"Ernest Hemingway. Doomed winner
In his early years, Ernest preferred hunting rather than singing. One day in the fall, when he was not yet twelve, Grandfather Hemingway gave him a 20-gauge hunting rifle for his birthday. His father took him to the farm of our uncle Frank Heins, near Carbondale in Illinois. It was a wonderful place, and although the trip there had been planned for more than one month, it was full of disorders that neither father nor son could foresee.
Ernest's small rifle shot surprisingly well. He could hit a target when his prey quickly ran along the ground, or a bird in the sky from a distance of more than fifty yards. The father felt incredible pride, demonstrating to those around him how his son shoots pigeons flying around the barn. They should move away, because it happened in a crowded place. They fired at difficult targets within the direct line of sight of the house where the women and teenagers were.
Ernest's first shotgun was a single-gauge 20-gauge, presented to his decade by his grandfather. It is perfectly suited for shooting birds and hares. This gift strengthened the love between his grandfather and Ernest, who loved to listen to his stories about the conquest of the West in a covered wagon when he was a boy. Grandpa Hemingway talked about the battles of the Civil War. He fought as a volunteer in the Illinois Infantry Regiment, understood a lot by studying military tactics, and felt the burden of war on him. Grandfather Hemingway's favorite story was about how he "got a cannonball blow to the head." After going through the war without a single scratch, he was once seriously injured. The sharp segment of the cannon shell slipped out of his hands as he took it from the top shelf. A heavy piece of metal left a deep wound, and I had to stitch a few stitches.
Hiking in the woods, reading, long walks and fishing gave Ernest particular pleasure in the breaks between working on the farm. He liked to camp at Cape Murphy Point, less than half a mile from Windmer. There he had all the conditions for calm reading. Often from these campaigns he returned with books drenched in rain. Our parents were strictly concerned with the safety of the family library. They did not know how often he was concerned to replace a spoiled book with a quality one.
Library visits were frequent and useful. Ernest loved science and adventure fiction. Even while he was studying at the Oliver Wendel Holmes elementary school, just a block away from home, he read all the time, although his vision was unimportant. By the age of ten he developed severe myopia. Our mother's vision also left much to be desired. She understood that the combination of heredity and tension with continuous reading was a serious impediment to learning. And besides, he categorically refused to wear glasses. Mother often found him immersed in reading.
On participation in the First World War: Not all Ernest's wounds were purely physical. Like hundreds of thousands of soldiers earlier and now, he experienced mental shock. He was plagued by insomnia, he could not sleep if there was no light in the room. He told his friend Guy Haykoku about his feelings during a mine explosion. “I felt my soul or something like this coming out of my body, as if someone was pulling a silk handkerchief out of my pocket by a corner. She flew around, then came back and went inside. I came back to life again. ” Ernest, a former lieutenant of the Red Cross, was endowed with a special personality. As a former newspaper correspondent and officer who participated in military battles and was injured, Ernest lived a deeper inner life than his friends. He was sometimes in a bad mood, as if he had not yet decided how to deal with it. Most of all he liked to meet old friends, go fishing. He tried to stay away from people who personally did not experience all that he had to go through himself not so long ago.
He lived as he died, passionately and cruelly. Ernest extolled courage. All his life he raised this quality, developed it in himself and other people, whom he taught a lot. And his fearlessness never left him. What ultimately failed him was his body. But it can happen to anyone.
On that fateful morning of July 2, Ernest committed the last act in his life — the last time he loaded a two-barreled Richardson of the 12th caliber. There was not a single witness to his death. This could actually have been an “incredible tragic accident,” as his widow Mary told reporters after reports of her husband’s death.
From the circumstances of his death, Ernest made a secret - something he had never done in literary work connected with death and cruelty, tenderness and humanity, comic and truth.