Yeah, death in the afternoon after all.

Ernest Hemingway shot himself on July 2, 1961. Though bent he was still a tall man so the gun fit nicely underneath his neck. It would have felt cool. He could reach the trigger with his toe. He knew there was nothing to wait for—shock treatments had wiped out the important parts, the discussion in his mind that could be written down, the stories. What is a writer without his stories? His memory?

“Death is like an old whore in a bar—I’ll buy her a drink but I won’t go upstairs with her.” Ernest Hemingway, “To Have and Have Not” Finally though, the old whore has her way. Every story has an ending writ in the stars.

 Posted by Subhadip Majumdar, Ernest Hemingway