Author and Columnist
I know that it is not generally my habit to speak on the books I am reading, assuming that the fact that I am confessing to read them is enough as an insight into my mind. But I need to talk, so you may feel free to read.
It would be a better habit than yours of prattling on about the young women in your life. There are book bloggers whose thousands of reviews attract attention and acclaim, something your emotional horniness lacks.
Also, you are too young at any of this to claim you have habits.
I was under the prejudiced and frankly idiotic opinion that Ernest Hemingway was a rabid misogynist with little interest beyond the realm of masculinity.
Masculinity is a multifarious concept; there is not one hard and fast definition for it. Toxic masculinity, which your nature thinks all masculinity must be, is easier to define and where you thought Hemingway slotted. (He doesn't not slot there occasionally; one must consider his context.)
The difficulty appears between the artist and their fanbase. One of the most "hypermasculine" books is so ubiquitous that one of its terms, snowflakes, has entered the lexicon as someone who is oversensitive and demands to be coddled. That book was written by a gay man who was explicitly lampooning the very people who have treated it almost as a bible is not an irony many explore. The movie based on it obfuscates this slightly. Still, one barely needs to think of the message before landing: "Oh, men are having trouble because they cultishly believe the media portrayal of masculinity offered by consumption and violence." No one there should be admired or emulated.
Likewise, some of the worst people you could imagine are fond of citing The Matrix, saying they are "red-pilled" because they think disadvantaged and maligned minorities run the world. Thus the pilled are the only people seeing the truth behind the veil. That The Matrix is an allegory by the Wachowskis, trans sisters, does not seem to impact assholes co-opting.
Hemingway would find utterly worthless the people canonizing as role models characters he wrote to be pathetic and would have said as much.
It is best not to judge an artist by their fanbase. Supposed fans don't have the slightest interest or care what the text says. They have never given a single critical thought to the text. Perhaps they haven't read the book or watched the movie.
Here, one could try for a jab at religion, but we are too good for that.
I was required to read this novel by my very bad teacher,
When you want to use "very" as a modifier, it means what you modify is too weak. Try a stronger adjective or verb.
(I write this on my college kids' papers at least once per assignment.)
Also, I concur: This teacher was godawful, but not so much that I have bothered remembering his name.
I ended up shutting the book for a minute and chanting a wish that Hemingway was not taking the story to where he so abundantly felt the need. He couldn't. It wasn't fair or right to do that to me.
My dear boy, he titled the book A Farewell to Arms. Did you think he was talking about munitions?
In the final chapter, I could barely stand to read the next sentence, or the one after. Each stung me, bled me, wrenched tears from my eyes as from the narrator's.
Slightly overwrought, but I concede you blog better about books than you do about women. I am not pained to read this prose.
Today, my father volunteered with his church to work serving food and such to the people at Ground Zero in New York City.
Dad is awesome. I cannot imagine doing this, but that is what people did in the aftermath of the attacks: the unimaginable.
It has barely been more than a month since the attacks. It feels odd that it isn't so strange to you anymore. You cannot yet feel its lasting effect on the world.
In a few years, you will work in a library when a glut of books about the attacks are released. You will sit behind the desk reading these, openly weeping until people need to check out. That seems like the most potent personal metaphor: being utterly raw and wrecked but slipping back into the guise of a functioning member of society as there is no other way it will function.
The pile doesn't abate in any significant way for years. It is a glowing tower now, but I have never visited it.
Weeks ago, the church had given him a list of items to bring that made it seem like he was entering a third world death trap. He was to provide high boots (my old work boots), his own toilet paper, lip balm (to prevent his lips from getting burned by ash), and other dubious necessities. Furthermore, cameras of all sorts were verboten and would be confiscated. I am fairly certain he was not going to Bhopal.
You would be wrong. If anything, this is an underestimation of the danger. People fought for years and fight still to get the cancer-riddled first responders and pile diggers money for their care. The government, as is their wont, applauded them as heroes, then tried to turn their backs on selfless people the moment it seemed there might be a price tag attached to their sacrifices.
But my father risks life, limb, and train fare to humbly help others.
He did, and I do not believe he thought twice about doing it. Most people -- yourself included -- are happy to avoid that area because facing it would be too intense.
He informed me that the precautions he prepared were largely for naught. He could have done quite well in sneakers.
I'm glad he didn't, knowing what happened to some people helping at Ground Zero.
In addition, it was decided that camera were not inherently evil and many people ended up snapping photos.
I understand the considerate prohibition on cameras -- it would be next to impossible to dictate that now that almost everyone has a camera on them every waking hour and equipment that would not be out of place in a spy movie is ubiquitous -- but I wish they hadn't forbidden them. 9/11 is one of the most impactful events in your life. History should have been recorded from as many angles, even though most would have only shown gray.
Gray is a dominating color of the attacks. I envision a picture I saw the day of the attacks, every inch of strangers coated in the pulverized debris, looking like those buried at Pompeii. That is how the streets appeared: covered in a thick layer of volcanic ash. You couldn't understand how anyone could breathe on their escape -- and indeed, some people could not, the sharp dust abating their lungs.
Also, today was the first day that Broadway was reopened, so the security was more lax out of necessity.
That is the way of people. We face the unfathomable, then are desperate to watch Cats. That was one of Bush's requests: spend as much money as we could to keep the wheels of commerce turning. That was how the common person was supposed to serve the country: with their wallet.
He informed my that, while he was there, the air suddenly became very sooty. It was almost like it was snowing, he reported. He later found out this was because the rescuers discovered a buried elevator shaft with thirty bodies therein.
For the necessity of my ragging on you, this is worth it. The image is not an original one, but it is honest. It is not some poetic flourish. Brief, tangible, and frank.
You do not need to dress it up when confronted with something authentic.