Hemingway and James Joyce were drinking buddies in Paris. Joyce was thin and bespectacled; Hemingway was tall and strapping. When they went out Joyce would get drunk, pick a fight with a bigger guy in the bar and then hide behind Hemingway and yell, “Deal with him, Hemingway. Deal with him.”

[x] (via newzerokaneda)

Between this and the story about him reassuring F. Scott Fitzgerald re dick size, I’m developing a picture of Hemingway as the mother hen of the disaffected white male literary set of the early 20th century.

He probably called up Steinbeck sometimes and was like I CAN’T EVEN WITH THESE DIPSHITS and Steinbeck was all “That’s what you get for living in Paris, asshole”.

(via copperbadge)

(via havisham)

joincidence-with-a-c:

whyd you only reblog me when youre high
I remember my son once asked me, “Did you ever, like, kiss in high school?” And I told him this long drawn-out story of how shy I was, how I finally got a girlfriend but she broke up with me because I was too shy to try to kiss her, and then I had another girlfriend but still couldn’t figure out kissing. The technique was always a big obstacle in my head, like, How do you kiss? Where does your chin go? Forget about anything beyond kissing-first base was a total mystery to me. So I’m telling my son this long story, and he listens patiently until he finally realizes where I’m going with it, and he says, “Dad, no-did you like Kiss in high school? Kiss, the band!” And I was, “Oh yeah, Kiss…they were good.”
Steve Buscemi (via buzzedfeed)

sappling:

how many “take me to the museum and make out with me” posts can y’all make like damn you’re horny and pretentious we get it

draculahs