A Moveable Feast

Paperback | May 29, 1996

byErnest Hemingway

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Ernest Hemingway’s classic memoir of Paris in the 1920s, now available in a restored edition, includes the original manuscript along with insightful recollections and unfinished sketches.

Published posthumously in 1964, A Moveable Feast remains one of Ernest Hemingway’s most enduring works. Since Hemingway’s personal papers were released in 1979, scholars have examined the changes made to the text before publication. Now, this special restored edition presents the original manuscript as the author prepared it to be published.

Featuring a personal Foreword by Patrick Hemingway, Ernest’s sole surviving son, and an Introduction by grandson of the author, Seán Hemingway, editor of this edition, the book also includes a number of unfinished, never-before-published Paris sketches revealing experiences that Hemingway had with his son, Jack, and his first wife Hadley. Also included are irreverent portraits of literary luminaries, such as F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ford Maddox Ford, and insightful recollections of Hemingway’s own early experiments with his craft.

Widely celebrated and debated by critics and readers everywhere, the restored edition of A Moveable Feast brilliantly evokes the exuberant mood of Paris after World War I and the unbridled creativity and unquenchable enthusiasm that Hemingway himself epitomized.

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From Our Editors

This vibrant portrait of Paris in the 1920s, published posthumously in 1964, is vintage Hemingway--evocative, self-mocking and frank. In an extraordinary chronicle of the sights, sounds, and tastes of Paris in a bygone era, Hemingway offers readers a view of his life and the people that populated his expatriate world--Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound and other literary luminaries.

From the Publisher

Ernest Hemingway’s classic memoir of Paris in the 1920s, now available in a restored edition, includes the original manuscript along with insightful recollections and unfinished sketches.Published posthumously in 1964, A Moveable Feast remains one of Ernest Hemingway’s most enduring works. Since Hemingway’s personal papers were released in 1979, scholars have examined the changes made to the text ...

Ernest Miller Hemingway was born in the family home in Oak Park, Ill., on July 21, 1899. In high school, Hemingway enjoyed working on The Trapeze, his school newspaper, where he wrote his first articles. Upon graduation in the spring of 1917, Hemingway took a job as a cub reporter for the Kansas City Star. After a short stint in the U.S. Army as a volunteer Red Cross ambulance driver in Italy, Hemingway moved to Pari...

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Format:PaperbackDimensions:240 pages, 8.44 × 5.5 × 0.7 inPublished:May 29, 1996Publisher:ScribnerLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:068482499X

ISBN - 13:9780684824994

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Reviews

Rated 4 out of 5 by from "If you are lucky enough to have lived in paris..." Appealing to lovers of travel and writing, but also to anybody who has ever wished to escape into an alternate world (one peopled with vastly interesting characters and quirky Paris haunts), I read this at 17 and found myself immersed in the cozy, literary world of Ernest Hemingway.
Date published: 2009-08-19
Rated 5 out of 5 by from No Hemingway restoration here... I will NOT be buying the restord version of this wonderful book. The original, for me, stands as the way it ought to be. One does not go back and revise, or as the publisher called it: "restore" a book just because some didtant relative decides it's insulting to one of their family members. I call Bullshit, along with Hotcher, who knew Hemingway and read the original manuscript before it was published. Let it be.
Date published: 2009-07-22
Rated 5 out of 5 by from A wonderful read Here is a book where Hemingway displays his natural and easy prose style, while keeping the reader constantly engaged with his witty and warm memory of a time, a place, and a group of people in the past. This is a book for the literature-lover, who would be delighted at this leisurely but charming read. This is a book for the gourmet, for food and drink was a central feature of Hemingway's (or, perhaps, anyone's) life in Paris. This is a book for travellers, because you can virtually see Paris in the 1920s come alive again, with all the elegances of Pont Neuf and the Quays. Literally a moveable feast, this volume is worth possessing, bringing around in your coat pocket, and reading again and again when you feel your life is getting stagnant.
Date published: 2000-10-21
Rated 5 out of 5 by from A wonderful book Hemingway`s memories of his life as an unknown writer in Paris in the 1920s is something of the best he has written. The prose is so simple and beautiful and gives a powerful reflection of his genius. The atmosphere of Paris is intense, the descriptions of scenes and characters so vivid. Read it and let Hemingway take your breath away -to Paris and the 1920s.
Date published: 1999-06-27
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Terrific! Whether a Hemingway fan or not this a must read. I love his subtle sense of humour. It is a wonderful classic.
Date published: 1999-06-05

