Demise.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 1:

The weather forecast that day in July was for light rain, a temperature of around 70 degrees Fahrenheit and a light wind of around 5 mph. Nothing really to get excited about.

Up at the main house the writer was alternately at odds with; his failing eyesight, creative powers and his hangover from last night’s drinking. He was attired in what he termed, “his emperors bathrobe.”

In contrast, back in town, Master Psychic Juanita was assiduously composing his ad for the local newspaper, regards his specialty in reuniting lovers & removing all third party interference and spells.

Each man contained the respective furniture of their mind’s eye in moments of composition, akin to Cæsar Borgia sinning in purple and Cleopatra sinning in gold.

The writer was in his 60’s, barrel chested and approximately six feet tall. He took his coffee and sat outside on the porch. The wife of his fourth marriage had already left early that morning to visit a friend.

He saw art as self-expression and life as self-development. He felt that his life was material on which to practice his powers of creation, and he handled it and brooded over it like a sculptor planning to make a dancing figure out of an undistinguished lump of clay. To a surprising extent, he had been a spectator of his own tragedy and was able to face the street with a decorative and entertaining façade, which, unlike in some, was not contradicted by dullness within.

In no age would he have been a writer of the study. He talked and wrote only to show that he could write. His writings were mostly vindications of the belief he had in them while still unwritten.

Late last night he remembered reading the line from Samuel Johnson, “I begin to feel myself walking upon ashes under which the fire is not extinguished.” It did nothing for him then, with most of the whiskey inside him, and it did even less for him that morning, as the trees in the front garden moved slightly in the breeze.

“Body-snatchers of literature,” he thought. “The dust is given to one and the ashes to another, but the soul is out of their reach."

[WolfLarsen]

Very good writing. Better than most of the stuff in the bookstore! Better than the vast majority of it!

[MANICHAEAN]

Thanks Wolf for your encouragement.

You behave yourself!

You hear me now?

Take care.

M.

[Delta40]

lol. Good reply! Forgive me but I wondered what elements of the writer are in this story...

[MANICHAEAN]

Dear Delta
There are clues on the ID of the writer, (and its not me!). Forgive me though if I'm playing coy and not giving it away too explicitly.

Best regards
M.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 2:

As a young man he knew he was at his peak in terms of style and freshness. His later works he felt, had lost some of this lightness, as inevitably they were never independent of attained knowledge and something called “maturity.”

He was aware that in these early joyful years, that he had also happened to be the finest writer around, disdaining the grandiose wordiness of Victorian prose for a clean, stripped-back simplicity, conveying emotion by what was not said as much as by what was.

But it changed, and he could not change with it.

“Where did it start?” he thought. “Was it when I learnt my father had shot himself in the head with a Civil War revolver? “

“Did the heavy drinking precede this revelation from the shadows?”

He was actively aware that the physical punishment he continued to suffer from alcohol was actively courted; the other punishments were gratuitous. He remembered when he went to a doctor back in 1937 and complaining of stomach pains. Liver damage had been diagnosed and he was told to give up alcohol. He refused point blank.

Now, a dalliance with death was remorselessly taking up residence in his heart, a constant companion to his imagination, a dark, secret lover. Themes of violence and suicide increasingly were informing his stories from the start.

He knew there was no way back. He could no longer write and he was emasculated because of it. The persona he had created for himself no longer existed. He knew he was no more.

There came into his mind the saying he knew from his days in Spain, “Take what you want from life - and pay for it".

“That’s always been the problem. I’ve always wanted more.”

“Now what?”

“To go the same way as my father?”

He was enough of a realist to know that it is too easy to talk glibly of the choice between life and literature, when in fact; no choice can be made between them. For all the gift of tongues, it is important not to be blinded by the descending light to the plastic qualities of existence that fires the words. Though he, too, had moved in towns & cities and upon the green earth, he knew there is inevitably but a little time in which to build two memories, one for your fellow man, and another, a secret diary, to carry with you when you die. There is no choice.

He rose from the chair and went inside. At the storage room he unlocked the door where he kept his firearms and selected a double-barreled shotgun with which he liked to shoot pigeons. Returning to the front of the house again, in the foyer, he put the twin barrels against his head. He reached down calmly, sighed and blew his brains out.

