[In Paris] I was writing about up in Michigan and since it was a wild, cold, blowing day it was that sort of day in the story. I had already seen the end of fall come through boyhood, youth and young manhood, and in one place you could wite about it better than in another. That was called transplanting yourself, I thought, and it could be as necessary with people as with other sorts of growing things . . . .
Maybe away from Paris I could write about Paris as in Paris I could write about Michigan.
Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast
Later, I will probably post about the kind of morning I’ve had, beginning at 5:40–it has been sublime. A significant part of the morning has been this watercolor I began last night, that takes me back to a time in my…
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