Death in the Morning

Today is the 50th anniversary of the death of Ernest Hemmingway, which gives one the chance to think about two not- unrelated subjects: writing and death (more accurately suicide.)

In the years since Hemingway’s death, his critics have procreated themselves and multiplied quite fruitfully. His style, subject matter, themes, likes and prejudices have all been picked on and picked apart. While his iconic persona has survived (“he” or “it” appears in the latest Woody Allen movie) much of his writing has been dismissed as old-fashioned and out-of-date.

I used this anniversary to re-read several of Hemingway’s novels and short stories, as well as parts of Carlos Baker’s biography, which had a big impact on me when it was published in the 1970’s.

While some of his writings do fall a little flat (particularly the bull-fighting and big-game hunting stories and “The Old Man and the Sea”) others are still effective, if not down-right elegant. What still knocked me out:
“The Sun Also Rises”,
“For Whom the Bell Tolls”,
“A Movable Feast”,
“The Nick Adams Stories.” ( I have always had a copy of the Nick Adams paperback nearby for an “Up in Michigan” quick fix.)



To me, one of the simply exquisite endings in literature is from “The Sun Also Rises”:

““Oh, Jake,” Brett said, “we could have had such a damned good time together.”
Ahead was a mounted policeman in khaki directing traffic. He raised his baton. The car slowed suddenly pressing Brett against me.
“Yes,” I said. “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

I admire his crisp, no- unnecessary-word style. As a music composer, I have utilized his well-known “iceberg” method of self-editing: in a short story, for example, he would just eliminate the first half of the story, assuming that somehow that information was in between the lines of the second half.




As for Hemingway’s death by a shotgun to the head, let me say I don’t find much nobility in dying, much less in suicide. Creative types seem vulnerable to thoughts of suicide. Depression and other forms of genuine mental illness, seem to be the “black-lung disease” of writers. I’m of the belief that a lot of suicides are not cries for help, but cries for rest. Illness robs you of sleep, and sometimes you just want to get the damn thing over with. I'm also appreciative when someone does the suicide route, that they at least don't take anyone with them.

In Hemingway’s case, several things other than hyper-creativity, seem to come into play:
1.) Genetics. Suicide galloped through the family. In four generations there were five suicides from his grandfather to his granddaughter, Margo, the actress who committed suicide almost 35 years to the day in Hollywood. It appears the family had a a history of Hemiochromosis, which slides into depression and ultimately suicide.
2. Pain. In the decade prior to his death Hemingway and his wife, Mary, were in two almost back- to back private plane crashes in Africa, which left him with burns, fractures and concussions. The pain, the lessening of his mobility and his growing addiction to pain relievers, left him depressed and highly irritable.
3.) Butchers masquerading as doctors and psychiatrists. I was astounded to learn that while being treated at the Mayo Clinic a year or so before he died, he was subjected to over 40 electro-shock treatments!

Hemingway was a professional writer. From his beginnings as a war correspondent to novelist and essayist, he worked hard at his craft and had utmost respect for those who did the same. Fifty years later, his art beats undiminished.