Some days it went so well that you could make the country so that you could walk into it through the timber to come out into the clearing and work up onto the high ground and see the hills beyond the arm of the lake. A pencil-lead might break off in the conical nose of the pencil sharpener and you would use the small blade of the pen knife to clear it or else sharpen the pencil carefully with the sharp blade and then slip your arm through the sweat-salted leather of your pack strap to lift the pack again, get the other arm through and feel the weight settle on your back and feel the pine needles under your moccasins as you started down for the lake.
Blue underlining from a previous reading. Black underlining, yesterday.
The blue because I paid close attention to the way in which Hemingway worked. I wanted to work as "well and truly" in my law work as he did in his literature. The black was not underlined then because I did not understand it. I saw yesterday that it was Hemingway and his writing merging into one. “Now you can’t tell who is who can you?” “No.” Here he goes a transcendent step further, he merges himself, story, and reader. We become him. He and we walk through the looking glass into his story then back with him to his table where we "sharpen the pencil carefully with the sharp blade and then slip your arm through the sweat-salted leather of your pack strap to lift the pack again...and feel the pine needles under your moccasins as you started down for the lake." With no friction we move with him back and forth from table to country from him to character to us. No other writer has ever done this. Who is who? Who is Hemingway and who is in the story? Who is writing and who is sharpening? Who are we? "Now you can't tell who is who can you?" "No."
Blue underlining from a previous reading. Black underlining, yesterday.
The blue because I paid close attention to the way in which Hemingway worked. I wanted to work as "well and truly" in my law work as he did in his literature. The black was not underlined then because I did not understand it. I saw yesterday that it was Hemingway and his writing merging into one. “Now you can’t tell who is who can you?” “No.” Here he goes a transcendent step further, he merges himself, story, and reader. We become him. He and we walk through the looking glass into his story then back with him to his table where we "sharpen the pencil carefully with the sharp blade and then slip your arm through the sweat-salted leather of your pack strap to lift the pack again...and feel the pine needles under your moccasins as you started down for the lake." With no friction we move with him back and forth from table to country from him to character to us. No other writer has ever done this. Who is who? Who is Hemingway and who is in the story? Who is writing and who is sharpening? Who are we? "Now you can't tell who is who can you?" "No."
