The bold man and the sea - earnestly remembering Ernest

I write this in earnest. For Ernest.

There are so few men who have said so much with so few.

My admiration for Ernest Miller Hemingway comes not only from what he has produced through the sheer force of his writing. That is the stuff of envy and inspiration.
My admiration for him comes from the beautiful paradox that he has lived. Continuously and consistently. Worn, possibly, as an ensign. Or a scar on a face that no one has really read. Only seen.

There have been various instruments employed at various points in history to move people. The written word, by far in my opinion, is the most memorable. Certainly more than the public bus, I would say. Or the expensive automobile. Ernest’s words, the written ones that is, are one of the few forces that have projected recklessly an alternative image on the screens of our minds. And begged no one to watch it. Only forced them to do so.

There is a popular belief, founded on nothing except upon the folly of looking sideways, that we are what we write. There is a bigger belief, among fewer people, that we write what we are. Both could not have been farther from the truth. Our words are ours. Whether we employ them to build us or give ourselves away or, even, to project us is our call alone. For Ernest, that call was simple. He wrote what he went through. But, he never felt the mandate to go through what he wrote. And that paradox, if I may take the liberty to call it that, was the most definitive detail about the man. For me.

This is not a belated obituary. This is a call to arms (even though Ernest bid farewell to them, maybe there is a need to take them up, in our instant times, all over again) to all of us to bequeath the magnanimity of words to our nexts. If there is a clear and present threat to anything today, it is to the word. Not only is it under siege from reckless minimalists, it is also reeling under the mammoth pressure of mass mutilation. The word is getting increasingly tailored to fit our attention spans. It is being customised to fit our travel time. It is being reengineered to fit our ever blunted imagination. It is being dolled up, like a whore wearing Christmas lights, to suit the sensibilities of our prime time television screens. It is being carved to fit into our pockets, jostling for space in between the cell phone and the cheap trick. It is being whittled down to neatly come under the cocktail umbrella. I can go on but something just about assures me that the point is made.

Our words can be saved from becoming who we have become. Our words can still be bold, timeless and invincible. Much like Ernest. Much like us.