Extra Content

Read from the Book

Chapter OneThen there was the bad weather. 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 Café des Amateurs was crowded and the windows misted over from the heat and the smoke inside. It was a sad, evilly run café 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. The men and women who frequented the Amateurs stayed drunk all of the time, or all of the time they could afford it, mostly on wine which they bought by the half-liter or liter. Many strangely named apéritifs were advertised, but few people could afford them except as a foundation to build their wine drunks on. The women drunkards were called poivrottes which meant female rummies.The Café des Amateurs was the cesspool of the rue Mouffetard, that wonderful narrow crowded market street which led into the Place Contrescarpe. The squat toilets of the old apartment houses, one by the side of the stairs on each floor with the two cleated cement shoe-shaped elevations on each side of the aperture so a locataire would not slip, emptied into cesspools which were emptied by pumping into horse-drawn tank wagons at night. In the summer time, with all windows open, we would hear the pumping and the odor was very strong. The tank wagons were painted brown and saffron color and in the moonlight when they worked the rue Cardinal Lemoine their wheeled, horse-drawn cylinders looked like Braque paintings. No one emptied the Café des Amateurs though, and its yellowed poster stating the terms and penalties of the law against public drunkenness was as flyblown and disregarded as its clients were constant and ill-smelling.All of the sadness of the city came suddenly with the first cold rains of winter, and there were no more tops to the high white houses as you walked but only the wet blackness of the street and the closed doors of the small shops, the herb sellers, the stationery and the newspaper shops, the midwife -- second class -- and the hotel where Verlaine had died where I had a room on the top floor where I worked.It was either six or eight flights up to the top floor and it was very cold and I knew how much it would cost for a bundle of small twigs, three wire-wrapped packets of short, half-pencil length pieces of split pine to catch fire from the twigs, and then the bundle of half-dried lengths of hard wood that I must buy to make a fire that would warm the room. So I went to the far side of the street to look up at the roof in the rain and see if any chimneys were going, and how the smoke blew. There was no smoke and I thought about how the chimney would be cold and might not draw and of the room possibly filling with smoke, and the fuel wasted, and the money gone with it, and I walked on in the rain. I walked down past the Lycée Henri Quatre and the ancient church of St.-étienne-du-Mont and the windswept Place du Panthéon and cut in for shelter to the right and finally came out on the lee side of the Boulevard St.-Michel and worked on down it past the Cluny and the Boulevard St.-Germain until I came to a good café that I knew on the Place St.-Michel.It was a pleasant café, warm and clean and friendly, and I hung up my old waterproof on the coat rack to dry and put my worn and weathered felt hat on the rack above the bench and ordered a café au lait. The waiter brought it and I took out a notebook from the pocket of the coat and a pencil and started to write. I was writing about up in Michigan and since it was a wild, cold, blowing day it was that sort of day in the story. 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.A girl came in the café and sat by herself at a table near the window. She was very pretty with a face fresh as a newly minted coin if they minted coins in smooth flesh with rain-freshened skin, and her hair was black as a crow's wing and cut sharply and diagonally across her cheek.I looked at her and she disturbed me and made me very excited. I wished I could put her in the story, or anywhere, but she had placed herself so she could watch the street and the entry and I knew she was waiting for someone. So I went on writing.The story was writing itself and I was having a hard time keeping up with it. I ordered another rum St. James and I watched the girl whenever I looked up, or when I sharpened the pencil with a pencil sharpener with the shavings curling into the saucer under my drink.I've seen you, beauty, and you belong to me now, whoever you are waiting for and if I never see you again, I thought. You belong to me and all Paris belongs to me and I belong to this notebook and this pencil.Then I went back to writing and I entered far into the story and was lost in it. I was writing it now and it was not writing itself and I did not look up nor know anything about the time nor think where I was nor order any more rum St. James. I was tired of rum St. James without thinking about it. Then the story was finished and I was very tired. I read the last paragraph and then I looked up and looked for the girl and she had gone. I hope she's gone with a good man, I thought. But I felt sad.I closed up the story in the notebook and put it in my inside pocket and I asked the waiter for a dozen portugaises and a half-carafe of the dry white wine they had there. After writing a story I was always empty and both sad and happy, as though I had made love, and I was sure this was a very good story although I would not know truly how good until I read it over the next day.As I ate the oysters with their strong taste of the sea and their faint metallic taste that the cold white wine washed away, leaving only the sea taste and the succulent texture, and as I drank their cold liquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of the wine, I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and to make plans.Now that the bad weather had come, we could leave Paris for a while for a place where this rain would be snow coming down through the pines and covering the road and the high hillsides and at an altitude where we would hear it creak as we walked home at night. Below Les Avants there was a chalet where the pension was wonderful and where we would be together and have our books and at night be warm in bed together with the windows open and the stars bright. That was where we could go. Traveling third class on the train was not expensive. The pension cost very little more than we spent in Paris.I would give up the room in the hotel where I wrote and there was only the rent of 74 rue Cardinal Lemoine which was nominal. I had written journalism for Toronto and the checks for that were due. I could write that anywhere under any circumstances and we had money to make the trip.Maybe away from Paris I could write about Paris as in Paris I could write about Michigan. I did not know it was too early for that because I did not know Paris well enough. But that was how it worked out eventually. Anyway we would go if my wife wanted to, and I finished the oysters and the wine and paid my score in the café and made it the shortest way back up the Montagne Ste. Geneviève through the rain, that was now only local weather and not something that changed your life, to the flat at the top of the hill."I think it would be wonderful, Tatie," my wife said. She had a gently modeled face and her eyes and her smile lighted up at decisions as though they were rich presents. "When should we leave?""Whenever you want.""Oh, I want to right away. Didn't you know?""Maybe it will be fine and clear when we come back. It can be very fine when it is clear and cold.""I'm sure it will be," she said. "Weren't you good to think of going, too."Copyright © 1964 by Ernest Hemingway Ltd.Copyright renewed © 1992 by John H. Hemingway, Patrick Hemingway, and Gregory HemingwayAll rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

Table of Contents

Contents

Preface

Note


A Good Café on the Place St.-Michel

Miss Stein Instructs

"Une Génération Perdue"

Shakespeare and Company

People of the Seine

A False Spring

The End of an Avocation

Hunger Was Good Discipline

Ford Madox Ford and the Devil's Disciple

Birth of a New School

With Pascin at the Dôme

Ezra Pound and His Bel Esprit

A Strange Enough Ending

The Man Who Was Marked for Death

Evan Shipman at the Lilas

An Agent of Evil

Scott Fitzgerald

Hawks Do Not Share

A Matter of Measurements

There Is Never Any End to Paris