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A Sacred Truth

He said he would never write stories of his childhood or of his past. Why would he want to relive all that. He was glad he was over it, the baby years, puberty, young adulthood. It all left a bad taste in his mouth.

He was all for living in the now. He intended to suck the life from each moment he lived from here on to end. He was up for it. He had no fear since death had come close to killing him once. Odd that he thought of praying. It was the first time in his life he had ever prayed. And he didn't die. It made sense to him he could do anything he wanted once he realized he never had to mean any of it.

That's not to say he didn't have a heart. He had loved his parents and his first girlfriend. He had loved his first wife. Often he thought he had loved no one better. But she might disagree.

He remembered he certainly loved making love to her. He always felt invigorated afterwards. He would recharge himself on being with her, especially the way they would make love. He would give her a good time and he could always fall back on that she was true and he knew she loved him. Making love to her was like putting money in the bank

There was an economy between them. The currency was love. But at some point he overdrew on their account. And though it pained him, there was that other thing that he wanted, the girl. So he gave his wife what was left of what he owned as a gift and he moved on.

It surprised him that it was easy and he was all right with himself. The guilt he felt was like that prayer. Again he had not lost, but he suspected suffering the guilt hadn't mattered anyway, though he did mean having loved his wife. But now he had the girl and he was happy and he saw he was still able to get what he wanted.

(This is about Hemingway at 30 around 1929, when he divorces his first wife Hadley in Paris to marry Pauline.)

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