirty-eight-foot cabin > cruiser > > the Pilar, and aiming a pistol at the camera. He always carried guns on > > board to shoot sharks or, when bored or annoyed, seabirds and turtles. He > > was thirty-four when this photo was taken and he had recently discovered > > Key West and the fabulous Gulf Stream with its gigantic marlin, sailfish, > > and tarpon. He fished and fished and fished, insatiable. There were the > > heroic fighting fish, the trophy fish—some of which he used as punching > > bags after they were strung up on the dock—but all provided pleasure. > When > > a colorful school of dorado appeared on the surface around the Pilar, > > Hemingway and his party landed eighteen of them in five minutes. They’d > be > > used as fertilizer for his wife’s flower beds. He referred to this time, > > the decade of the ’30s, as his “belle epoque,” for there was not only the > > happy scouring of the Gulf Stream, but also the hunting in Wyoming for > elk > > and antelope (for lighter fare he shot prairie dogs from a moving car) > and > > the safari in Africa, where lions, leopards, cheetahs, and oryx could be > > collected, though it rankled him when others killed bigger animals than > he > > did, or those with darker manes, bigger racks, or, in the case of rhinos, > > larger horns. > > > > “I like to shoot a rifle and I like to kill and Africa is where you do > > that,” he said. > > > > But killing could be fun anywhere. In Sun Valley, Idaho, he and two of > his > > young sons, Gregory and Patrick, visiting from school, shot four hundred > > jackrabbits during one adventure. Years later, another son, Jack, would > > reminisce that “one of the most memorable moments of my lifelong > > relationship with my father” took place in Cuba on the roof of the Finca > > Vigía, Hemingway’s home there, where they drank pitchers of martinis and > > shot “great quantities of buzzards.” The highlight for Patrick, “the last > > really great, good time we all had together,” was “dropping hand grenades > > on turtles” from the deck of the Pilar during the bizarre sub-hunting > days > > of the ’40s, the acts “justified by the need to learn how long it was > > between when you pulled out the pin and when it went off.” > > > > It is said that Hemingway never killed an elephant—he admired their > > fidelities and social structures apparently—but his youngest son, > Gregory, > > the “troubled” child, the son who after several wives and eight children > > underwent sex-reassignment surgery and died in a Florida jail as “Gloria” > > Hemingway, shot eighteen elephants in a month. It’s possible he shot them > > to annoy his father, whom he considered a “gin-soaked abusive monster,” > but > > he also claimed it was just damn relaxing to kill elephants. The activity > > made him less anxious about things. > > > > Gregory wrote a book about “Papa.” So did his half-brother Jack. So did > > Hemingway’s brother Leicester, and Hemingway’s fourth wife, Mary. In his > > younger years he was quite charismatic and people who knew him then > > remembered that and wrote about it. The bulls, the booze, the fresh air, > > the slopes, the streams and war stories. And many other books have been > > written about Hemingway—there is Carlos Baker’s chummy hagiography; > Michael > > Reynolds’s deep life; Jeffrey Meyers’s woundy thesis, the one that > bothered > > Raymond Carver so; Paul Hendrickson’s spirited, speculative boating > party; > > James Mellow’s scholarly and overblown production (“He had been at the > > center of a cultural revolution unequalled in its wide-reaching effects > on > > Western culture except by the Italian Renaissance . . .”); Kenneth Lynn’s > > psycho-hugie; Peter Griffin’s focus on the early, enchanted, good-looking > > days. Even so, it’s been fifteen years since we’ve had a major new study > of > > the man. But now, with Dearborn’s grimly astonished book, we do. > > > > One approaches the life of Hemingway not with excitement but with an > > anxious defensive duty. After all there are a great many writers who > > learned a great deal from his work—the early work always—the cleanness of > > the line, the freshness, the solemnity of the sentence, the discoveries > > that restraint and omission allow. Gertrude Stein said that he looked > like > > a modern but smelled like a museum. I don’t smell museum. The word that > > springs to my mind is fetor. The stench of death. Hemingway stared death > in > > the face again and again and was proud of it, but it was almost always an > > animal’s death, an animal’s face, a creature’s face, the face of a nature > > he repeatedly diminished, the light and life of which he would extinguish > > over and over. > > > > He killed far more in life than he did in fiction, obsessively, > > methodically, in the sanctified slaughter referred to as sport. > > > > (Behind a paywall. Contact me if you want the full review.) > > > > _________________________________________________________ > > Full posting guidelines at: http://www.marxmail.org/sub.htm > > Set your options at: http://lists.csbs.utah.edu/opt > > ions/marxism/gregmc59%40gmail.com > _________________________________________________________ > Full posting guidelines at: http://www.marxmail.org/sub.htm > Set your options at: http://lists.csbs.utah.edu/options/marxism/gary. > maclennan1%40gmail.com > _________________________________________________________ Full posting guidelines at: http://www.marxmail.org/sub.htm Set your options at: http://lists.csbs.utah.edu/options/marxism/archive%40mail-archive.com
