A Five Minute Farewell

[This text is taken entirely from a 1929 hard cover edition 

of A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway.  All words 

are Hemingway’s except three brief brackets to identify 

speakers.  Page numbers are provided.  It takes 

approximately five minutes to read this text out loud.]

Book I

At the start of winter came the permanent rain and with the rain came the cholera.  But it was checked and in the end only seven thousand died of it in the army. (4)

Miss Barkley was quite tall.  She…was blonde and had a tawny skin and gray eyes.  I thought she was very beautiful. (18)

The next afternoon we heard there was to be an attack up the river that night and that we were to take four cars there. (45)

“There is no finish to a war.” [Passini said] (53) “One side must stop fighting.” (54)

My legs felt warm and wet and my shoes were wet and warm inside.  I knew that I was hit and leaned over and put my hand on my knee.  My knee wasn’t there. (59)

“It is never hopeless.  But sometimes I cannot hope.” [said the priest] (76)

Book II

We got into Milan early in the morning and they unloaded us in the freight yard.  An ambulance took me to the American hospital. (87)

“Hello,” I said.  When I saw her I was in love with her.  Everything turned over inside of me. (98)

I had not wanted to fall in love with anyone. (100)

“And you’ll always love me, won’t you?” [Catherine said]

“Yes.”

“And the rain won’t make any difference?”

“No.”

“That’s good.  Because I’m afraid of the rain.” (134)

Book III

Now in the fall the trees were all bare and the roads were muddy.  I rode to Gorizia…on a camion. …in the big square in front of the Town Major’s house, the driver handed down my rucksack… It did not feel like a homecoming. (173)

The next night the retreat started. (199)

They were all young men and they were saving their country. (240)

I was through.  I wished them all the luck.  But it was not my show anymore. (248)

Book IV

I dropped off the train in Milan as it slowed to come into the station early in the morning before it was light. (253)

I had the paper but I did not read it because I did not want to read about the war.  I was going to forget the war. (260)

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.  But those that will not break it kills. (267)

“My life used to be full of everything,” I said.  “Now if you aren’t with me I haven’t a thing in the world.” (274)

I woke to hear the rain lashing the window panes. (282)

I rowed all night. (289)

“What a wonderful country,” she said.

“Isn’t it grand?”

“Let’s go and have breakfast!”

“Isn’t it a grand country?” (296)

Book V

“Oh, darling, I want you so much I want to be you too.”

“You are.  We’re the same one.”

“I know it.  At night we are.”

“The nights are grand.”

…

“I don’t want you to go away…. Why, darling, I don’t live at all when I’m not with you.”

“I won’t ever go away.” (320)

Outside we could hear the rain. (326)

We had gone to the hospital about three o’clock in the morning.  At noon Catherine was still in the delivery room. (338)

The doctor came into the room.

“How does it go, doctor?”

“It doesn’t go,” he said. (342)

“I’m not brave any more, darling.  I’m all broken.  They’ve broken me…”

“Everybody is that way.”

…

“Darling, I won’t die, will I?”

“No.  I promise you won’t.” (345)

I could see nothing but the dark and the rain falling across the light from the window. (349)

“You’re all right, Cat,” I said.  “You’re going to be all right.”

“I’m going to die,” she said…. “I hate it.” (353)

After a while I went out and left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain. (355)

The End

Reading Hemingway

Kilimanjaro looms in the window;

vultures gather.

An embittered writer faces death.

Stories he has never written

haunt him.

Memories of war,

of Paris,

the writing life,

love and lies,

the fear of death

and failure

haunt him.

A hyena cries in the night.

Impromptu by Gottfried Benn

Im Radio sang einer

“In der Drosselgaß zu Rüdesheim” —

ich war erschlagen:

Drosseln, das ist doch wohl ein Frühlingstag,

wer weiß, was über die Mauern hing,

Quoll, zwitscherte, sicher Hellgrünes —

das Herz stieg auf, noch nicht das alte jetzt

das junge noch, nach einem Wandertag,

berauscht und müde.

Auch wer nie Wein trank,

hier gab man Goldenes an seinem Gaumen,

schlug sich den Staub vom Rock,

dann auf ein Lager

den Rucksack unter den Kopf,

die beide nichts enthielten 

als für des nächsten Tags

Gelegenheiten.

Ein Paar Schuhe. Ein Musensohn.

Damals war Liliencron mein Gott,

ich schrieb ihm eine Ansichtskarte.

Impromptu. (My translation)

Someone was singing on the radio

“In der Drosselgaß zu Rüdesheim” —

I was struck dumb:

Thrushes, it is a spring day, then,

who knows what hung over the walls,

welled up, chirped, surely something light green —

my heart soared, but not the old one of now

the young one still, after a day of hiking,

elated and tired.

