This was my third or fourth reading of Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast. Anyone who criticizes any of Hemingway’s books is confronted with the need to tell it like it is: One side of Hemingway’s character was fatally flawed. He would be a hell of a handful to put up with. Many people tried and failed. On the other hand,  the man was a genius of style and deserves all the plaudits that can be bestowed on him for his courage in dealing with a life where he was blessed with genius and burdened with immaturity, fear and some DNA that is still be analyzed to determine what made him who he was. The story of his rise to mythological standing is of itself a one-of-its-kind tale.

  This memoir of his early life in Paris contains numerous cringe-worthy stories that underscore the nasty asides and venom that besmirch the many beautiful passages that make for a touching but tragic love story that haunted Hemingway for the rest of his life. The book reveals the problem Hemingway had: He was chronically unable to give other writers breathing space. If they were dead they could be exempted. If they were alive and competitors, they must be cut down to at least one grade below Hemingway and stained with some unsightly flaw.

One amazing fact: Hemingway acknowledged his character flaws but could never rise above them.