Ernest Hemingway worked as a journalist for the Kansas City Star. Here is the style sheet he used.
His robotic hypnotism to the spoken word’s expression is like a moaning awkward tone that depicts like nothing else the impossibility of our expression. His spoken commas, periods, pauses and literal pauses have the power of an incantation and I am in fascination of his channeling. This is seeing the muse spoken. I aw. Aw. Aw man, its dropping me. Look at this. This is it. The one. Hemingway is a curse. Smite me. Curse me. Incant me. Voodoo drums blood in my eyes. Rip maw rip hit me up. Dedication. Dedication.
Tapping in
Tap me in
Concentration. Agitation. Contemplation.
Production, they’ve stolen production. Productivity of pain. Pain as muse and unspoken unspeakables the rapturous destruction listen to the incantation this is the only productivity and its pure its pure see this is the painful curse. It’s the Hemingway curse. Let me die but I must live and this is life in death and death in life. I’m a two-way spectre and the pain is dissonant and alternate ringing round and in to out. They’ve stolen my productivity. They’ve made it theirs. Its something I owe it to somebody else it’s a compensation for our original sin it’s the debt owed as a member of this social contract we’re partakers and now there is distance. There’s always distance.
You haven’t stopped running; and, whatever distance you think you have put between you and you, you still leave behind new statues of salt.
- Andre Breton
French translation dubbed over the original sound of Hemingways’ Spanish.
Those Kafka ghosts are inevitable but they’re nothing but the ghosts of distance. Distance is the most devilish thing I’ve ever encountered, and scares me wide-eyed awake quite often. The distance between you and your audience, you and your friends, you and your lover even in an embrace, you and your mother, you and life, you and yourself, theres always distance and its terrifying but irrefutable, indestructable. These are the ghosts. They reveal themselves in our attempts to reconcile it but thats no argument against it and clearly Kafka never meant it as anything like that for he still wrote a few times a day, Milenas letters coming in bouts of twos and threes, though likely not quite as prodigious as his, though we’ll never know, but still the input and output in some kind of dialogical race that he must have known felt damn nice. Even ghosts have rhythm
- Colby
