I'm watching, rewatching and bits of watching Midnight in Paris (I have never seen it start to finish and probably won't, but I am still madly in love with this film.) And I'm thinking about men like Hemingway ... Here he is portrayed so well. He was a handsome dude in RL and probably he really was this bitter and honest and horny. So if someone (looks around innocently) was to meet him and start getting a connection over a cheap glass of red... Even when you KNOW that the guy's life sucked, even if you KNOW he glowed nothing but misery and contempt on everyone around himself... Still. For some fucked up reason, guys like that are publicised as worth it.
Why is that, I wonder? Cause they're smart? Cause they talk well? Cause people like me are creepy crawlies that steal inspiration from great martyrs of literature in the mids of deep dark nights? I have no idea. Ironically, being married to the General, who DOESN'T generate depression in every corner or write toasts to the moon, my work and my life is amazingly great. (I mean it feels great. No idea what others may think about it.) I can write about my pink toe nail polish with the same zeal as I do about rape war-victims I knew, growing up in Yugoslavia.
I'm not sure I'd agree it's good enough if you only get half of that deal.
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