On Hemingway
2026-06-28
Divine Liturgy was great today, thanks for asking.
I am a small flame, but a flame nonetheless; so are (You). Since I've been home from church, this afternoon has revolved mostly around cleaning the computer room where Arthur is still hiding—spraying with odor-eliminating spray, vacuuming, mopping the floor, and trying to get rid of the smell from his urine marking. He's still a bit stressed out, but last night I saw him looking out the window of the door to the computer room; even though I pried the door open a bit further for him to come out, he decided to stay put. He also used his litter box, which I already bought spray for. Overall, even though he's still adjusting, he's making good progress. I'm still a bit worried because he hasn't had any food or water yet, despite my efforts to put it by the bookshelf so that he'd be more comfortable. But like I said yesterday, he'll either relax enough—or get desperate enough—to eat and drink.
Outside of caring for my four-legged beast, I was thinking about Hemingway, as one does. He was a great man, undoubtedly, but even great men can't save themselves from God's reach. I'm sure that while he was alive and manic, Hemingway thought at some point he could try; but he still couldn't come to terms with the mind and life set before him. A Bipolar Genious (alternative and cooler spelling, by the way), he is a man with whom I relate and whom I understand in his efforts to make sense of the racing thoughts and their eventual crashes. Still, he seemed to only ever want to project a sense of strength and vigor, even though his entire life was marked not only by a lack of control over his external world, but by an immense insecurity regarding anything resembling self-control. Sure, he had the balls to fight, hunt, fish, and seek the comfort of women; but for some reason I don't think anyone can ever truly know, he never had the balls to truly humble himself before God. Unfortunately, I think he paid the ultimate price.
I think about the eighteen levels of Hell espoused in the Tang dynasty, and how a guy like Hemingway might be there, reliving the moment he shot himself over and over again for however long Yama assigned his penance. Well, that is, if non-Chinese people go to Chinese Hell. Look, I clearly believe in the Holy Mysteries and the doctrines established by my church, so I'm not saying anything as a matter of fact here; but stuff like this does make me wonder about how all that stuff gets sorted out after death. It's definitely not a complete lights-out scenario; I've seen too much of the metaphysical to deny that. More than that, I am a based Hegelian, and know that sensory and flesh experience are the true illusions we wrestle with.
I'd like to say that if Hemingway had it his way, he'd want a guy like me—someone saddled with a similarly tortured mind—to find the reasons to keep pushing through the days until God takes us home. He wouldn't want me to repeat the same mistake he did, and so I think of his life and try to learn important lessons from it. Namely, we can have all the gifts of this world given to us; for Hemingway, it was a wondrous career of celebrity, fame, and adoration, as well as exotic travels to places far and wide with all sorts of interesting characters. Yet Hemingway, and all those great men of letters, are all dead. They have no spark here anymore, and only exist as memories and for esoteric internet bloggers like me to write and speculate about. Gee, I wonder what they'll say about me. Hopefully something, anyway.
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