Ernest Hemingway and Aleister Crowley
So I am reading a book I randomly bought a year or so ago, back when one did not realise what freedoms one had, merely being able to wander into a bookshop and touch everything and get within other people's space...
Book is called 'A Movable Feast' by E. Hemingway. He is one of my favourite authors in regards to his strong, terse, style, and I like his topics of travel, outdoors, and the 'mind of man.'
That said I think I can see why this book was not published by him in his lifetime . It is kind of a rambling stream of consciousness memoir that if I were him I wouldn't want published either. Not bad, just not great, and a bit self conscious (obviously written for himself).
I was very surprised yesterday to read this in the end of a chapter (main character Ernest and an acquaintance are sitting at a cafe table in Paris circa 1920s):
' After Ford left it was dark and I walked over to the kiosque and I bought a Paris-Sport Complet...A great friend of mine who rarely came to the Lilas, came over to the table and sat down and just then as my friend was ordering a drink from Emile the gaunt man with the cape, and the tall woman passed us on the sidewalk. His gaze drifted towards the table and then away.
"That's Hilaire Belloc," I said to my friend. "Ford was here this afternoon and cut him dead."
"Don't be a silly ass," my friend said. "That's Alestair (sic) Crowley, the diabolist. He's supposed to be the wickedest man in the world."
"Sorry," I said. '
Ha, no way! Notoriety or what?
Indeed. I wonder who the tall woman was. If it is Paris in the 1920s perhaps it was Leila Waddell?