Even if you never drank wine,

here you were given something gold to taste,

knocked the dust off your coat,

then on a camp bed

propped your head on your knapsack,

both of them empty

but for tomorrow’s

possibilities.

A pair of shoes. A son of the muse.

At that time Liliencron was my god,

I wrote him a postcard.

Two Poems by Jürgen Kross (from his collection “inland”

#4

fliehst noch.

im

atmen der apfelbäume.  und

 

das hüllt dich ein.  was duft

ist

zugleich.  und süsse des todes.

 

 

are still fleeing.

in the

breath of the apple trees.  and

 

that envelopes you.  that scent

is

at the same time.  and sweetness of death.

 

#5

wachsen an bächen

entlang

bäume in tod von gedanken.

 

jenseitig

dir

geschwemmten vom licht aus.

 

 

growing on streams

along

trees in death of thought.

 

beyond

you

washed out by the light.

A Translation of “Ein Wort” by Gottfried Benn

A Word 

A word, a sentence —: Out of ciphers

known life arises, sudden sense,

the sun is up, the spheres fall silent

and everything contracts towards it.

 

A word — a radiance, a flight, a fire,

a flash of flame, a starstreak —

and darkness again, immense

in the empty space around the world and I.

 

Ein Wort 

Ein Wort, ein Satz —: Aus Chiffren steigen

erkanntes Leben, jäher Sinn,

die Sonne steht, die Sphären schweigen

und alles ballt sich zu ihm hin.

 

Ein Wort — ein Glanz, ein Flug, ein Feuer,

ein Flammenwurf, ein Sternenstrich —

und wieder Dunkel, ungeheuer,

im Leeren Raum um Welt und Ich.

Thoreau’s Sentences

I’ve been reading Thoreau’s Journals and posting passages online for the last

couple of weeks, and have enjoyed the first-hand observations of this great

writer from Concord, Massachusetts.  He wrote not only about his daily

walks, his observations of nature and his neighbors, but he also commented

on his readings (mostly in the classics), the politics of the day, made

philosophical reflections, and thought deeply about the nature of writing

itself.  

 

Collected here are several passages in which Thoreau wrote about writing,

about writers and their sentences, which show an interesting progression. 

The first one I stumbled on was from the January 5, 1842 entry:

“I want to see a sentence run clear through to the end, as deep and fertile as a well-drawn furrow which shows that the plow was pressed down to the beam.  If our scholars would lead more earnest lives, we should not witness those lame conclusions to their ill-sown discourses, but their sentences would pass over the ground like loaded rollers, and not mere hollow wooden ones, to press the seed and make it germinate.

A well-built sentence, in the rapidity and force with which it works, may be compared to a modern corn-planter, which furrows out, drops seed, and covers it at one movement.”

 

I love Thoreau’s comparison of writing sentences to plowing furrows and

planting seeds: a sentence should be “as deep and fertile as a well-drawn

furrow.”  His image of “the plow…pressed down to the beam” is carried over

into the next paragraph in the “well-built sentence” having “rapidity and

force.”  Obviously, not all sentences should be rapid and forceful nor straight

as a furrow, as Thoreau knew and addresses in a later journal passage.

 

In March, Thoreau was still thinking about the nature of the sentence as

he continued to work out the writing style that he would later employ in his

longer prose works, including Walden.  On March 18th Thoreau wrote the

following aphorism:

 

“Whatever book or sentence will bear to be read twice, we may be sure was thought twice.”

 

If not rethinking the idea of the “forceful sentence” which he described

in January, Thoreau here is describing a different type of sentence, one

more thoughtful or contemplative perhaps, requiring multiple readings—

this sentence the result of reworking by a more nuanced or philosophical

writer.

 

The next journal reference to the nature of sentences occurs on March 26th:

 

“A book should be a vein of gold ore, as the sentence is a diamond found in the sand, or a pearl fished out of the sea.”

 

Here the sentence seems even more transformed and more distanced from

the straight, forceful furrow in the first entry.  Now the sentence has been

worked on over time and is compared to a “diamond” and a “pearl.”  The

sentence is now something more akin to an aphorism, something brilliant

that catches the eye, something that has been polished and is durable.

