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By Ernest Hemingway

Hemingway's stories of his existence as an unknown author dwelling in Paris within the Twenties are deeply own, warmly affectionate and entire of wit. He recollects the time whilst, terrible, satisfied and writing in cafes, he came upon his vocation.

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She's vicious,' miss stein said. 'she's truly vicious, so she can never be happy except with new people. ' There were so many things to understand in those days and i was glad when we talked about something else. the park was closed so i had to walk down along it to the rue de vaugirard and around the lower end of the park. it was sad when the park was closed and locked and i was sad walking around it instead of through it and in a hurry to get home to the rue cardinal lemoine. the day had started out so brightly too.

Anyway we would go if my wife wanted to, and i finished the oysters and the wine and paid my score in the cafe and made it the shortest way back up the montagne ste-genevieve through the rain, that was now only local weather and not something that changed your life, to the flat at the top of the hill. 'I think it would be wonderful, tatie,' my wife said. she had a gently modelled face and her eyes and her smile lighted up at decisions as though they were rich presents. ' 'Oh, i want to right away.

Afterwards she explained to me that she always talked to the wives. the wives, my wife and i felt, were tolerated. but we liked miss stein and her friend, although the friend was frightening. the paintings and the cakes and the eau-de-vie were truly wonderful. they seemed to like us too and treated us as though we were very good, well-mannered and promising children and i felt that they forgave us for being in love and being married - time would fix that - and when my wife invited them to tea, they accepted.

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