Hemingway the Painter

While most children will grown up into full fledged teenagers with eyes to the future and mature minds that process the deeper meaning of texts and philosophizing about the truths of life, I am straddling the wall of mental development. I can write a internal assessment and key passage analysis yet also laugh at a children's television program. I know big words like scintillating and deleterious, but I usually opt for the juvenile terms like interesting and bad. It's adequate to say that I don't want to fully grow up. When I read a book, I want to imagine all of the characters and scenery and what is happening in the story. The author paints a picture that my simple mind can comprehend. This is why I hate authors who are dreary and all about "internalizing" and "thoughts". I am the standard man who enjoys books with booms, bangs and cars. Fortunately, I have grown up enough to not need pictures on every couple of pages. My mind adds in the illustrations. My favorite authors are the kind that utilize sensory imagery and descriptive details.

My boy, Ernest, paints a perfect picture of what's happening. When he's at the track, I can imagine the track and the panting horses and the dimunitve jockeys and the hustle and bustle of betting. When he describes the cafe, I can smell the coffe beans grinding and the cigarillo's sweet smoke that some Frenchmana is casually taking a drag of outside. I see the steam rising off the cappucino cup Ernest is sipping on slowly. When he talks about the bike racing, I can see ther racers, "in their ponderous leather suits, to shelter the riders who followed them from the air resistance, the riders in their lighter crash helmets bent low over their handlebars their legs turning the huge gear sprockets and the small front wheels touching the roler behind the machine that gave them shelter to ride in, and the duels that were more exciting than anything, the put-puting of the motorcycles and the riders elbow to elbow and wheel to wheel up and down and around at deadly speed until o ne man could not hold the pave and broke away and the solid wall of air that he had been sheltered against hit him" (Hemingway 65).
...Wow! Can you feel the excitement and the tension? The wall of wind hitting him seems to me like a brick wall he hits and fights. Hemingway is a painter of images in my head, he's directing the movie of the film in my mind and he's branding my brain.

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