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Ernest Hemingway

July 2, 2011 by staff 

Ernest HemingwayErnest Hemingway, If Ernest Hemingway had committed suicide 50 years ago today at age 61, probably would have died anyway. (No human liver can withstand more than a century of alcoholic nonstop grinding. Not even Dad.)

But Newsweek can fantasize about the death of Princess Diana deception, we can imagine walking Hemingway – and surprising – among us in 2011. What would be the drinker, a lover of adventure writer thinks of our modern lifestyle and technology?

Not bloody much. We are obsessed with conquering the digital world – the accumulation of followers on Twitter, Facebook friends, and LinkedIn recommendations – while Hemingway won the physical world. The thrill of a retweet of Ashton Kutcher and Roger Ebert does not compare to the thrill of running with the (rather) bulls or fighting a pack of ravenous sharks on the remains of a prize marlin catch.

Even the fight, the more manly sport of all, will soon be a gelding, joystick, alternating simulation orchestrated across the world, from the battlefield, thanks to our increasing reliance on unmanned aircraft to do the dirty work. More than any other game, a perfect metaphor for our time. (Except, you know, the SEALs.) But sinking a Nintendo Wii controller in the air is not a substitute for plunging a bayonet deep in the heart of a supporter of Franco. This is easy to do because Franco’s supporters are, like, a hundred years old now.

Similarly, using the GPS is no substitute for exploring unknown. Why “tour” of Africa with Google Earth instead may decimate their magnificent creatures in the flesh?

Former Congressman Anthony Weiner, who blew his marriage in sending digital photos to different women naughty, epitomizes the contemporary electronic emasculation. Hemingway was a big fan blowing marriages – was three times champion of divorce court – but had the guts to cheat on their wives do not really cheat on them emotionally. (There was only one emotion, and it was the thirst for blood to the animal kingdom.)

We must turn our tablets and smartphones, men, and return to challenge Mother Nature to kill us for our greed and arrogance, if it is a hungry lion stalking or climbing Mount Kilimanjaro.

Angry Birds dominate or FarmVille no way to prove our manhood. You can write the cards from Foursquare and become the mayor of a local organic vegan cafe, but would not like to score bronze medals and silver value such as Hemingway did in World Wars I and II?

Would not it be better to learn about the life of adventures (and misadventures mojito fuel) in Wikipedia?

Perhaps Hemingway would approve a select few online destinations:

• we love Twitter, its large cites are 140 characters or less.

• given his fondness for cats, Hemingway spent hours and hours on YouTube and I Can Has Cheezburger?

• Like all men, dad hated shopping – the only store where she felt comfortable was Abercrombie & Fitch, again when distributed sports instead of gay prn – that Amazon could do their shopping quickly and painlessly. Unfortunately, Amazon does not add actions, wormwood-laced absinthe.

Another advantage: Reading For Whom the Bell Tolls in a Corner Kindle or not give you carpal tunnel, as if weighing the damn hardcover.

So technology is not all bad, it’s only a problem when the easy shortcuts and addictive distractions us lazy, incompetent and unable to differentiate between “you”, “your” and “ur” Hemingway advised novelists “writing drunk. , edit sober “while Facebook is for writing and editing drunk ever.

“Fear of death increases with the increase of wealth,” Hemingway once said. Today, many of us have become rich in the currency of cowardice. We have so much and so little experience. We are desperate to live as long as possible, is not as large as possible. We are so afraid of saying goodbye to the world we never greet.

We are in our sleepy HD, Wi-Fi buds hungry for material possessions – the newest, fastest, most brilliant gadgets – instead of a fitting end to a life well lived. If Dad had not committed suicide in despair in 1961, he would kill himself in disgust today.

Yeah, I mean, I could get away from cat Nyan. Now that’s a challenge.

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