 

The next entry seems even further from Thoreau’s original idea of the

sentence quoted above.  This description is longer and comes nearly ten

years later in a lengthy journal passage from August 22, 1851:

“It is the fault of some excellent writers . . . that they express themselves with too great fullness and detail.  They give the most faithful, natural, and lifelike account of their sensations, mental and physical, but they lack moderation and sententiousness.  They do not affect us by an ineffectual earnestness and a reserve of meaning, like a stutterer; they say all they mean.  Their sentences are not concentrated and nutty.  Sentences which suggest far more than they say, which have an atmosphere about them, which do not merely report an old, but make a new, impression; sentences which suggest as many things and are as durable as a Roman aqueduct; to frame these, that is the art of writing. Sentences which are expensive, towards which so many volumes, so much life, went; which lie like boulders on the page, up and down or across; which contain the seed of other sentences, not mere repetition, but creation; which a man might sell his grounds and castles to build.”

 

First, Thoreau criticizes “excellent” writers whose sentences are “ineffectual”

because “they say all that they mean.  Their sentences are not concentrated

and nutty.”  This image of concentrated and nutty sentences echoes the

sentences like “diamonds” and “pearls,” sentences that are “twice-thought.” 

Then in two twice- or thrice-thought sentences Thoreau describes the “art of

writing” using seven dependent clauses introduced with “which” and 

connected by five semi-colons.  I will separate and list the dependent clauses

below:

 

which suggest far more than they say,

which have an atmosphere about them, 

which do not merely report an old, but make a new, impression;

which suggest as many things and are as durable as a Roman aqueduct;

which are expensive, towards which so many volumes, so much life, went; 

which lie like boulders on the page, up and down or across;

which contain the seed of other sentences, not mere repetition, but creation; 

which a man might sell his grounds and castles to build.

 

The art of writing is to frame sentences that are suggestive, that “have an

atmosphere about them,” that “make a new impression,” that “are expensive”

as life, that “lie like boulders on the pages,” that “contain the seed of other

sentences,” that are as valuable as a man’s property.  These final two

sentences illustrate in their structure his idea of sentences “like boulders”

that a reader must navigate a way around or over, and by containing the

“seed of other sentences” lead us back to his original idea of a sentence that

is “deep and fertile” like a furrow in which seed is planted.

 

Thoreau’s Journals are not merely the observations, reflections, and

memories of the writer, but they stand as a complex elaboration of the ideas

and beautifully wrought sentences which were later refined further,

assembled, and published as his well-known prose works.  Thoreau’s

Journals comprise fourteen volumes written between 1837 and 1860 and

published in a two-volume set by Dover Publications, which I purchased

many years ago, but many are collected in less-expensive editions.  I urge

you to delve into them and enjoy the myriad observations of this great

American writer.

My story began:

 

No one remembers their birth

(but everyone has heard a story about it)

My story began: “It was a dark and stormy night.”

 

I remember my mother telling me about the rain and the wind

on the night I was born in the early morning hours.  (For those

of you interested, she also said I was a bit on the larger side for a

baby; I’d have to look at my birth certificate to “remember” my

weight and length).  I have no way of judging the reliability of this

particular “story” – but, I must concede: my mother should know

better than anyone.  However, it should also be noted that in

San Diego stormy nights in October are uncommon.

 

My memory is that my mother told me this during the time when

the “Peanuts” comic strip featured Snoopy sitting on his doghouse

roof typing the first line of his novel: “It was a dark and stormy night.” 

It may be coincidental, but from this time or earlier, I had dreamed

of being an author.  

 

(Around 1959-1969 when the movie Ben-Hur was winning a record number of Oscars (and I was reading that somewhat difficult novel by General Lew Wallace (I was not yet in junior high at this time), I began typing a novel set during Roman times on an old Remington clunker of a typewriter.  Fortunately (in all likelihood) I have lost those pages somewhere along the way (although I still have a school journal I wrote in 5th grade with a character named Cecil the horsefly, who suffered through numerous adventures, which I shared with my classmates.  We also performed a few scenes from The Iliad that year; I also remember constructing and painting a cardboard sword and shield for my roll as Ajax, Greek hero).

 

But I have digressed.  Be warned that Tristram Shandy is one of my

favorite novels, and I believe that Holden’s numerous digressions that

make Catcher in the Rye an interesting book.

 

The line “World Famous Author” Snoopy types on his doghouse roof

references and mocks the notoriously “florid & melodramatic” opening

line of an 1830 novel by English novelist Edward Bulwer-Lytton;

earlier, in 1809 “It was a dark and stormy night” was used by Washington

Irving.  Thanks to Wikipedia for this information, by the way. 

The line is also used by Madeleine L’Engle in her young adult novel

A Wrinkle in Time, which I was reading with one of my granddaughters

recently (I wonder if she reads this, will she remember us reading it

together? – hmmm).  And, finally, it appears that Joni Mitchell also uses

the line along with several other similar cliches in a song that I do not know.

 

And now – I have used the line – more than once.  And without that

childhood story, I doubt if I ever would have.

fragment #2

 

imagine the same boy 

now a teenager

living in a house in San Diego – 

the same house where he had that early memory of the fire truck . . .

