Truth be told I’m not a massive Ernest Hemingway fan. (What sort of person admits to that?) It’s probably because I’m (really) stupid. And most of (maybe all) his stories lack three critical elements I like in my fiction. Those being spaceships, heavily armed Raccoons and thrillin’ heroics. A weighty tome about blowing up a bridge and old man catching a fish do not hit any form of literary G-spot in my internet addled mind. Also zero speech bubbles or onomatopoeia throughout.
Nor am I really a proponent of his life style. Which as far as I can tell was all murder, mayhem and… (I’m trying to alliterate) m… Mademoiselles? I generally take a dim view of sport hunting and I think Hemingway is near the apex of interspecies massacres and body counts. I find it difficult to compartmentalize people as being in good in one area, but completely wretched in others. I’m more of a sum-of-the-whole kinda guy. Sometimes the positive massively outweighs the negative, like in the case of Theodore Roosevelt, whose murderous sport tendencies are likely also near the top of some sort of list. Hemingway doesn’t have enough to swing him back in the other direction (for me anyway).
Eventually Hemingway blew his brains out with a shotgun. Which… I suppose if you’re going to do it, a shotgun is remarkably surefire way of getting it done. That may be an unintended pun. Putting a revolver in your mouth risks survival. Although shotguns do have a reputation for being messy and dispatching ones parietal to every conceivable nook and cranny of the room. If you’re considerate, perhaps lay down some plastic, or go outside, leaving the garden hose nearby.
Specifically Ernest Hemingway blew his brains out with this gun. A long-barreled side-by-side made by W. & C. Scott & Son. It was Hemingway’s favorite gun, mostly used for shooting pigeons… and in this case, guarding his Cuban domicile from… thieves (and possibly the CIA). He actually shot a ‘burglar’ with a .22 rifle in this bathroom several days after this picture was taken. Well… maybe… he shot at someone climbing out of his bathroom window. A blood trail was found on the porch the next morning. All very Oscar Pistorius. Only bipedal. And… as far as I know, he wasn’t bonking the recipient of the bullet(s).