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We can perhaps only compare the vividness of a man's whole life, as we perceive it, with that of those portions of it that he spent in books. Sometimes we wonder which is more alive, a life that was the occupation of an agile and vivid personality for which a cloistered converse with itself was not enough, a personality that loved the lights and the bustle, the eyes and ears of the world, and the applause that does not have to wait for print?

No common man lives and dies without altering, to some extent, the life about him. How much wider is the influence of those who live their lives like flames, hurrying to death through their own enjoyment and expenditure alike of their bodies and the gift of imagination?

President Kennedy heard the news at Hyannis Port, Mass and that night a statement was issued mourning the death of Ernest Hemingway, whom he called one of America's greatest authors and "one of the great citizens of the world."

[Hawkman]

Hi Man,

I enjoyed this. Definitely picked up on the Hemingway clues, and it was nice to have got it right :D Not a huge Hemmingway fan though. I was forced to read The Old Man and the Sea at school and hated it. It was so depressing. I think if I read it again I would probably just enjoy it for the writing. I was also forced to read The Pearl by Steinbeck and I didn't like that much either, and for the same reason. However, I was encouraged to read more of him and grew to love his work. I think I should revisit Hemingway and perhaps learn to appreciate him more.

One thing though, I thought Juanita was a girl's name. Also, in so short a piece, this casual reference seems a bit un necessary. The character makes no other appearance. I suspect that I am missing a joke. :D

Live and be well - H

[Delta40]

Great writing but I too am puzzled about the psychic - or is there more to come?

[AuntShecky]

I enjoyed your two other most recent stories and liked this one as well.

Echoing a question posed by other commentators, I also wonder about the
psychic, what mentioning actually means and why he's a Juanita and not
a Juan.

[MANICHAEAN]

Ah, now there’s the tale!

When I was researching for this story, I dug up the old article below, which may be of interest. Meanwhile in the local Ketchum paper of that time, in the Classified Ads, there was one:

“July 3, 1961 MASTER PSYCHIC JUANITA. Specializes in reuniting Lovers. Removes third party interference and all spells. Helps in all possible problems. 502-286-9554”

Like in your respective shrewd minds, I was initially confused by the advert. Is “Master” a bisexual term in the physic world? I don’t know. There is in fact a telephone number, which one of our Lit Net American collegues might like to ring & clear the matter up, if Mr / Mrs / Miss / M’s Juanita is still in business.

But consider for the moment these two, (albeit one temporary), writers at different ends of the spectrum. Without launching into a Da Vinci Code mindset, is it not pertinent, that on the one hand we have Hemingway: depressed, a bit paranoid about the tax authorities & the FBI, childhood hang-ups etc and on the other hand nearby a dubious savior?



Hemingway Dead of Shotgun Wound; Wife Says He Was Cleaning Weapon.

Special to The New York Times

Ketchum, Idaho, July 2--Ernest Hemingway was found dead of a shotgun wound in the head at his home here today.
His wife, Mary, said that he had killed himself accidentally while cleaning the weapon.

The New York Times
Hemingway's obituary ran on the front page of The New York Times on July 3, 1961.
________________________________________
Mr. Hemingway, whose writings won him a Nobel Prize and a Pulitzer Prize, would have been 62 years old July 21.
Frank Hewitt, the Blaine County Sheriff, said after a preliminary investigation that the death "looks like an accident." He said, "There is no evidence of foul play."
The body of the bearded, barrel-chested writer, clad in a robe and pajamas, was found by his wife in the foyer of their modern concrete house.
A double-barreled, 12-gauge shotgun lay beside him with one chamber discharged.

[Steven Hunley]

Well this was just good. I almost missed it! That would have been a shame.
Like Hawkman I had to do the Old man and the Sea too and felt pretty much the same way. And again, I had to teach the Pearl to 7th graders and that was another mistake. After a while I read more Hemingway and enjoyed him. Same thing with Steinbeck!

This doesn't have your usual exotic location or characters. But it's great and so doggone literary! Highly enjoyable! Thank you.