Ernest HemÂingÂway seemed to feud with most of the promiÂnent male artists of his time, from WalÂlace Stevens and T.S. Eliot to F. Scott FitzgerÂald. He had a “very strange relaÂtionÂship” with Orson Welles—the two came to blows at least once—and he reportÂedÂly slapped Max EastÂman in the face with a book. All his blusÂter and bravaÂdo make his warm friendÂship with James Joyce seem all the more remarkÂable. They are a litÂerÂary odd couÂple if ever there was one: Joyce the labyrinthine thinker of ByzanÂtine thoughts and creÂator of symÂbolÂic sysÂtems so dense they conÂstiÂtute an entire field of study; physÂiÂcalÂly weak and—despite his infaÂmous carÂnal appetites—intelÂlecÂtuÂalÂly monkÂish, Joyce exemÂpliÂfies the artist as a recluÂsive conÂtemÂplaÂtive. HemÂingÂway, on the othÂer hand, well… we know his repÂuÂtaÂtion.
Hemingway’s 1961 obitÂuÂary in The New York Times charÂacÂterÂized Joyce as “a thin, wispy and unmusÂcled man with defecÂtive eyeÂsight” (perÂhaps the result of a syphilis infecÂtion), and also notes that the two writÂers “did a cerÂtain amount of drinkÂing togethÂer” in Paris. As the narÂraÂtor of the rare film clip of Joyce informs us above, the Ulysses author would pick drunkÂen fights, then duck behind his burly friend and say, “Deal with him, HemÂingÂway. Deal with him.” (That scene also gets menÂtioned in The Times obitÂuÂary.) HemÂingÂway, who conÂvinced himÂself at one time he had the makÂings of a real pugilist, was likeÂly hapÂpy to oblige. Joyce, writes HemÂingÂway biogÂraÂphÂer James R. MelÂlow, “was an admirÂer of Hemingway’s advenÂturÂous lifestyle” and worÂried aloud that his books were too “subÂurÂban” next to those of his friend, of whom he said in a DanÂish interÂview, “he’s a good writer, HemÂingÂway. He writes as he is… there is much more behind Hemingway’s form than peoÂple know.”
Joyce, notes KenÂneth Schyler Lynn in HemÂingÂway, realÂized that “neiÂther as a man nor as an artist was [HemÂingÂway] as simÂple as he seemed,” though he also remarked that HemÂingÂway was “a big powÂerÂful peasÂant, as strong as a bufÂfaÂlo. A sportsÂman. And ready to live the life he writes about. He would nevÂer have writÂten it if his body had not allowed him to live it.” One detects more than a hint of HemÂingÂway in Joycean charÂacÂters like DublinÂers’ IgnaÂtious GalÂlaÂher or Ulysses’ Hugh “Blazes” Boylan—strong, advenÂturÂous types who overÂawe introÂvertÂed main charÂacÂters. That’s not to say that Joyce explicÂitÂly drew on HemÂingÂway in conÂstructÂing his ficÂtion, but that in the boastÂful, outÂgoÂing AmerÂiÂcan, he saw what many of his semi-autoÂbiÂoÂgraphÂiÂcal charÂacÂters did in their more bullÂish counterparts—a natÂurÂal foil.
HemÂingÂway returned Joyce’s comÂpliÂments, writÂing to SherÂwood AnderÂson in 1923, “Joyce has a most god-damn wonÂderÂful book” and proÂnouncÂing Joyce “the greatÂest writer in the world.” He was “unquesÂtionÂably… stagÂgered,” writes Lynn, “by the mulÂtiÂlayÂered richÂness” of Ulysses. But its denÂsiÂty may have proven too much for him, as “his interÂest in the stoÂry gave out well before he finÂished it.” In HemÂingÂway’s copy of the novÂel, “only the pages of the first half and of MolÂly Bloom’s conÂcludÂing solilÂoÂquy are cut.” HemÂingÂway temÂpered his praise with some blunt critÂiÂcism; unlike Joyce’s praise of his writÂing, the AmerÂiÂcan did not admire Joyce’s tenÂdenÂcy towards autoÂbiÂogÂraÂphy in the charÂacÂter of Stephen Dedalus.
“The weakÂness of Joyce,” HemÂingÂway opined, was his inabilÂiÂty to underÂstand that “the only writÂing that was any good was what you made up, what you imagÂined… Daedalus [sic] in Ulysses was Joyce himÂself, so he was terÂriÂble. Joyce was so damn romanÂtic and intelÂlecÂtuÂal.” Of course Stephen Dedalus was Joyce—that much is clear to anyÂone. How HemÂingÂway, who did his utmost to enact his ficÂtionÂal advenÂtures and ficÂtionÂalÂize his real life, could fault Joyce for doing the same is hard to reckÂon, except perÂhaps, as Joyce cerÂtainÂly felt, HemÂingÂway led the more advenÂturÂous life.
RelatÂed ConÂtent:
James Joyce Reads a PasÂsage From Ulysses, 1924
Ernest HemÂingÂway to F. Scott FitzgerÂald: “Kiss My Ass”
James Joyce’s “Dirty LetÂters” to His Wife (1909)
Josh Jones is a writer and musiÂcian based in Durham, NC. FolÂlow him at @jdmagness
ExcelÂlent artiÂcle as usuÂal. This time I must corÂrect the part sayÂing that IgnaÂtious GalÂlaÂher in DublinÂers reflects HemÂingÂway’s nature. It can only be a coinÂciÂdence since DublinÂers was pubÂlished in 1914 and HemÂingÂway arrived in Paris in DecemÂber 1921.