Something about Hemingway’s restrained yet profound writing style gets me every time. A Moveable Feast, his memoir of the early 1920s when he was a struggling writer in Paris, is a perfect example. With sparse but vivid prose, he transports you to the bohemian literary scene of post-war Paris.

The book is really just a series of vignettes – snapshots into Hemingway’s life as part of the ex-pat community that included luminaries like Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and James Joyce. However, within these brief anecdotes, Hemingway captures the essence of that time and place with remarkable clarity.

You get a sense of a young Hemingway honing his craft, describing in loving detail the writing process or the particularities of a favourite Paris cafe. I especially loved the passages about his relationship with his first wife, Hadley, filled with tenderness and longing even decades after. With their lazy strolls through the city, you can practically smell the fresh bread and feel the cold rain on your face.

At the same time, the book offers tantalizing glimpses into Hemingway’s famous wit and machismo. Take this gem where he reflected: “But then there was the bad weather…I promulgated the theory that you never started a novel until the spring.” I can picture him saying this with a wry grin as he knocked back a whiskey!

While poignant and powerful, A Moveable Feast ultimately has a melancholy quality, mourning for that singular time of youthful artistic exuberance. It’s a sad yet lovely book from a master at the peak of his talents. Pair it with a strong drink and soak in the ambience.

Intrepidly,