Entertainment for Geeks from the makers of The Gamers: Dorkness Rising, JourneyQuest, and Demon Hunters. Lillian Ross spends a few days in New York talking with the writer Ernest Hemingway, the author of “A Farewell to Arms” and “The Sun Also Rises.”. The Moods of Ernest Hemingway. Credit Illustration by Reginald Marsh. Ernest Hemingway, who may well be the greatest living American novelist and short- story writer, rarely comes to New York. He spends most of his time on a farm, the Finca Vigia, nine miles outside Havana, with his wife, a domestic staff of nine, fifty- two cats, sixteen dogs, a couple of hundred pigeons, and three cows. They Transferred it to radio and won a Sony award. They thought they'd have a go at. New Orleans' Finest Gentlemen's Experience, Best of New Orleans strip clubs, Bourbon Street, French Quarter, cocktails, VIP room, bachelor parties. Queens strip club, strip club, new york city, NYC Gentlemen's Club, LGA, LaGuardia Airport, Limousine Service, Strip Club, Sexy Dancers, Hot Women. Our mission at Ladies & Gentlemen Salon and Spa is to conduct our business based on our principles. Since 1975, when Ladies & Gentlemen was a tiny space with 3 staff members, we thought of changing the world of beauty by. A 25-year-old woman was shot in the upper thigh outside a popular gentlemen’s club in Mount Vernon early Monday, authorities say. The New Mount Carmel Foundation, Inc. The Board of Directors is committed to eliminate or minimize any expenses that would reduce the funds available for the purchase of. When he does come to New York, it is only because he has to pass through it on his way somewhere else. Not long ago, on his way to Europe, he stopped in New York for a few days. I had written to him asking if I might see him when he came to town, and he had sent me a typewritten letter saying that would be fine and suggesting that I meet his plane at the airport. Want to see the good Breughel at the Met, the one, no two, fine Goyas and Mr. Am going to try to get into town and out without having to shoot my mouth off. I want to give the joints a miss. Not seeing news people is not a pose. It is only to have time to see your friends. He was to arrive at Idlewild late in the afternoon, and I went out to meet him. His plane had landed by the time I got there, and I found him standing at a gate waiting for his luggage and for his wife, who had gone to attend to it. He had one arm around a scuffed, dilapidated briefcase pasted up with travel stickers. He had the other around a wiry little man whose forehead was covered with enormous beads of perspiration. Hemingway was wearing a red plaid wool shirt, a figured wool necktie, a tan wool sweater- vest, a brown tweed jacket tight across the back and with sleeves too short for his arms, gray flannel slacks, Argyle socks, and loafers, and he looked bearish, cordial, and constricted. His hair, which was very long in back, was gray, except at the temples, where it was white; his mustache was white, and he had a ragged, half- inch full white beard. There was a bump about the size of a walnut over his left eye. He was wearing steel- rimmed spectacles, with a piece of paper under the nosepiece. He was in no hurry to get into Manhattan. He crooked the arm around the briefcase into a tight hug and said that it contained the unfinished manuscript of his new book, . Myers made a slight attempt to dislodge himself from the embrace, but Hemingway held on to him affectionately. He spoke with a perceptible Midwestern accent, despite the Indian talk. I bring emotion up to where you can. We have to slack her off gradually. Especially if you want to be champion. All they see is the irresponsibility that comes in after the terrible responsibility of writing. He had considerable rewriting to do on his book, and he was determined to keep at it until he was absolutely satisfied. A porter pushing a cart heaped with luggage followed her. Slowly, he counted the pieces of luggage. There were fourteen, half of them, Mrs. Hemingway told me, extra- large Valpaks designed by her husband and bearing his coat of arms, also designed by him. When Hemingway had finished counting, his wife suggested that he tell the porter where to put the luggage. Hemingway told the porter to stay right there and watch it; then he turned to his wife and said, . Order of the day is to have a drink first. Hemingway put his briefcase down on a chromium stool and pulled it close to him. He ordered bourbon and water. Hemingway said she would have the same, and I ordered a cup of coffee. Hemingway told the bartender to bring double bourbons. He waited for the drinks with impatience, holding on to the bar with both hands and humming an unrecognizable tune. Hemingway said she hoped it wouldn. Hemingway said it wouldn. What he was looking forward to, he said, was Venice. Hemingway lit a cigarette and handed me the pack. I passed it along to him, but he said he didn. Smoking ruins his sense of smell, a sense he finds completely indispensable for hunting. Then he enumerated elk, deer, possum, and coon as some of the things he can truly smell. The bartender brought the drinks. Hemingway took several large swallows and said he gets along fine with animals, sometimes better than with human beings. In Montana, once, he lived with a bear, and the bear slept with him, got drunk with him, and was a close friend. He asked me whether there were still bears at the Bronx Zoo, and I said I didn. Hemingway took a small notebook out of her purse and opened it; she told me she had made a list of chores she and her husband had to do before their boat sailed. They included