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By Ernest Hemingway

Hemingway's stories of his lifestyles as an unknown author residing in Paris within the Nineteen Twenties are deeply own, warmly affectionate and entire of wit. He recollects the time while, bad, satisfied and writing in cafes, he stumbled on his vocation.

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Mostly now,' i said. ' 'no. ' 'larbaud lived there,' she said. ' 'I don't know that quarter. we eat at home. ' 'Wait until you see if i pay you,' i said. ' 'Don't read too fast,' she said. Home in the rue cardinal lemoine was a two-room flat that had no hot water and no inside toilet facilities except an antiseptic container, not uncomfortable to anyone who was used to a michigan outhouse. with a fine view and a good mattress and springs for a comfortable bed on the floor, and pictures we liked on the walls, it was a cheerful, gay flat.

Do you corrupt a boy like you, who drinks alcohol, with a bottle of marsala? no, he was a pitiful old man who could not help what he was doing. ' 'i did at the time,' i said. ' i took another sip of the eau-de-vie and pitied the old man and looked at picasso's nude of the girl with the basket of flowers. i had not started the conversation and thought it had become a little dangerous. there were almost never any pauses in a conversation with miss stein, but we had paused and there was something she wanted to tell me and i filled my glass.

I asked her. she did not want to talk about anderson's works any more than she would talk about joyce. if you brought up joyce twice, you would not be invited back. it was like mentioning one general favourably to another general. you learned not to do it the first time you made the mistake. you could always mention a general, though, that the general you were talking to had beaten. the general you were talking to would praise the beaten general greatly and go happily into detail on how he had beaten him.

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