His first novel was his finest:
American expatriates partying in Paris and Spain,
looking for a life of authenticity,
fighting for a life worth living.
Wine, women and writing fill
the hero's days, a doppelganger
for Hemingway, hobbling with
his World War I injury: emasculation.
The idea of progress died in the trenches.
The Lost Generation on the road
to nowhere and back. Travel of the soul.
Dark night of the soul, lightened by *****
Bullfights encircle death, a ritualistic
killing of innocence, which had already
died for the travelers. *Look away from
the horses*, disemboweled for not being bulls.
The sun also rises on the saint and the sinner,
the writer and the boxer, a fresh clutch of trout.
There is no path to salvation, even for those
who pray, grasping for meaning in ancient practices.
Living and drinking prove enough. The room
spins; seek shelter on the hotel's hot bed.
Love lingers as a way out of this hedonism,
this nihilism, this petty life. Isn't it pretty to think so?
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 3:13 PM UTC
His first novel was his finest:
American expatriates partying in Paris and Spain,
looking for a life of authenticity,
fighting for a life worth living.
Wine, women and writing fill
the hero's days, a doppelganger
for Hemingway, hobbling with
his World War I injury: emasculation.
The idea of progress died in the trenches.
The Lost Generation on the road
to nowhere and back. Travel of the soul.
Dark night of the soul, lightened by *****
Bullfights encircle death, a ritualistic
killing of innocence, which had already
died for the travelers. *Look away from
the horses*, disemboweled for not being bulls.
The sun also rises on the saint and the sinner,
the writer and the boxer, a fresh clutch of trout.
There is no path to salvation, even for those
who pray, grasping for meaning in ancient practices.
Living and drinking prove enough. The room
spins; seek shelter on the hotel's hot bed.
Love lingers as a way out of this hedonism,
this nihilism, this petty life. Isn't it pretty to think so?
