A Moveable Feast (Scribner Classic) by Ernest Hemingway

By Ernest Hemingway

Hemingway's stories of his existence as an unknown author residing in Paris within the Twenties are deeply own, warmly affectionate and entire of wit. He remembers the time while, negative, chuffed and writing in cafes, he came across his vocation.

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Sample text

It would come in one day when the fall was over. We would have to shut the windows in the night against the rain and the cold wind would strip the leaves from the trees in the Place Contrescarpe. The leaves lay sodden in the rain and the wind drove the rain against the big green autobus at the terminal and the cafe des amateurs was crowded and the windows misted over from the heat and the smoke inside. It was a sad, evilly run cafe where the drunkards of the quarter crowded together and i kept away from it because of the smell of dirty bodies and the sour smell of drunkenness.

Up in the room i had a bottle of kirsch that we had brought back from the mountains and i took a drink of kirsch when i would get towards the end of a story or towards the end of the day's work. when i was through working for the day i put away the notebook, or the paper, in the drawer of the table and put any mandarines that were left in my pocket. they would freeze if they were left in the room at night. It was wonderful to walk down the long flights of stairs knowing that i'd had good luck working.

I had already seen the end of fall come through boyhood, youth and young manhood, and in one place you could write about it better than in another. that was called transplanting yourself, i thought, and it could be as necessary with people as with other sorts of growing things. but in the story the boys were drinking and this made me thirsty and i ordered a rum st james. this tasted wonderful on the cold day and i kept on writing, feeling very well and feeling the good martinique rum warm me all through my body and my spirit.

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