“Going down the stairs when you had worked well, and that needed luck as well as discipline, was a wonderful feeling and I was free then to walk anywhere in Paris.” A happily melancholic book for anyone who found himself in Paris without even knowing he was looking for it, as I myself did in the summer of 2018.
This book is even more special because it is the first book I bought from Shakespeare and Company the first day that I actually found the courage to stop observing it from the outside and going in. I’m not even sure if it was the lack of daring that kept me from crossing the threshold of the bookshop or my subconscious, unable to leave until being 100% sure of knowing by heart every detail of the facade. The only thing that I know is that I had €11 left for dinner, and that day I fed on the lines of A moveable feast, as a tribute to the city that has given me so much.
I believe there is little I could say about Hemingway, either good or bad, that hasn’t been said already by someone older, wiser or wittier than me. The only thing I can really, knowingly, certainly speak of is my Hemingway, my moveable feast and the way this book makes me feel. Well, for me the word is: comfortable. It makes me feel comfortable. The kind of comfortable you feel when you meet a friend after the Christmas holidays to catch up on your lives, and she tells you about what has been going on in town while you were at your grandparents’ place. You’re just there, sipping your coffee and hearing about what’s everyone been up to in your absence and thinking “Hahah that so Scott! I wish I would have been there to see it!” That’s it for me.
Hemingway is my friend, pages are my coffee, and Paris is my place.