Various diary entries of Ernest Hemingway.

Before your eyes is an excerpt from Hemingway's decaying, personal diary. (The first of two entries).

May 1st, 1943

I am typing this entry because of the bundle of newspaper that arrived on the doorstep of my quaint little apartment today. The headline read that a new drug, LSD, had apparently been discovered accidentally by a Swiss scientist, one Albert Hofmann. The contents of the article read thus: “On April 16th, 1943 Mr. Hofmann had apparently been at work isolating alkaloids from the ergot fungus when he began to feel a slight lightheadedness. There the world exploded, dissolving into a kaleidoscope of colours, shapes, spirals and light. It seemed to have something to do with lysergic acid diethylamide, LSD-25, the substance he had been working on.” From word of mouth, Mr. Hofmann has apparently been praising this substance, claiming he saw the secrets of the universe when he first ingested it.

I staunchly disagree with his claim. If the Great War had taught me anything instrumental, it was that the horrors of reality are simply a predecessor to the beauty of human experience. If humanity were to suddenly embrace this hallucinatory concoction, what would we become? Lifeless idlers skulking about the streets, consumed in our colorful, senseless fantasy worlds? We would cease to enjoy our most primitive desires (and vices?); like sex and communication, for example; if all we did was to hide behind a dreamy façade, quaking in fear at the horrors of humanity! Yet, violence and happiness share a precarious, yet necessary coexistence. What would happiness be if we had no sadness to compare it to? I regard Hofmann as greedy, as he thoughtlessly transcends moral taboo and advocates the use of LSD on the basis of discovery, of “new experiences”. Yet, he is fallacious in that one cannot possibly compare the rational, pragmatic world to the irrationality of conscience and the inner workings of the mind. This justification of discovery should be dismissed, as we are dealing with a caged beast here. Who knows what kind of secrets, what kind of ambitions, we can unleash upon humanity if we abuse LSD? No, the menial tasks of everyday life are reasons enough for living. I don't group myself with existentialists, yet I believe that we can create meaning in our lives through the discoveries and plights of simple existence. Who can compare the simple joys of watching a graceful matador flirt with the bulls in Spain, or hiking in the Alps on an azure summer day? If we were to use hallucinogens in a quest to uncover the secrets of life, we would be all cheaters in this tragic game of existence.

-E.H.

And here is an entry where Hemingway paints a picture of his adventures in Europe while working as a journalist for the Toronto Star Weekly.

I am in high spirits from my forays into Europe. In particular, my first assignment for the Toronto Star Weekly was to cover the Genoa Conference held in Genoa, Italy. The purpose of the conglomeration was to formulate strategies to rebuild Europe after the war, and also to negotiate a relationship between capitalist economies and new Russian Communist Economy. I have heard much about the radical changes conducted under Lenin’s reign (Of terror?); in particular, the New Economic Policy that supposedly aims to revitalize Russia’s economy in the wake of its tragic civil war and Bolshevik takeover. It introduces some capitalist elements into the communist (I refuse to use the term Leninist, as that would be a compliment) ideology. Lenin has, for the first time in many years, given free enterprise to the peasantry, who have long since been oppressed and executed under his authority. However, I think it is a deceitful ploy to strengthen his regime at the expense of the peasants, this temporary period of prosperity, and then they will all be slaughtered like derby horses who have grown weary with arthritis.

However, I did not concern myself much with political affairs inasmuch as I studied the architecture of the men who attended this meeting. For example, the Soviet Foreign Minister, Georgi Chickerin was obsessed by his gaudy uniform; Maxim Litvinov had a ham-like face; and Karl Wirth, the German chancellor, looked like the tuba player in a Bavarian band. I entertained myself immensely with these caricatures as if I went on a trip to the circus instead of to a political gathering. The reason for my lightheartedness, perhaps, is my relative apathy for politics in general; as I firmly believe (in part because of my cynicism), that Machiavelli’s The Prince can serve as an axiom for all conferences. Alas, it is always the same ploy; men claiming to be virtuous when they commit atrocities, their justification being that it benefits the state; morality is purely subjective. They are all hiding behind facades in their crisp suits, men of absolute power who quibble over the slightest opposition and who employ manipulation and propaganda to gain support. I have no interest for these predictable swine.

After this foray, I eventually ventured to Italy with Hadley in June, where I met the infamous Fascist Benito Mussolini, who was then editor of the influential Popolo d’ Italia in Milan. At this time I was still naive; admiring anybody who had been under fire in the war. I subsequently viewed Mussolini’

s words with a heroic aura. He was a big, brown-faced man with a high forehead, a slow-smiling mouth, and large, expressive hands. My second interview with him, which took place in Lausanne in November he had seized power, made me see beneath his mask and remark: “there is something wrong, even histrionically, with a man who wears white spats with a black shirt”. He was the biggest bluff in Europe; you will see the weakness in his mouth which forces him to scowl the famous Mussolini scowl. The man is proof enough of my pessimisms; my suspicions that men never change; they are always attempting to worm their way into a position of power by any corrupted means necessary.

-E.H.

Here is a starkly beautiful poem recently uncovered from various manuscripts in the possession of his wife. I, as the editor, feel that it perfectly portrays American culture as spontaneous and risque.

I like Americans.
They are so unlike Canadians.
They do not take their policemen seriously.
They come to Montreal to drink.
Not to criticize.
They claim they won the war.
But they know at heart that they didn't.
They have such respect for Englishmen.
They like to live abroad.
They do not brag about how they take baths.
But they take them.
Their teeth are so good.
And they wear B.V.D.'s all the year round.
I wish they didn't brag about it.
They have the second best navy in the world.
But they never mention it.
They would like to have Henry Ford for president.
But they will not elect him.
They saw through Bill Bryan.
They have gotten tired of Billy Sunday.
Their men have such funny hair cuts.
They are hard to suck in on Europe.
They have been there once.
They produced Barney Google, Mutt and Jeff.
And Jiggs.
They do not hang lady murderers.
They put them in vaudeville.
They read the Saturday Evening Post
And believe in Santa Claus.
When they make money
They make a lot of money.
They are fine people.