Ernest Hemingway is the stupidest great writer who ever lived, and perhaps the meanest.

I reread “A Moveable Feast,” over the weekend because I was in bed with a cold and I needed something that wasn’t mentally challenging. I had not read the book in 40 years. It is a memoir of Hemingway’s life in Paris in the 1920s and it is a mean-spirited book. He writes nasty things about people who thought they were his friends, people who helped him  — Scott Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein, John Dos Passos, Sara and Gerald Murphy. He belittles Ford Madox Ford, a better writer than Hemingway could hope to be. He heaps praise on the character of Ezra Pound, the notorious anti-semite.

I came away from the book feeling sullied. He wrote one good novel (certainly not as good as Gatsby) and a few good short stories and novellas. He is vastly overrated and his manly-man “philosophy” is laughable. I don’t like Hemingway