L.L. Bean. Freeport, ME. 1941. via
I thought I dreamt this.
“There was earth inside them, and
Paul Celan translated by John Felstiner
TO SARA MURPHY, KEY WEST, 27 FEBRUARY 1936
Just got your letter today along with a giant hangover like all the tents of Ringling. So this is letter out of the hangover into the snow (of Saranac Lake, N.Y., where Patrick was recuperating from tuberculosis). Hangover came about through visit of my lawyer Mr. (Maurice) Speiser whom I cannot see without the aid and abettment of alcohol plus seeing off in southern farewell the Judge (Arthur Powell) of the Wallace Stevens evening (when Hemingway and the poet Wallace Stevens had a fistfight). Remember that Judge and Mr. Stevens? Nice Mr. Stevens. This year he came again sort of pleasant like the cholera and first I knew of it my nice sister Ura (Ursula) was coming into the house crying because she had been at a cocktail party at which Mr. Stevens had made her cry by telling her forcefully what a sap I was, no man, etc. So I said, this was a week ago, ”All right, that’s the third time we’ve had enough of Mr. Stevens.” So headed out into the rainy past twilight and met Mr. Stevens who was just issuing from the door haveing just said, I learned later, ”By God I wish I had that Hemingway here now I’d knock him out with a single punch.” So who should show up but poor old Papa and Mr. Stevens swung
British Indian Hunting Trophies, c. 1870 via