Stories About Hemingway
At some point in the past, I heard a story about Ernest Hemingway. At some point in the past, the story says, Hemingway wrote a six word story for a bet.
“For sale: Baby shoes. Never worn.”
That’s the story that the story says Hemingway told. I think about this a lot. Probably too much. The recursive nature of it is in itself a miracle of the human experience.
Hemingway may never have told this story. This may just be an entirely fabricated thing – a story about Hemingway telling a story.
The fact that somebody can have lived less than fifteen years before I was born, and there can be legends about them, is sometimes still crazy to me. We will never know whether this thing didn’t happen.
It’s possible to prove, to some extent, that a thing like this did happen. A reliable written record, or a credible witness, is plenty for that. But it’s almost impossible to prove the absence of something.
This is the snarled mess I can get myself in over a thing, and that’s before even looking at the story within the story itself. Six words. Not enough for most people to form a viable thought in sentence form. But there’s an undeniable narrative there, with an emotional snarl at the middle of it that few could deny.
This time last year, everything was worse. Things are better now, but the world is still more empty. Nearly thirty-five years ago, somebody else nearly happened, but can you prove it? It’s almost impossible to prove the absence of something. Unless it sits in the middle of a family.
People might argue that six words can’t be a story. Those people could say that Hemingway’s maybe-tale is really just a statement. But if a story is a narrative spread like a virus, from one person to others, than it’s more than enough. I say you could shorten it further.
“Baby shoes”
Most of us see at least two stories there. One happy. One sad.
I’ve never been the sort of person who could lose a shoe in public. Perhaps that’s why I can’t walk past a discarded piece of clothing in the park or on the pavement, especially one that might seem as necessary as a sock or a dress or a shoe, without seeing a story in it. The story might be mundane. It’s sometimes hilarious. But on occasion it’s tragic.
We don’t expect to see clothes without people. A dog with no owner begs questions. There will be some point in our life when we see an empty chair and it fills us with sudden and overwhelming sadness.
We tell ourselves stories about who we think we are. We tell ourselves stories about the people around us. When they’re gone, they can’t tell us any more stories that prove us right or wrong.
Hemingway wrote a six word story for a bet. As far as I know, that’s true.
This is probably the most self-indulgent and purple prose I’ve written in ages. It’s basically just a meander through some of the things that I’m preoccupied by this week, so if that isn’t your bag, I’m sorry! I can’t honestly say I can defend it!
In case it’s not entirely clear, the main themes are loss, the nature of stories, and personal mythology. Mainly loss.
I never do this, but if the theme of loss in this piece resonates with you at all, you might like to donate a little spare cash to Helen & Douglas House - click here to go there -, who have become a bit of a pet charity for my family. They’re a hospice that specialises in medically supported short breaks and end-of-life care for children and young adults, and the help and comfort that they give families in situations where comfort is hard to find can not be overstated.
If the theme of “not really making any sense and being a bit of a self-indulgent mess” resonates with you, tune in next week for more!
Mate, this was kinda heart-breaking. And yes, I know I have some between-the-lines help to fill in the unspoken narrative bits, but I think as a piece of writing it stands up. Orange fiction isn’t the only fruit (or something…)
As for being self-indulgent, if any artist (creating for themselves rather than creating to someone else’s agenda) feels the need to apologise for self-indulgence, I think they’re momentarily missing the point!
I might be happy to debate whether your two-word story holds up, as it doesn’t have enough (even minor) resolution to fit what feels like a complete story to me. Although to be fair, all stories (especially those that feel real) will have untied threads because life does.
Anyway. This part I loved; “We tell ourselves stories about who we think we are. We tell ourselves stories about the people around us. When they’re gone, they can’t tell us any more stories that prove us right or wrong.”
Except of course, even when they’re gone, those they leave behind retell their stories or remember them, adding strands and edits. And though it often feels painfully hard when we do, we fill our minds with their possible stories and might-have-beens had their hand been dealt differently. And every reminiscence or imagining of them adds a chapter to our or somebody else’s story. And so it continues…
I couldn’t find anything self-indulgent at all in this piece, I thought it was beautiful and full of what a friend once called ‘nostalgia for the life you haven’t lived’. If this was autobiographical for you, then it was brave and honest, without being maudlin – which is a very fine line to tread.
I especially liked “It’s almost impossible to prove the absence of something. Unless it sits in the middle of a family.” – I thought you articulated well the strangeness of no stories, no artefacts, no memorabilia.
I also find it hard not to feel a tug of pain whenever I see a lost glove, sock, shoe – even if the reason is mundane (kids lose things). It speaks to us of loss in general and I think that’s what you’ve illustrated here. Lovely.
It’s frankly confusing and I love it, life.
But yeah, this was very personal… I’m glad it resonated with you as well, because I’m always conscious when writing something like this that I may be missing vital things out because the subject comes so naturally to me.
Thanks, Soph…
It’s more about two or three different things than one particular one, but they’re all things that are fairly important to me, so there was always a danger of getting maudlin!