I finished The Crystal Cave and The Hollow Hills, both by Mary Steward in the last few days, but I think I’m going to take a break from that saga for a few days and read Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast before I finish off the sad parts of the story.
These are all books I’ve read before (except for The Wicked Day), and I’m perfectly okay with not reading something new at this point. I made an effort to read a lot of new books this year, but when the weather gets cold and snowy and when work is super busy, previously read books are comfort food for the brain. It was perfectly lovely, this morning, to read the last few chapters of The Hollow Hills while curled up in bed with a cup of coffee, and the snow falling outside.
I first read A Moveable Feast in high school after the Meg Ryan movie City of Angels came out, as the book was featured to a small degree in the film. What I always found funny was the fact that, when Nicolas Cage reads a section of the book aloud, he opens the book to the middle and finds it there. In reality, the passage- about the pleasures of eating oysters (I think it’s oysters, anyway)- is on page two or so. While the film didn’t leave much of a lasting impression on me, it did inspire me to read A Moveable Feast, which I’ve read three or four times since then.
I know that the essays involving Hemingway’s interactions with F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald are popular, but honestly my favorite parts come from the first part of the book when Hemingway writes about living and working in Paris. Fitzgerald’s work never made much of an impression on me, so the two of them come off as a couple of irritating people. I will probably incur the wrath of literary gods somewhere, but. . . I just don’t care for Fitzgerald. I am unrepentant about this fact.