1. Ernest Hemingway
Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?
Jane, I haven’t any right to criticize books, and I don’t do it except when I hate them. I often want to criticize yours, but your books madden me so that I can’t conceal my frenzy from the reader; and therefore I have to stop every time I begin. Every time I read ‘Pride and Prejudice,’ I want to dig you up and hit you over the skull with your own shin-bone.
And that from a writer who has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary.”
Jane Austen- Gentlemen. May we agree you are both fine writers with different styles?
Jane Austen- Mr. Twain. Surely, even a man of your meager literary background and lineage must be joking?
Ralph Waldo Emerson
I think he is not, Jane. Whenever I peruse your novels, they seem to me vulgar in tone, sterile in artistic invention, imprisoned in the wretched conventions of English society, without genius, wit, or knowledge of the world. Never was life so pinched and narrow. The one problem in your mind. . . is marriageableness.
Ralph Waldo Emerson- Touché.
Truman Capote – My, but we girls are testy tonight.
And that from a full-fledged housewife from Kansas with all the prejudices.
Truman Capote – Gore-I believe Buckley awaits a rematch with you in Hell. Toute suite, dear.
Truman Capote – And while you’re there, I believe Jack Kerouac is working with Buckley on some writing you can help them with. Oh wait. That’s not writing, it’s typing.
Jack Kerouac- Not cool, Tru. Dig?
Truman Capote – I’ll dig Jane Austen’s shin bone up with Twain and hit you over the head with it until you learn to write.
Let’s stick with Hemingway, shall we? I read him for the first time in the early ‘forties, something about bells, balls and bulls, and loathed it.
Come by and see me some time, Vladimir. I have two twelve-year-old nieces who wish to hide from you.
I must leave for the night. I cannot abide Hemingway’s monosyllabic prose any more than I could tolerate Joseph Conrad’s souvenir shop style of romanticist clichés without acquiring a tremendous headache.
My turn. My turn. Let us pounce on James Joyce, shall we? Ulysses is the work of a queasy undergraduate scratching his pimples.”
And Huxley. His prose is raw, uncooked, protesting.
And Twain, while he’s still online. A hack writer who would not have been considered fourth rate in Europe, who tricked out a few of the old proven sure fire literary skeletons with sufficient local color to intrigue the superficial and the lazy.
I’m with you, Mr. Twain, but it’s time to bury the hatchet. Can’t we all just get along?
Bury the hatchet. So cliché, though not unexpected or unusual from the great Papa. My IPhone’s ringing. ICYMI # kissmyroyalass.