You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person died for no reason. As I ate the oysters with their strong taste of the sea and their faint metallic taste that the cold white wine washed away, leaving only the sea taste and the succulent texture, and as I drank their cold liquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of the wine, I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and to make plans. “If the reader prefers, this book may be regarded as fiction. But there is always the chance that such a book of fiction may throw some light on what has been written as fact.” “We ate well and cheaply and drank well and cheaply and slept well and warm together and loved each other.” “When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest.” —Ernest Hemingway, [excerpts] A Moveable Feast, published posthumously in 1964
Posted on: Sat, 29 Mar 2014 23:35:47 +0000
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