buying a hot- water- bottle cover, an elementary Italian grammar, a short history of Italy, and, for Hemingway, four woollen undershirts, four cotton underpants, two woollen underpants, bedroom slippers, a belt, and a coat. He needs some good soft padding for the nosepiece. It cuts him up brutally. When he really wants to get cleaned up, he changes the paper. He finished his drink and gave the bartender a repeat nod, and then he turned to me. Hemingway said. I said I would be happy to help him do both, and then I reminded him that he had said he wanted to see a fight. The only fight that week, I had learned from a friend who knows all about fights, was at the St. Nicholas Arena that night. I said that my friend had four tickets and would like to take all of us. Hemingway wanted to know who was fighting. When I told him, he said they were bums. Hemingway repeated, and added that they had better fighters in Cuba. Hemingway gave me a long, reproachful look. We would all go to a fight when he got back from Europe, he said, because it was absolutely necessary to go to several good fights a year. Hemingway ordered the luggage loaded into one taxi, and the three of us got into another. As we drove along the boulevard, Hemingway watched the road carefully. Hemingway told me that he always watches the road, usually from the front seat. It is a habit he got into during the First World War. I asked them what they planned to do in Europe. They said they were going to stay a week or so in Paris, and then drive to Venice. Find good, cheap restaurants where you can keep your own napkin. Walk over all the town and see where we made our mistakes and where we had our few bright ideas. And learn the form and try and pick winners in the blue, smoky afternoons, and then go out the next day to play them at Auteuil and Enghien. The lights were on in the tall office buildings. Hemingway did not seem to be impressed. The last time he and his wife were in Italy, they lived for four months in Venice and the Cortina Valley, and he went hunting, and now he had put the locale and some of the people in the book he was writing. Hemingway said that she had broken her right ankle skiing there but that she planned to go skiing there again. Hemingway was hospitalized in Padua with an eye infection, which developed into erysipelas, but he wanted to go back to Italy and wanted to see his many good friends there. He was looking forward to seeing the gondoliers on a windy day, the Gritti Palace hotel, where they stayed during their last visit, and the Locanda Cipriani, an old inn on Torcello, an island in the lagoon northeast of Venice on which some of the original Venetians lived before they built Venice. About seventy people live on Torcello, and the men are professional duck hunters. While there, Hemingway went duck- hunting a lot with the gardener of the old inn. I shot good and thus became a respected local character. They have some sort of little bird that comes through, after eating grapes in the north, on his way to eat grapes in the south. The local characters sometimes shot them sitting, and I occasionally shot them flying. Once, I shot two high doubles, rights and lefts, in a row, and the gardener cried with emotion. Coming home, I shot a high duck against the rising moon and dropped him in the canal. That precipitated an emotional crisis I thought I would never get him out of but did, with about a pint of Chianti. We each took a pint out with us. I drank mine to keep warm coming home. He drank his when overcome by emotion. Hemingway registered and told the room clerk that he did not want any announcement made of his arrival and did not want any visitors, or any telephone calls either, except from Miss Dietrich. Then we went up to the suite. Hemingway paused at the entrance and scouted the living room. It was large, decorated in garish colors, and furnished with imitation Chippendale furniture and an imitation fireplace containing imitation coals. Hemingway went over to a bookcase and held up a sample of its contents. He unbuttoned his collar and went over to the telephone. He telephoned the Plaza and asked for Miss Dietrich. She was out, and he left word for her to come over for supper. Then he called room service and ordered caviar and a couple of bottles of Perrier- Jou. He looked at the pasteboard backs again and said, . He said that of all the people he did not wish to see in New York, the people he wished least to see were the critics. If they can do you harm, let them do it. It is like being a third baseman and protesting because they hit line drives to you. Line drives are regrettable, but to be expected. Hemingway came in from the bedroom and said she couldn. Hemingway said all right, and went back into the bedroom. Hemingway poured two glasses of champagne, gave one to me, and picked up the other one and took a sip. The waiter watched him anxiously. Hemingway hunched his shoulders and said something in Spanish to the waiter. They both laughed, and the waiter left. Hemingway took his glass over to the red couch and sat down, and I sat in a chair opposite him. I wrote three stories about it in the old days. Tolstoy, an artillery officer who fought at Sevastopol, who knew his stuff, who was a hell of a man anywhere you put him. I started out very quiet and I beat Mr. Then I trained hard and I beat Mr. Stendhal, and I think I had an edge in the last one. It went straight on into a novel. When I was twenty- five, I read novels by Somersault Maugham and Stephen St. But it was really lousy and the rewriting took nearly five months.
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