"One true sentence." That's all you have to write, wrote Ernest Hemingway in "A Moveable Feast" a recollection of his years in Paris in the '20s. That's a key to any good writing, journalism or other.
"Paris is a moveable feast," he wrote, and the book came out after he committed suicide, edited and organized from manuscripts and notes, by his fourth wife Mary.
Now a new version is coming out, early next month, edited by a grandson, Sean (from Hemingway's second wife), according to an interesting article in today's NY Times, and the differences are worth reading about. I'll be buying one as soon as it's available.
I have a first British edition, copyright 1964, that I found for not much money on ABE (American book exchange). I recommend this outfit for finding used books. Many used books stores around the country are members, and you can find first editions, signed copies and many other treasures by searching it. abe.com
"There is never any end to Paris," Hemingway wrote in the last chapter, and now that is changing. A Moveable Feast is truly moveable.
I am once again reading A Moveable Feast, but on my mobile device, which seems fitting and ironic. The last time I read this I wrote for pizza by slice at The Edmond Sun. Now--as just another working stiff that fakes being a flack-- I start the process of being engaged with the piece again. The Moveable Feast for me is writing, an oddly familiar passion that lingers in the background and pounces at the most awkward moments. This passion has such a force that I've quit jobs, been divorced and lived dangerously in the ocean. Perhaps it's more like being possessed. That's why the feast is frightening.
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