Once more to Papa’s house: Strength at the broken places

Illustration by Forest Byrd

“The world is a fine place and worth the fighting for and I very much hate to leave it.”

— Ernest Hemingway

At this point in the story, Hemingway’s hero, Robert Jordan, has been fatally wounded in battle, and he’s alone on a hillside, thinking about what he’s done in his life and whether it mattered.  Just days before, he fell in love with a beautiful woman.  He’s now dying, surrounded, and the enemy is approaching.  He tries to assure himself that he’s led a good life and argues with himself as Hemingway’s heroes do.

So come times in life — not necessarily points when we are alone, outnumbered, and dying as the enemy draws closer and fires, but when we are at a crossroads and, almost naturally, think back and consider whether what we have done has made any difference to ourselves or to others.  If we’re paying attention. 

Whether the saying came from a book, a mentor, a friend or a stranger, I’m not sure, but I often remember these words — a life not observed is no life at all.

Which brings me back to Hemingway.  For years, I had tried to read him.  But, no matter how many times I started or how hard I tried, I could never finish one of his books.  His characters seemed contrived, his language and storytelling too simple.  How, I thought, could anyone make anything of what he’s written and why would anyone care? 

The year after I graduated from college, my family went on a cruise.  At that point, I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life, and I thought all I’d done up till then had meant nothing. 

I’d gone to school for 18 years and, just as I’d gotten comfortable with myself and finally felt confident in how I saw the world, it was over.  I was now in a new world that was very different from the comfort of a university or classroom.  There were no requirements, no known steps, no upcoming tests.  My purpose and happiness, it seemed, were disappearing as the distance grew between graduation and the here-and-now. 

One of our stops was in Key West, where Hemingway once lived and did a lot of fishing.  Though I didn’t think much of him — for that matter, I didn’t think much of anyone or anything at the time — I thought, what the hell, if anything, this will be the only time I’ll be here to see his house. 

If you’ve ever been there, you know about the cats.  They’re everywhere, creeping through doorways and lounging around his pool.  Some of them have extra toes.  It’s very peculiar, so I was told, but, as I didn’t have a cat, I had to think about what a normal one looked like. 

When we were there, I bought A Farewell to Arms.  For years, I’d told myself that I had to come around and learn to like Hemingway.  I tried to read the book many times, but I couldn’t do it, no matter how hard I tried or how many times I went back to it.  Normally, if I’m disinterested in a book, I put it away and never give it another thought. 

All those years that it passed unread, on a shelf or in a closet, I felt that pang of guilt an English major feels when he dislikes an author who is held in high regard. 

So finally, about a month ago, I got through it.  Fast.  And with ease.  I loved it.  And I went out right away and bought another one of his books.  

After I’d finished them and got back to talking to people, I called my friend Sarah.  We talk regularly about what we’re reading and writing. 

I told her about Hemingway. 

“I’ve read two of his books in a week,” I said.  Though I can tell her anything and she’s one of the most approachable people I know, I felt bad because I was sure I had told a lot of people, and probably her, that I detested him. 

We threw the subject around for awhile — about why we like certain things at certain points and why we grow out of them — and I told her, while not claiming any responsibility, about how surprised I was that I enjoyed his books. 

It had something to do with the complexity and uncertainty of the state of the world or with world politics or of the upcoming presidential election or something of the sort and how Hemingway’s characters, though they face hard times and circumstances, say things very simply and how, when I read Hemingway, I don’t have to think as hard as I do when I read or write the news.

And now I have a different perspective on this man I once despised and what Robert Jordan, injured and still fighting, tells himself.

It is with admiration and relief that I now think back on visiting Hemingway’s home and of the confused young man who had walked through it, surrounded by strange cats.  But, even more so, I feel reassured because, though I was once afraid and unsure about the world and the part I was playing in it, I’m still fighting and still paying attention.