I was watching a documentary last night on the final years of Hemingway, and somehow it struck home as the encapsulation of all that a full life is comprised of. The early years of expressing his creative talents and attaining recognition in surroundings that provided both; stimulus and inner pleasure.
Some of us write for our own pleasure, or for a limited recognition on a forum such as this. Hemingway, (when once attaining prominence) seemed almost to be his own worst enemy in his drive to maintain that prominence. The wives, heavy drinking and the seeking of danger, were but vehicles that sought that elusive continuation of what he achieved in relative youth.
He strikes me as very much akin to Andre Gide in his investigation of freedom and empowerment, in the face of moralistic and conventional constraints; and he seems to strive in his continuous effort to achieve intellectual honesty. His self-exploratory texts reflect his search of how to be fully oneself, without at the same time betraying one's values.
The inevitable tragedy, ( to which all must accept) lay in a combination of; ill health in declining years, with that bane of all writers, when nothing will come from brain to pen.
His standards being so high, he reached that stage and ended his mortal existence.
Some of the happiest people I have met are those whose pleasures are simple; where the end of ambition comes as a great relief, and the acceptance of the nowness of life. irrespective of at what stage.
Unfortunately we are all not built like that.