One learns, painfully and sincerely, to live within the moments of joy in his life, and to also walk alongside, without rush, the moments of confusing incoherence that seem to make up our lives. We must decide, the moment our eyes open unto the world, to embrace, celebrate, appreciate, and, most importantly, create our peace; we create peace through acting peacefully. Happiness is a marvelous triumph in a corporate run world devoted to the degradation of man and the deification of wealth. Ernest Hemingway On Injustice offers insight into the necessity of struggle in becoming a writer.
Each generation attempts to rename, reclassify, and repurpose the definitions that rule their lives, and my generation is no different, but I beg that our peace and value of ourselves isn’t reliant on the amount of money in our pockets; I pray our sense of self comes from our ability to live this life deeply and care for those that care for us. Ernest Hemingway deep in the Green Hills of Africa found the state of equanimity that many people hunt their entire lives; I believe, with patience, faith, and a keen eye devoted to presence we can reach this state of peace–Hemingway says:
This was the kind of hunting that I liked. No riding in cars, the country broken up instead of the plains, and I was completely happy. I had been quite ill and had that pleasant feeling of getting stronger each day. I was underweight, had a great appetite for meat, and could eat all I wanted without feeling stuffy. Each day I sweated out whatever we drank sitting at the fire at night, and in the heat of the day, now, I lay in the shade with a breeze in the trees and read with no obligation and no compulsion to write, happy in knowing that at four o’clock we would be starting out to hunt again.
I would not even write a letter. The only person I really cared about, except the children, was with me, and I had no wish to share this life with anyone who was not there, only to live it, being completely happy and quite tired. I knew that I was shooting well and I had that feeling of well-being and confidence that is so much more pleasant to have than to hear about.
Every action we make is a choice about the direction of our lives; the emotions that trigger our decisions are so intimate that we often have to re-evaluate ourselves. We become our actions; regardless of the constant rejections, let-downs, fears of stagnation, or any other struggle we must learn the necessity of living presently and honestly within our life. The fires prepare the sword for battle as hardship prepares us for the blessing ahead; the direction of our lives is determined by our approach to the fire. Hemingway understood that many creators have mastered their crafts through mastering, or staying alive, within the fire–he says:
Just as civil war is the best war for a writer, the most complete. Stendhal had seen a war and Napoleon taught him to write. He was teaching everybody then; but no one else learned. Dostoevski was made by being sent to Siberia. Writers are forged in injustice as a sword is forged. I wondered if it would make a writer of him. Give him the necessary shock to cut the over-flow of words and give him a sense of proportion. If they sent Tom Wolfe to Siberia or to the Dry Tortugas. Maybe it would and maybe it wouldn’t. He seemed sad, really, like Carnera. Tolstoy was a small man. Joyce was of medium height and he wore his eyes out. And that last night, drunk, with Joyce and the thing he kept quoting from Edgar Quinet, ‘Fraîche et rose comme au jour de la bataille’.
I didn’t have it right I knew. And when you saw him he would take up a conversation interrupted three years before. It was nice to see a great writer in our time. What I had to do was work. I did not care, particularly, how it all came out. I did not take my own life seriously any more, any one else’s life, yes, but not mine.
They all wanted something that I did not want and I would get it without wanting it, if I worked. To work was the only thing. It was the one thing that always made you feel good. And in the meantime it was my own damned life. I would lead it where and how I pleased. And where I had led it now pleased me very much. This was a better sky than Italy. The hell it was. The best sky was in Italy and Spain and Northern Michigan in the fall. And in the fall in the Gulf off Cuba. You could beat this sky; but not the country.
Ernest Hemingway’s lyrical account of his safari in the great game country of East Africa with his wife Pauline. Below is a link to the Hemingway’s beautiful account of his journey through the Green Hills of Africa. Continue reading Toni Morrison on how the media narrows our self-view.