 

He grew up in the upstairs house, the two-story street-level

house above the apartment where he’d lived during his first

one or two years of school (in the meantime, his family had

moved to Oceanside for several years and later returned to

this house in San Diego)

 

On the top floor of that upstairs house were two bedrooms

(one large with many windows facing the street, and one

smaller on the backyard side) and squeezed between the two

a tiny, narrow bathroom with a slanted ceiling (due to the

roofline).  As the oldest child, the boy had the largest bedroom;

he loved its spaciousness, its many windows and two small

balconies (although these were seldom used), and even the

one-window alcove where the bed was ”hidden.”

 

A wide staircase led from a short hall between living room

and dining room to the two upstairs bedrooms. At the bottom

of the stairs, a short divider of paneled wood partially hid

the staircase from the dining room; opposite this paneled wall

was a short rail which wrapped around itself to form a “hollow”

curved newel visible from the living room.  Mounted on a

bracket on top of this circular newel was a cast metal sculpture

with a dark finish of a draped woman holding a torch

(reminiscent of Lady Liberty); the torch-lamp with flame-like,

frosted glass could be lit with a pull chain to light the bottom

of the stairwell.  This beautiful lamp was one of the furnishings

about his home that the boy loved best.

 

At some point, during the years when the boy went off to

college, the sculptured lamp was knocked off its base

(to which it was attached with screws) and damaged beyond

repair.  The boy’s mother always said that the boy had broken

the lamp one night when he came in late while home from

college, but the boy had absolutely no memory of doing such

a thing.  Either he suppressed the memory because it upset

him too much to think that he had damaged this treasured

lamp, or his mother misremembered and ascribed to her son

an act of one of his siblings –  or someone else.  But there’s

no reason why she would do so.

 

The boy, who had plenty of other shameful memories by the

time he was middle-aged, had no idea why this particular

memory should have been “erased,” (presumably out of guilt). 

And no, for those of you thinking the boy had been drinking;

in those days he drank only beer and only at school – never

at home.

 

That newel stood bare and unadorned for many years –

and to the boy it was a recurring accusation

of an alleged misdeed that he could never

remember.

 

Many years later,

the boy (now a man)

purchased a replacement lamp

for his father’s birthday –

a hot air balloon light of multi-colored glass,

the basket a base that attached to the newel.

fragments of a childhood

imagine a boy

playing with a red fire engine

(this is one of his earliest memories) 

either on a carpeted floor inside a screen door

or outside on a stone-paved porch;

 

he has an earlier memory 

of a house with a curved roof, 

which he will later learn was a Quonset hut

on a military base near San Diego, maybe Camp Elliott;

if this is a real memory, 

the boy might have been 3-years old; 

the memory of the fire truck (if it even was a fire truck)

it might have been another type of truck; 

was it made of metal or wood?  the boy doesn’t remember; 

memories can be very unreliable

altered or invented even,

or perhaps transformed as we remember them,

reinvent them

 

the stone-paved porch, 

where the boy may have played with a fire engine,

had brick steps leading up to street-level 

to the two-story main house above;

(the boy will remember this clearly because he will live in this house for many years) 

 

the boy playing with the fire engine might have been 4 years old 

(at age 5 he would attend kindergarten at a school a short walk away) 

this boy lived downstairs from the main house with his mother and father, 

although sometimes his father was gone (because he was in the Marine Corps);

this boy had a sister who was 3 years younger, 

but he doesn’t have memories of her from this time 

 

the boy has another memory from around this time 

of his great-grandmother Hoffmann 

who lived upstairs with his grandmother and grandfather; 

he seems to be on the floor again, 

(probably near the fireplace hearth)

his great-grandmother in a rocking chair by a window

 

each memory a fragment

 

as we grow older 

and as our memories come closer to present day 

the fragments become longer and more detailed; 

we can fill in more gaps,

but our memories remain fragments: 

ordinary moments & beautiful moments, 

sad moments & shameful moments 

 

fragments of our lives:

 

“These fragments I have shored against my ruins.”

– T. S. Eliot, “The Waste Land”

“Too much silence is too much”

(sorry for the long hiatus) – I’m getting myself back into the writing habit with a little transcribing.

 

 

All that goes before forget.

Too much at a time is too much.

That gives the pen time to note.

I don’t see it but I hear it there behind me.

Such is the silence.

When the pen stops I go on.

Sometimes it refuses.

When it refuses I go on.

Too much silence is too much.

Or it’s my voice too weak at times.

The one that comes out of me.

So much for the art and craft.

 

First paragraph (broken into lines) of “Enough” by Samuel Beckett