It's a Wednesday, late night, chores are done, and worries put away.
I have just finished rereading a favorite of mine...
"This letter from Ernest Hemingway to Maxwell Perkins in 1942 sums up the book better than I ever could:
"Did you read Beryl Markham's book, West with the Night? I knew her fairly well in Africa and never would have suspected that she could and would put pen to paper except to write in her flyer's log book. As it is, she has written so well, and marvelously well, that I was completely ashamed of myself as a writer. I felt that I was simply a carpenter with words, picking up whatever was furnished on the job and nailing them together and sometimes making an okay pig pen. But [she] can write rings around all of us who consider ourselves writers. The only parts of it that I know about personally, on account of having been there at the time and heard the other people's stories, are absolutely true . . . I wish you would get it and read it because it is really a bloody wonderful book."--Ernest Hemingway
Hemingway almost NEVER sang the praises of other writers, especially not his contemporaries. As result, his acclaim for Markham's work can be seen as high praise indeed." ~ Ian
Pretending to be in the back of beyond: I can have a bonfire, wrap up in an ol blanket, close my eyes, listen to the night, and revisit another favorite...
