A Moveable Feast
A Moveable Feast
Ernest Hemingway
Brian Koppelman
[One of the autobiographies] I have read the most often. - Brian Koppelman
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A Moveable Feast

A Moveable Feast

Ernest Hemingway
Ernest Hemingway
By
Ernest Hemingway
4.0
11386
ratings on Goodreads

In the luminescent streets of Paris, where the essence of art and life blend seamlessly, Ernest Hemingway unfolds the tapestry of his youth—a time when every corner of the city whispered the promise of literary greatness. "A Moveable Feast" is not merely a memoir; it is a reverent ode to the Paris of the 1920s, a Paris bustling with groundbreaking artists and writers. Through Hemingway's eyes, we traverse the quaint cafes and dimly lit bars, a witness to the birth of a writer among writers. His prose, marked by its clarity and strength, invites us into the intimate circles of James Joyce, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and others, offering a glimpse into the camaraderie and rivalries that fueled their creativity. This narrative is a journey back in time, guided by Hemingway's sparse yet profound reflections on love, art, and the act of writing itself. With each page, "A Moveable Feast" serves as a testament to the enduring spirit of Paris, a city that, for Hemingway, was as much a character as it was a backdrop to his formative years. It is a memoir steeped in nostalgia, yet vibrantly alive, capturing the fleeting moments of joy and the pang of youthful ambition. Hemingway, in his later years, crafts a narrative that is both a farewell to a golden era and an immortalization of it, inviting readers to savor the feast of life that Paris offered to him—a feast that, once experienced, becomes a part of one's soul forever.

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Released
1964
1 Jan
Length
192
Pages

1

recommendations

recommendation

[One of the autobiographies] I have read the most often. - Brian Koppelman
You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person died for no reason.
— Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

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