The Not-So-Old Man and the Sea: Adventures into the Mind of Ernest Hemingway. Cet article n’est pas disponible.The Not-So-Old Man and the Sea: Adventures into the Mind of Ernest Hemingway

“A magical trip into the essence of Hemingway.” Beta-reader
“Every writer should read this book!” U.K. Book Review

Inspired by Ernest Hemingway's Pulitzer Prize-winning book The Old Man and the Sea, best-selling author Sam Barlow dives deep into the life, loves, and psyche of the legendary writer. Hemingway said, “For a true writer... should always try for something that has never been done.” (paraphrased)

So if you're hungry for something different that incorporates an in-depth examination of Hemingway's life in an action/adventure, cerebral and psychological style unlike any other biography of him, you'll realize just how grand the persona of Hemingway was.

The story starts with a not-so-old man (NSOM) diving into the ocean to swim away from the pain of three major tragedies that ruined his life. On his long swim, bitter-sweet memories overwhelm him and trigger his mind to go to the one place he's always found comfort—the life and writings of Ernest Hemingway (Papa). Each freestyle stroke sparks a another vivid memory of the man. Each breath fuels another realization of what Papa was really like.

The NSOM recounts his own trip to Paris to eat and dine at the sidewalk cafes Papa frequented, stroll along the Parisian boulevards Hemingway strolled, and he imagines Papa conversing with such notables as Gertrude Stein, Pablo Picasso, Ezra Pound, F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda, and the rich pilot-fish Murphys.

Plus, all of Hemingway's secrets to writing compelling fiction are revealed and are mirrored throughout the story.

"Beautifully written and very heartwarming." Beta-reader
"Highly recommended reading!" Midwest Book Review

From Hemingway's birth in Oak Park, IL, to Kansas City as a cub reporter, to Paris, Toronto, Key West, Havana, Wyoming, and Idaho, Hem's triumphs and setbacks are described in imaginative in-person scenes loaded with not just historical facts, but with heartfelt, romantic, sometimes explosive emotions.

Be there as he: complains as a four-year-old about being forced to dress as a twin to his older sister; rows his new bride across the lake on their moonlit wedding night; saves an Italian soldier in WWI after nearly having his own leg blown off; and, has an affair with a fashion model who crawled through the balcony window of his 5th story hotel room in Havana.

Feel what Hemingway felt hunting big game in Africa, skiing in Austria, watching bull fights in Spain, reeling in marlins in the Gulf, and writing standing up in his bedroom in Finca Vigia (his home in Cuba). Hemingway was married four times, and throughout the book, Hadley's, Pauline's, Martha's, and Mary's lives with Papa are explored and recounted in factual, revealing, and often emotional scenes: He met Hadley at a party in Chicago, and Pauline as she schemed to steal Papa away in Paris, and Martha in a bar on Key West, and Mary in Paris after World War II.

And then, the shotgun... (But did Hemingway really commit suicide? The author says ”No! He was murdered!” with compelling evidence.)

The NSOM stops swimming. He resigns himself to the ultimate cure for his heartache. But something rises up out of the sea. Could it be... redemption? Has the spirit of Papa come to save him? And what does a young woman running on a beach miles away have to do with it?

Over thirty photos from Hem's infancy to grave site are sprinkled throughout the story with the Hemingway Family Tree and two full pages of his most famous quotes. It's an adventure unlike any other into the mind of one of the best writers and largest personas in history. You won't just learn all about the man, but feel like you actually knew the man.

Excerpt

The not-so-old man’s eyes flickered.

Now he felt for the first time that transformation and his face flushed, and his palms moistened with sweat. An angel was standing before him; a gift from the Gods, he thought—no, knew—introduced to him by his friend as his friend’s sister’s friend whose skin was fair and hair not closely but loosely cropped and reddish and naturally alive and just messy enough to give her some spunk. He shook her hand—so soft, tender, warm, loving, childish, forgiving, encouraging, nurturing, wanting, needing, sacrificing, excitedly alive with anticipation, and hope. It was the hope in her eyes—those somber, shy, and cloistered eyes—that were waiting, pining for the chance he was going to give her—the chance to break free of the Victorian, the manners, the cautions, the deaths of the life she was living. At that moment, when their hands touched and their eyes lingered in each other’s—the freedom. Yes, the freedom! The freedom that would, above all, make inconvenience tolerable.

“Ernest, I’d like you to meet my sister’s friend… Elizabeth Hadley Richardson, this is my roommate, Ernest Miller Hemingway.”
“Nice to meet you Elizabeth.”
“Hadley.”
“What’s that?”
“Hadley. Everyone calls me Hadley.”
“Of course. Hadley...”
Her hand. Her eyes.
“Kate tells me you’re from St. Louis.”
“That’s right.”
“But she never told me how lovely you are.”
Hadley’s eyes rolled, but their corners wrinkled.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say that. But I shouldn’t say a lot of things.”
She laughed a shy, quiet laugh as she held her fingers over her lips and flashed a smile that couldn’t hide behind her suddenly full and rosy-pink cheeks. Her eyes finally broke away and glanced at the floor.
He couldn’t let go of her hand. She gently, reluctantly, took it back.
“But, Hadley... you are... no... you are more than that... you are...” he paused, deliberately, he paused. He wanted to entice her, to coax her, to tease her, to have her ask him for more.
“Okay. I’ll bite. What am I?”
“You are springtime.”
She blushed and looked as if she needed to steady herself.
Ernest knew what to say next: “Can I get you another drink? Another glass of Chablis?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll be right back. Better yet, here," he took her hand again. “Come with me.”

He led her through the crowd to a table with hors d'oeuvres, bottles of wine, and bootleg liquor. Prohibition had started earlier that year and although it was harder to come by, getting some ‘giggle water’ wasn’t impossible, and a friend of Kate’s had smuggled several bottles of wine in from France where production and consumption were still legit.

The not-so-old man channeling Ernest took Hadley’s empty glass and poured the white wine into it as he talked, “Chablis is from France, you know—the Burgundy district up north, where it’s cooler. That makes it less sweet and more acidic than the Chardonnays they make in the south. I prefer Chablis too. We have so much in common.”
Hadley quietly laughed. “You’re funny,” she mumbled.
“What’s that?”
“I said you’re funny.”
“Merci! Merci beaucoup mon ami!” The not-so-old man channeling Ernest raised his hand to his forehead and tipped the cap that wasn’t there, nodding his head and bowing slightly as he swept his hand with the invisible hat down in front of his body.
Hadley laughed again, a little louder this time.
“So what do you think of this prohibition thing? We’ve gone almost a whole year with it. Me? I think it’s applesauce.”
“I suppose so.”
“They don’t have it in France, you know. Everything’s berries in France. Have you ever been to Europe?” the not-so-old man channeling Ernest asked.
Hadley shook her head. “I’m lucky to be here in Chicago and out of St. Louis.”
“Oh, but you’d like it. Maybe even love it. I was there not long ago and...