I Blame Ernest
"To have come on all this new world of writing, with time to read in a city like Paris, where there was a way of living well and working, no matter how poor you were, was like having a great treasure given to you." - Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast The realist in me knows it's silly to fantasize about sitting in a crowded left bank cafe within shouting distance of Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald. It's absurd to pine for a 1920s intellectual cafe culture that no longer exists. I'll just have to get over not having the chance to overhear a conversation between Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir at Café de Flore. But the idealist in me hopes that some time in the near future, books and words and thoughts and revelations about the human condition will matter more than social media gurus, facebook apps, $5 bottles of designer water and meme bandwagoning. I'm tapped out this morning, and have run back into the arms of an old lover: books. Glorious, lovely, real-life, actual, sniff-the-pages books. I'll be the first to point out the irony of writing about this on my blog. Perhaps I should have shared these thoughts via a letter?