The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway

Oof. Now I have to read everything by Hemingway. The best parts of The Sun Also Rises:

As he had been thinking for months about leaving his wife and had not done it because it would be too cruel to deprive her of himself, her departure was a very healthful shock.

It is very important to discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper business, where it is such an important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be working.

After supper we went up-stairs and smoked and read in bed to keep warm. Once in the night I woke and heard the wind blowing. It felt good to be warm and in bed.

Montoya could forgive anything of a bull-figher who had aficion. He could forgive attacks of nerves, panic, bad unexplainable actions, all sorts of lapses. For one who had aficion he could forgive anything. At once he forgave me all my friends.

Brett was happy. Mike had a way of getting an intensity of feeling into shaking hands. Robert Cohn shook hands because we were back.

“Oh to hell with him.”
“He spends a lot of time there.”
“I want him to stay there.”

“Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that reflect discredit on me.”

“I’ve always done just what I wanted.”
“I know.”
“I do feel such a bitch.”
“Well,” I said.

Walking across the square to the hotel everything looked new and changed. I had never seen the trees before. I had never see the flagpoles before, nor the front of the theater. It was all different. I felt as I felt once coming home from an out-of-town football game. I was carrying a suitcase with my football things in it, and I walked up the street from the station in the town I had lived in all my life and it was all new. They were raking the lawns and burning the leaves in the road, and I stopped for a long time and watched. It was all strange. Then I went on, and my feet seemed to be a long way off, and everything seemed to come from a long way off, and I could hear my feet walking a great distance away. I had been kicked in the head early in the time. It was like that crossing the square. It was like that going up the stairs in the hotel. Going up the stairs took a long time, and I had the feeling that I was carrying my suitcase.

Never once did he look up. He made it stronger that way, and did it for himself, too, as well as for her. Because he did not look up to ask if it pleased her he did it all for himself inside, and it strengthened him, and yet he did it for her, too. But he did not do it for her at any loss to himself. He gained by it all through the afternoon.

The three of us sat at the table, and it seemed as though about six people were missing.

ON INEBRIATION

“Tight!” Brett exclaimed. “You were blind!”

“Hello, Jake,” he said very slowly. “I’m getting a lit tle sleep. I’ve want ed a lit tle sleep for a long time.”

WINNING PHRASES

“What rot.”

I said I would go with him, just to devil him.

“Direct action,” said Bill. “It beats legislation.”

“Bill’s a yell of laughter.”

“Oh, shove it along, Michael.”

VOCABULARY

quais – the area of a city (such as a harbor or dockyard) alongside a body of water
bateau mouche – a pleasure boat that takes sightseers on the Seine in Paris
darbs – 1920s, A person with ready money, who can always be relied upon to pay the check.
Mencken – American editor and critic. A founder and editor (1924-1933) of the American Mercury, he wrote socially critical essays, often directed toward the complacent middle class.
encierro – running of the bulls

The Human Blood Is Going My Way

On occasion, San Francisco cab drivers will ask where you’re going to see if your plans match theirs before they give you a ride — maybe they’re returning the cab, or picking up a fare someone has called in. A cabbie pulls over, determines that I am headed his way, and unlocks the doors.

I climb in back to find two large, white boxes taking up the seat. “Sorry, do you mind?” the cabbie asks. No, I say, not at all, and shove one of the boxes over to make room. The box has a strangely even weight to it, and I read the label.

“Is this blood?” I ask the driver.
“Yep,” he says.
“Human blood?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh,” I say. “Oh.”

I imagine us getting in an accident, and the ambulance arriving to nonsensical amounts blood. Biblical blood. Carrie blood.

“I would think they’d have a… specialized vehicle to transport this.”
“Nope. They have a contract with us. Saves them money.”
“Oh.”

I swallow hard. I wonder if the blood is still warm. If it’s packed in dry ice? Or just in the medical equivalent of some ziplock baggies? “The Blood Cab’s here! Just throw it in a box and stick the label on it. They’ll figure it out.”

This seems awfully casual, don’t you think? Is there a black market for blood in the city? I mean, do they keep careful track of who has the blood, or does it mostly show up where it’s supposed to, because? I guess, what are you going to do with a bunch of ziplock baggies filled with blood? Unless you’re a vampire.

Crap. This cab is a vampire food truck. When I opened the door to climb in, it was like that sandwich chain that pumps out the artificial smell of freshly baked bread. The Creatures of the Night Who Lust for Human Blood were all like, “Dang! Where is that coming from? I could go for some warm O+ in a zippy bag, you know?”

At about lunchtime, we arrive at the DNA Lounge, a windowless, after-hours nightclub that’s hosting BSides SF today. BSides is a convention of information-security enthusiasts who are probably as uneasy about sunlight as I am about using the wifi in their presence. Why is everyone looking at me? Onstage they are holding a handcuff-picking competition. I do not mention that the food truck is out front.

A few hours later, the door flaps closed behind me, and I squint against the late-afternoon sun. I’m starving, so I decide to get ramen downtown. I go to hail a cab.

On second thought, I’ll walk.

Happy Chickens

We celebrated Hank’s birthday at my sister’s place, Wise Acre Farm, this weekend. She raises chickens, and this is her hand washing the eggs from her hens. Her farm is in the paper today!

Farmers Expand to Meet Demand for Pasture Raised Eggs

Raina has always been a bird person, but for some reason I never connected a love for animals with farming until I saw her feeding all her chickens — she chats with them like they’re puppies, and chases down the hurt ones so she can take them home for rest and extra attention in the backyard.

If you’ve never had a pasture-raised egg, they’re delicious. It’s sort of like the difference between a home-grown tomato and a store-bought one. The yolks are super bright, and once you get used to them the eggs from caged hens start to taste egg-flavored, like an imitation of a real egg. Try one if you get a chance.

I’m proud of you, sis.

Life List Inspiration from Go Mighty

Life LIst Inspiration

In middle income families, there are thirteen books per child at home. In low income families, there is one book available per three hundred children. Libby wants to change the statistics in her community and she needs a little advice.

You won’t find a book in Helen Jane’s library, but, if you need a punch bowl, you’re in luck.

I love a good quest. Go, Corinna.

“I think about the families that made these dilapidated structures homes when they were shiny and new.  I think of how tough life must have been in this dry, hot land before all the modern conveniences. I wonder where the people went.” – Chriss wants to photograph 100 abandoned houses.

Want a simple way to learn a new language? There’s an app for that. Thanks, Mary.

 

 

Go Mighty and the New York Times!

Hey! We’re on a New York Times blog today, go see:

Go Mighty or You Might Not Go At All by KJ Dell’Antonia

We talked about Life Lists and I said, “If you’re constantly looking to cross the next thing off, it can make you frenetic. You become immune to contentment. It’s smart to pursue happiness — I mean, go for it — but stop and savor it when you catch it.” Read more.

Also, if you’ve been meaning to make a Life List but aren’t sure where to start or would just like some teammates to help motivate you, sign up for our Go Mighty Skillshare class. One of the attendees gets a $1,000 grant to cross something off their list. Fingers crossed that it’s you.