Read Hemingway's Boat for Free Online

the work can be sometimes overwhelming. I always go back to the letters,” Patrick Hemingway told me in 1987, a sentence that seems only truer with time.
    Hemingway’s momentary high spirits in early April 1934 must have had at least two prongs: he was back from his excellent safari adventure; and now, before heading home by train to Florida, he hoped to go to a Brooklyn boatyard and put in an order for his own longed-for fishing machine. And yet, what his letters, cojoined with verifiable facts of his life just then, suggest is that what might have seemed so clear in a photograph and in what he told some shipside reporters didn’t nearly reflect what Hemingway was generally feeling inside. Every good photograph has a secret, acritic named Mark Stevens once wrote: “Something mysteriously and tantalizingly withheld, even when the world seems laid out as plainly as a corpse upon a table.”
    One verifiable truth is that the monarch of American letters had been riding through rough critical seas for the last few years—and much more rough going was up ahead. Somehow, nothing seemed quite as locked as it once did, and that included owning the reviewers. Not quite a year earlier—on June 13, 1933—the author for whom things had once seemed to come so effortlessly had written to his book editor: “I am tempted never to publish another damned thing. The swine arent worth writing for. I swear to Christ they’re not. Every phase of the whole racket is so disgusting that it makes you feel like vomiting.… And it is a commonplace that I lack confidence that I am a man—What shit—And I’m supposed to go around with your good friends spreading that behind my back—And they imagine they will get away with it.” He’d been referring specifically in this instance to his former friend Max Eastman (a fellow Scribners author), who’d just written a half-joking and belated review of
Death in the Afternoon
for
The New Republic
titled “Bull in the Afternoon.” The Hemingway style, Eastman said, was that “of wearing false hair on the chest.” In Hemingway’s reading, and in the reading of some of his close friends, the piece wasn’t trying to be humorous at all but rather was making overt suggestions to the effect that Hemingway must feel sexually inadequate. Well, he’d break Eastman’s jaw the next time he saw him, and sell tickets to the event.
    One way to read Ernest Hemingway’s life is through the phenomenon of remarkable first luck. He’d become an international literary figure, specifically as a novelist, so quickly—in the second half of the 1920s, less than a decade from when he’d started out. He’d started out with stories—actually, sometimes just intensely felt imagistic fragments of stories. It was almost as if he’d had no real apprenticeship but had sprung full-blown into American consciousness as a serious writer. It wasn’t true; it only seemed true. What is true is that, for nearly his whole life, Hemingway had a genius, among his many geniuses, for gathering knowledge inside of him with astonishing speed—lore, know-how, the names of streets in Kansas City. He seemed to learn everything and anything so early, almost as if to defy the word “learn.” The statement can apply as much to the intricacies of big-game fishing as to the art of shaking daiquiris as to the craft of writing fiction: he simply found out, and lodged it inside him very fast. In so many instances, he seemed to mutate from eager novice to acknowledged expertwith barely any larval stage in between. The pattern was to learn from his betters—betters at the time—and then to lap them on the track as if they were standing still.
    The Sun Also Rises
, Hemingway’s slim and enduring first novel about world-weary expats doing the bullfights in Pamplona, sixty thousand lyric words, was published when he was