We spend a lot of our lives thinking that we are the only freaks walking the Earth until we learn that everyone is a freak in one way or another.
Earlier today, I was reading A Moveable Feast, Ernest Hemingway’s memoir about his early years living in Paris. He talks about the people in his life with a sobering level of truth. If he liked you, he’d say so. If he didn’t, he'd say that too.
He spends a great deal of time talking about his friendship with F. Scott Fitzgerald. To get a sense of Hemingway’s frankness, he does not pull any punches when discussing Fitzgerald’s wife Zelda, and at one point goes so far as to call her “insane.” In Hemingway’s eyes, she was jealous of Fitzgerald’s success as a writer, and because of this, she did everything she could to sabotage Fitzgerald’s life with endless partying and drinking and debauchery. The relationship Scott and Zelda had was of course more nuanced and complicated than this, but Hemingway, with his blunt descriptions and raw storytelling, often overlooked or ignored such nuance.
Hemingway goes on to tell a story about a trip he took with Fitzgerald to Lyon. I’ll spare most details, but there was one part that stood out to me.
After drinking one night, Fitzgerald became concerned that he was coming down with a case of pneumonia and was going to die from it. Despite showing no symptoms of pneumonia (his forehead was cold and he had no fever), he insists that Hemingway take his temperature with a thermometer, and when Hemingway says that there is no thermometer available, Fitzgerald insists that Hemingway either go find one or have the staff of the hotel find one.
On one hand, Hemingway felt that the whole ordeal was unnecessary and dramatic. But on the other hand, Hemingway wanted to help his friend, and therefore obliged with the request to find a thermometer. Eventually the hotel staff finds one, although it is not a thermometer for medical use, and therefore Hemingway has to get creative and ultimately lie to his friend that he had taken his temperature and that it was normal. It is not until Hemingway takes his temperature that Fitzgerald was able to calm down.
I myself had a very similar episode during the early stages of the pandemic. In a state of worry that I was catching COVID, I felt that the only way I could prove that I was not sick was if I took my temperature. Every pharmacy in a 5 mile radius was sold out of thermometers, and the only place I could find a thermometer was Home Depot. Similar to Fitzgerald, I was finally able to calm down after the thermometer read 98.6.
As someone who struggles with a lot of health-related anxiety, I have never once seen a character—either real or fictional—portrayed as showing such hypochondriacal tendencies. Knowing how truthful Hemingway was in his writing, I have no doubt that this scene was not exaggerated in any way, and therefore is one that I find deeply relevant in my life.
Even the great F. Scott Fitzgerald had anxieties and worries too. You might be thinking, “Of course he did, everyone does.” But so rarely are these anxieties showcased in such a precise manner. We often hear generalized versions of the worries and doubts and fears of great figures, but we never get to experience a specific moment in which the person was struggling.
When I find someone who is like me in either a small way or a big way or a good way or a bad way, it provides me with a sense of relief. Because if they are like me, then I can do the things they did too.
Hemingway was, in many ways, very different from me. But Fitzgerald was, in at least one way, just like me. And that’s what matters.
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We spend a lot of our lives thinking that we are the only freaks walking the Earth until we learn that everyone is a freak in one way or another.
Earlier today, I was reading A Moveable Feast, Ernest Hemingway’s memoir about his early years living in Paris. He talks about the people in his life with a sobering level of truth. If he liked you, he’d say so. If he didn’t, he'd say that too.
He spends a great deal of time talking about his friendship with F. Scott Fitzgerald. To get a sense of Hemingway’s frankness, he does not pull any punches when discussing Fitzgerald’s wife Zelda, and at one point goes so far as to call her “insane.” In Hemingway’s eyes, she was jealous of Fitzgerald’s success as a writer, and because of this, she did everything she could to sabotage Fitzgerald’s life with endless partying and drinking and debauchery. The relationship Scott and Zelda had was of course more nuanced and complicated than this, but Hemingway, with his blunt descriptions and raw storytelling, often overlooked or ignored such nuance.
Hemingway goes on to tell a story about a trip he took with Fitzgerald to Lyon. I’ll spare most details, but there was one part that stood out to me.
After drinking one night, Fitzgerald became concerned that he was coming down with a case of pneumonia and was going to die from it. Despite showing no symptoms of pneumonia (his forehead was cold and he had no fever), he insists that Hemingway take his temperature with a thermometer, and when Hemingway says that there is no thermometer available, Fitzgerald insists that Hemingway either go find one or have the staff of the hotel find one.
On one hand, Hemingway felt that the whole ordeal was unnecessary and dramatic. But on the other hand, Hemingway wanted to help his friend, and therefore obliged with the request to find a thermometer. Eventually the hotel staff finds one, although it is not a thermometer for medical use, and therefore Hemingway has to get creative and ultimately lie to his friend that he had taken his temperature and that it was normal. It is not until Hemingway takes his temperature that Fitzgerald was able to calm down.
I myself had a very similar episode during the early stages of the pandemic. In a state of worry that I was catching COVID, I felt that the only way I could prove that I was not sick was if I took my temperature. Every pharmacy in a 5 mile radius was sold out of thermometers, and the only place I could find a thermometer was Home Depot. Similar to Fitzgerald, I was finally able to calm down after the thermometer read 98.6.
As someone who struggles with a lot of health-related anxiety, I have never once seen a character—either real or fictional—portrayed as showing such hypochondriacal tendencies. Knowing how truthful Hemingway was in his writing, I have no doubt that this scene was not exaggerated in any way, and therefore is one that I find deeply relevant in my life.
Even the great F. Scott Fitzgerald had anxieties and worries too. You might be thinking, “Of course he did, everyone does.” But so rarely are these anxieties showcased in such a precise manner. We often hear generalized versions of the worries and doubts and fears of great figures, but we never get to experience a specific moment in which the person was struggling.
When I find someone who is like me in either a small way or a big way or a good way or a bad way, it provides me with a sense of relief. Because if they are like me, then I can do the things they did too.
Hemingway was, in many ways, very different from me. But Fitzgerald was, in at least one way, just like me. And that’s what matters.
