Reading The Moveable Feast, by Ernest Hemingway, reminds me of just how much time has changed from his generation to mine. His writings of the most simple things, like drinking at a small cafe, are/were so eloquent and full of passion. Although I have only read the first three chapters, I have thoroughly enjoyed them - and that's not something that happens often.

 In "A Good Cafe on the Place St.-Michael, Hemingway is retelling a story of an average day in Paris as a writer. His life seems carefree, since he is youthful and in love. He is doing a job that is consumed with the thing he loves, and in that aspect I am jealous of him. Although it was a simpler time in the early 1900's, it seems as though life now is overly complicated in every respect. I guess that's why he took the time to appreciate the little things in life, such as the trees in the winter, or the warmth and comfort of a fire in a studio apartment. Thus, he created beautiful works of art in the process of admiring the world as he saw it.

In "Miss Stein Instructs", we are introduced to Hemingway's odd, but intriguing comrade. The relationship that Hemingway has with his dear friend, Gertrude Stein, creates a fascinating atmosphere.  Maybe because Hemingway is such an interesting man, or maybe because Miss Stein is such an eccentric character - either way, I long to know both of them better. Though Miss Stein is not "normal", Hemingway connects with her and cherishes her friendship. He recounts several afternoons that he spent in her studio apartment, talking about everything from sex to art, and every person that each of them came in contact with.

Although Miss Stein and Hemingway were dear friends, there was a difference in age. As told by Hemingway in "Une Generation Perdue", Gertrude feels as if Hemingway's generation is "lost". Even though Hemingway disagrees with this statement, he decides to leave it be, but agrees within his own home that Gertrude can "talk a lot of rot sometimes". I'm not sure about Hemingway's and his peers, but I think Gertrude's explanation fits me. Maybe that makes me "lost" since I have no idea where I'm going in my life, but maybe it also makes me a dreamer because all I can do is dream about my future.