There are not many appealing aspects in Hemingway’s life and work after the Second World War, and Autumn in Venice: Ernest Hemingway and His Last Muse, by Andrea Di Robilant, does little to change my opinion. Hemingway’s post-war life was filled with not nearly enough work, and far too much eating, entertainment, drinking, distractions, travel, avoidable head injuries and delusional thinking.
We see all of this in Autumn in Venice, and more. Sure, he produced work after 1945. But he left behind manuscripts which, if he finished, may have very well redefined and reinvented his legacy as a writer. Instead, his promise was flushed away.
You can read, cringe-worthy detail by detail, how all this came about in this excellent biography.
We see all of this in Autumn in Venice, and more. Sure, he produced work after 1945. But he left behind manuscripts which, if he finished, may have very well redefined and reinvented his legacy as a writer. Instead, his promise was flushed away.
You can read, cringe-worthy detail by detail, how all this came about in this excellent biography.
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