Tag: please ruin Hemingway all the time

gayturians:

don’t say you’re a writer if you just write fanfiction for your entertainment. you’re only a writer if you kill a bear with a typewriter to appease the spirit of hemingway and slather yourself in ink in tribute to shakespeare, the one true over-penis of literature.

latining:

d1rtypaws:

Not gonna lie, for the longest time I didn’t get that the horror of “for sale: babe shoes, never worn” was that the baby died before he could wear the shoes or whatever I thought it was “my kid is a fucking nightmare and I can’t get him to wear his shoes”. 

All that quip shows is that Ernest Hemingway never listened to women, who would have told him that the one thing you know for sure about babies is that they never come out the size you fucking plan for.

dukeofbookingham:

love-what-you-are:

glumshoe:

glumshoe:

glumshoe:

I’m suddenly laughing at the idea of a cliche noir detective story written in the brutally concise style of Hemingway.

A woman walked into my office. She had legs. I noticed her legs. “I have a problem. I need your help,” she said. They always said that. I knew her legs weren’t the problem. I hoped she might want my help with them anyhow.

“Can you pay?” I asked. Of course she could. Her shoes were worth more than my rent. She could pay.
“I can pay,” she said. Her eyes were wet. I wondered if anything else was wet. Probably not. I am not handsome. Not since the war.
She was looking at my scar. Lots of people do. Most look away. Not her. She did not look away. She looked at my scar and I looked at her legs. There were two of them. I liked that about her. I liked that a whole lot.
“Will there be danger?” I asked. There always is. This city bleeds danger, then drinks it right back up again.

“I’m afraid there might be danger,” she said. She had the voice of a beautiful woman. She also had the face and body of a beautiful woman. She was beautiful.

The light from the window was striped. It made stripes on my cigarette smoke. The end of my cigarette crumbled into ash. My marriage had also crumbled into ash.

“I can handle danger,” I said. I patted the butt of my gun. My gun was a Colt. My gun and my scar were all that was left from my time as a soldier. My gun, my scar, and the nightmares. I looked her up and down. “I am good at handling things.”

i HaTE THIS,

@ablogwithaview Have you seen this? Because oh my God

In 1937, joking about Hemingway’s fascination with firearms and weaponry, the writer Max Eastman wrote, “Come out from behind that false hair on your chest, Ernest. We all know you.” The next time Hemingway saw Eastman at their publisher’s office in New York, he tore his shirt from his chest to prove that he had chest hair before punching Eastman

[x] (via ptsdhamlet)

flatluigi:

veliseraptor:

seagodofmagic:

veliseraptor:

okay but I did not know that there is a story about f. scott fitzgerald nervously showing ernest hemingway his penis because zelda said he couldn’t satisfy a woman with it and ernest hemingway was like “lol no dude you’re fine”

what are the modernists even

the best part of that story in context is that before they pull out their dicks, hemingway spends the better part of a chapter physically describing fitzgerald in great detail, claiming to be grossed out by him but obviously, obviously uncomfortably attracted

oh my god, it got better. I just went to find an excerpt and

Scott was a man then who looked like a boy with a face between handsome and pretty. He had very fair wavy hair, a high forehead, excited and friendly eyes and a delicate long-lipped Irish mouth that, on a girl, would have been the mouth of a beauty. His chin was well built and he had good ears and a handsome, almost beautiful, unmarked nose. This should not have added up to a pretty face, but that came from the coloring, the very fair hair and the mouth. The mouth worried you until you knew him and then it worried you more.

ernest hemingway calm down and control your thirst a little

“The mouth worried you until you knew him and then it worried you more“ is a hell of a line 

glumshoe:

glumshoe:

glumshoe:

I’m suddenly laughing at the idea of a cliche noir detective story written in the brutally concise style of Hemingway.

A woman walked into my office. She had legs. I noticed her legs. “I have a problem. I need your help,” she said. They always said that. I knew her legs weren’t the problem. I hoped she might want my help with them anyhow.

“Can you pay?” I asked. Of course she could. Her shoes were worth more than my rent. She could pay.
“I can pay,” she said. Her eyes were wet. I wondered if anything else was wet. Probably not. I am not handsome. Not since the war.
She was looking at my scar. Lots of people do. Most look away. Not her. She did not look away. She looked at my scar and I looked at her legs. There were two of them. I liked that about her. I liked that a whole lot.
“Will there be danger?” I asked. There always is. This city bleeds danger, then drinks it right back up again.

“I’m afraid there might be danger,” she said. She had the voice of a beautiful woman. She also had the face and body of a beautiful woman. She was beautiful.

The light from the window was striped. It made stripes on my cigarette smoke. The end of my cigarette crumbled into ash. My marriage had also crumbled into ash.

“I can handle danger,” I said. I patted the butt of my gun. My gun was a Colt. My gun and my scar were all that was left from my time as a soldier. My gun, my scar, and the nightmares. I looked her up and down. “I am good at handling things.”