“And then along came Hemingway. What a thrill! He knew how to lay down a line. It was a joy. Words weren’t dull, words were things that could make your mind hum. If you read them and let yourself feel the magic, you could live without pain, with hope, no matter what happened to you.”
― Charles Bukowski
Ketchum, Idaho, July 2nd, 1961.
The 61-year-old Nobel Prize-winning author, Ernest Hemingway, shot himself in the foyer of his home with a double-barreled shotgun while his fourth wife, Mary, was asleep upstairs.
In 1928, Hemingway’s father, a man suffering from severe diabetes, financial difficulties, and depression, also took his own life. Hemingway remarked shortly afterward, "I'll probably go the same way."
Throughout his bold, highly adventurous life, Hemingway endured heavy chronic pain and traumatic brain injuries from surviving two plane crashes in Africa in 1954. Early in his life, during the onset of World War I, poor eyesight prevented him from joining the U.S. Army, so he volunteered as an ambulance driver for the American Red Cross in Italy.
In 1918, he was badly wounded by mortar fire while delivering supplies near the front. Despite his injuries, he reportedly carried another wounded soldier to safety before collapsing himself. He spent months recovering in a hospital, where he fell in love with a nurse whose rejection later influenced his novel A Farewell to Arms.
As a war correspondent, Hemingway repeatedly placed himself in dangerous situations to get the story out. Throughout his life, Hemingway accumulated an extraordinary list of injuries: concussions from accidents, deep cuts from fishing and boating, broken bones, car accidents, boxing injuries, a ruptured kidney, severe burns, and chronic pain from repeated trauma
His body was bruised and battered from a lifetime of battling the forces of the world, which many historians believe might have contributed to his later cognitive decline.
Later in life, he became increasingly paranoid that he was being watched. At the time, some people believed these fears were delusional, though later records showed that the FBI had in fact maintained a file on him because of his activities and contacts in Cuba.
However, the extent to which this surveillance affected his mental health remains debated.
In his final years, Hemingway suffered from profound clinical depression, paranoia, and psychosis. He was treated with electroconvulsive therapy at the Mayo Clinic, which he felt severely damaged his memory and creativity.
His mind became mush, and his body and soul were failing him. The robust health Hemingway was known for was all but gone. He felt he could no longer write. His art was dying. What’s the purpose of life when the one gift you were put on earth to give is no longer there?
So yeah, on this fine summer morning, the 64th anniversary of Hemingway’s death, I’d like to share two poems by Charles Bukowski with you. Bukowski admired only a few writers in his life, Hemingway being one of them. Neither writer was especially interested in glamorous heroes or heavy romanticism. Instead, they found dignity and authenticity in people trying to get through another day.
I hope you enjoy these poems.
Hemingway Never Did This
I read that he lost a suitcase full of manuscripts on a train and that they never were recovered. I can't match the agony of this but the other night I wrote a 3-page poem upon this computer and through my lack of diligence and practice and by playing around with commands on the menu I somehow managed to erase the poem forever. believe me, such a thing is difficult to do even for a novice but I somehow managed to do it. now I don't think this 3-pager was immortal but there were some crazy wild lines, now gone forever. it bothers more than a touch, it's some- thing like knocking over a good bottle of wine. and writing about it hardly makes a good poem. still, I thought somehow you'd like to know? if not, at least you've read this far and there could be better work down the line. let's hope so, for your sake and mine.
The Fighter
Hemingway feels it from the grave every time the bulls run through the streets of Pamplona again he sits up the skeleton rattles the skull wants a drink the eyeholes want sunlight the young bulls are beautiful, Ernest and you were too no matter what they say now.
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