Ernest Hemingway on Writing and Having Had an Unhappy Childhood

I recently saw on Twitter that Ernest Hemingway said that an unhappy childhood is great training for a writer.

See AdviceToWriters.

I've been thinking about what this statement might mean.

Children are born learners; from both their experiences and formal education, they gradually, over a fairly long period of time, develop into who they will be as adults. I think that for the most part our experiences in childhood come to us uninvited. Whether a person has a happy childhood is out of his control; he has no control over the family and environment he was born into and whether it is poor, rich, abusive, or kind. Most families are comprised of a mixture of those things. I do agree with Hemingway in that an unhappy childhood is great training for a writer, especially for a literary one. It's also great training for criminals and psychopaths and generally unhappy adults in all walks of life.

Of course, 'happiness' is a difficult concept to define. Philosophers have given it various definitions. But, for this statement, I think that what we're talking about is, besides having the basics of food, clothing, and shelter, we have both the absence of abuse and the presence of  loving kindness toward us in childhood, the combination of which tips the balance of experience in childhood, maybe in adulthood too, in favor of a feeling of well being and happiness.

To some degree, whether your childhood was happy or unhappy is a matter of perspective. We can certainly have selective memory. Also, people with similar childhood experiences can have different opinions about their childhood, some saying it was happy and others saying it was unhappy.

There's always the possibility that Hemingway was being facetious. Nevertheless, this statement of his begs the question: which is better  for a person wanting to be a writer, to be most anything for that matter, to have had, an unhappy childhood or a happy one?

Which kind of childhood did you have, happy or unhappy?

If you had an unhappy childhood, have you managed to overcome the pain and find happiness?

Which would you rather have if you could do it over again?

Which would you rather your own child or children have?

My Hemingway Years (5)

"St Martin Vesubie"

Scenes in novels and short stories by Ernest Hemingway of men fishing--especially trout fishing in Spain--appealed to me. It was something I wanted to do if I ever had the chance, although I'd never been fly fishing in my life. But the setting of cold streams in the mountains and men catching fish held a strong allure for me. Unfortunately, I never got the chance to go fly fishing in the mountains. But I did get to go to the mountains.

My ship, the USS Cromwell, anchored near Nice, and I joined some friends on a weekend excursion to St Martin Vesubie in the French Alps.The trip was one of the highlights of my time in Europe. My buddies and I shared a room in a chateau. Just outside our room, a clear stream flowed past, careening over rocks and boulders strewn in the riverbed. I could look out the window of our room and see the stream ten or fifteen feet down rushing by, and I could hear its melodic rumbling all night long.

It was the quaintness and beauty of the old town and the countryside--the steep hills and flower-covered plateaus--that captured my imagination--my Hemingwayesque imagination.

The French Alps

My friends and I--Butler, Price, and Matolyak--bought wine, bread, and cheese, and wandered the town and the hills. We were all photography buffs, and taking pictures was our stubstitue for fly-fishing in the cold steams.

Butler, Price, Matolyak

In one way, it was a dissappointing trip. At the chateau, I was shocked by the fact that in the dining hall was a television blarring away. I had thought the French were better than us Americans--more cultured. But that weekend undid my false belief that the French were above the commonness of television--the trivial game shows and gossip programs.They'd succumbed to the same trivialites as Americans. It was the weekend I woke up to the fact that the French are the same as us.

Central street St Martin Vesubie 1970

My Hemingway Years (4)

Exploring Paris

Walking the streets of Paris, France, some of the same streets Hemingway had walked, was exciting and humbling. I had never seen anything like it before--the overwhelming presence of the past. It was as if the past were alive. The narrow streets banked by brick walls of buildings built hundreds of years before, the huge cathedrals, the sense of being in another world, were always present. The outdoor cafes, the bistros, the restaurants, the smell of baking bread, was nothing like I, a boy from Jacksonville, Florida, had ever experienced.

Here, in Paris, was the habitue of some of the greatest artists, scientists, theologians, philosophers, writers, and poets of all time, many of whom had walked some of these same streets that I was walking. They were all around me: Hemingway, Zola, Voltaire, Picasso, Modigilani, Sartre, Camus, and many others. Their presence soaked into me. I became a part of them, or they became a part of me. As the days went by and I began to know my way around the Latin Quarter, St-Germain-des-Pres, and Invalides, it was no longer Hemingway's Paris. It had become my Paris, my home, my habitue--a place I never wanted to leave.

My Hemingway Years (1)

Being an Ernest Hemingway follower is a rite of passage for many writers. It was for me.

My first contact with Hemingway's writing was when I was about twelve years old. My grandmother Hughes, who lived in North Carolina, was an avid reader. When she came to visit us in Florida that year, she brought with her a stack of books. Among them was "The Sun Also Rises." I'd heard the writer's name before and started reading the book. After a few pages, I put it down. I couldn't imagine why anyone would think he was a good writer.

My next experience with Hemingway was when I was a sophomore in high school. My English teacher announced that day that Ernest Hemingway, her favorite writer, was dead, and that he had killed himself. She speculated on why he had done so. She felt sure it was because of his old age, that he had been a great adventurer all his life, and he had grown too old and frail to do what he loved, so he killed himself. It sounded logical, yet, I felt there had to be more to it than that.

My next encounter with Hemingway was in college when I started reading "The Sun Also Rises" again. I realized that I appreciated the book. It was the same book I had tried to read years before and didn't like. So, obviously, something had changed, and it wasn't the book. I then read everything I could get my hands on that Hemingway had written. I became very much under the spell of his life and style of writing. The summer of 1966, between my sophomore year and junior year in college, I wrote my first novel--"Hurled In the Dust"--which was very much influenced by Hemingway. I began revising the novel after I graduated from college. But I joined the navy shortly thereafer, and I never looked at the manuscript again.

Death In The Afternoon



             The Plaza de Toros

The first major novelist I felt camaraderie with was Ernest Hemingway. His novel "The Sun Also Rises" was a favorite of mine. I was fascinated by the bullfight. When I was in the navy and made it to Spain, I had to see a bullfight. When the opportunity came, I took it. I rode by bus to a little town named San Lucar where the bullfight was held in the Plaza de Toros. The whole town was out in celebration. It was a carnaval

atmosphere. I was mesmerized by the novelty of it--nothing like I'd ever experienced before. I was impressed with it all.



                        The Bullfight Begins

  

The bullfight itself was nothing like I expected. I'm not sure what I expected. But what I saw both fascinated and repelled me. First off, the bull doesn't have a chance. It is going to die. Of course, it doesn't know this. It charges out into the bullring and prances around, confused and annoyed. Then the taunting and carnage begins. I suppose there's an art to it. It is a contest, but an unfair one. The matador has all the advantages except size and strength. But intelligence and razor sharp swords will beat brute strength anytime, as long as the matador doesn't get careless.

                                            The Matador Aims for the Kill

But it was fascinating and exciting. The horses, the gala, the roses tossed to the matador after the kill, and the snorting and ferocity of the bulls hooked me. The dance of death reminded me that humans and nature are often at odds. As long as humans are careful, they can subdue nature. But make one mistake, and nature will gore humans to death.



                              The Dead Bull Is Dragged Away