This Hemingway novel was selected as a community read which seemed like a good idea as the man was living in Key West at the time and the story is set partially in the city. Suddenly it became a little difficult to find a copy, which my wife picked up at the College library. 
Indeed, some visitors to the Southernmost City prepare themselves for the experience by reading this novel. Good luck with that, because the picture painted of Key West is not at all recognizable as the city of today. I am no great fan of the famously sparse Hemingway style of writing, and descriptions are not overly forthcoming in the narrative, but I found the opening chapters of this book to be captivating. It has been said that Hemingway, when he wrote the first half of the novel was projecting his own love of adventure (and fishing!) onto his character Harry Morgan, and perhaps that interest and envy gives the book it's opening vitality. I read the Cuban chapters with avid interest. Then the story moved to Key West and, as predicted by the author himself as well as his critics the story loses it's way.
Given that I'm not a fan of short terse sentences and the general lack of ambient descriptions I advise caution in choosing to accept my criticisms as valid, but the downgrading of the second half of the novel is pretty much universal. The force and strength of the story gets lost in meandering descriptions of the Haves, people with money wintering in Key West Bight on their yachts, and the people thus described are startlingly close to people one might find today in similar situations. However their tedium is no match for the smuggling and lawlessness of Harry Morgan's adventures and one longs to find the conclusion to the story of Morgan's search for the big payoff.
They do like to describe Morgan as "a good man" a judgement I find I cannot validate- he is cruel harsh and unrelentingly vicious to those around him. That his story ends in catastrophe leaves this reader fairly indifferent, quite frankly and all I could say was, "Well, there goes one less asshole."
Indeed, some visitors to the Southernmost City prepare themselves for the experience by reading this novel. Good luck with that, because the picture painted of Key West is not at all recognizable as the city of today. I am no great fan of the famously sparse Hemingway style of writing, and descriptions are not overly forthcoming in the narrative, but I found the opening chapters of this book to be captivating. It has been said that Hemingway, when he wrote the first half of the novel was projecting his own love of adventure (and fishing!) onto his character Harry Morgan, and perhaps that interest and envy gives the book it's opening vitality. I read the Cuban chapters with avid interest. Then the story moved to Key West and, as predicted by the author himself as well as his critics the story loses it's way.
Given that I'm not a fan of short terse sentences and the general lack of ambient descriptions I advise caution in choosing to accept my criticisms as valid, but the downgrading of the second half of the novel is pretty much universal. The force and strength of the story gets lost in meandering descriptions of the Haves, people with money wintering in Key West Bight on their yachts, and the people thus described are startlingly close to people one might find today in similar situations. However their tedium is no match for the smuggling and lawlessness of Harry Morgan's adventures and one longs to find the conclusion to the story of Morgan's search for the big payoff.They do like to describe Morgan as "a good man" a judgement I find I cannot validate- he is cruel harsh and unrelentingly vicious to those around him. That his story ends in catastrophe leaves this reader fairly indifferent, quite frankly and all I could say was, "Well, there goes one less asshole." The novel suffers to some degree by comparison with the star power of the 1944 film of the same name and vaguely related story. In fact the film version, set in World War Two Martinique holds together much better with a strong storyline and well rounded character studies. In fact while reading the novel I couldn't help but think of that other well knowN movie shot in Key West (set elsewhere) called The Rose Tattoo. Perhaps Key West in the Great Depression was Key West in it's heyday and it's been downhill ever since. On the other hand Hemingway makes no bones about the hunger and pride and fear that permeated the island during those depressed years so perhaps romance and reality are as far apart as ever.
To Have And To Have Not, for all it's flaws is a fast and easy read and taken in it's several disjointed pieces is a worthwhile portrait, lightly sketched of two places and several people who have some worthwhile portions of themselves to pass along to future readers.
The dog might not be cool but she was seeking refrigeration after a short walk in the sun.
I had an appointment so I parked the kennel and took a middle of Old Town stroll. I enjoy the area around Fleming and Southard between White and Simonton because there is always something to see. This illustrates why hitches are quick release. Mine rides in the trunk of the kennel and doesn't trip people up or extend my car into the next parking spot. 
Southard Street and I figured I could work my way through on foot.
After I gave a couple of tourists directions to a likely lunch spot or two I came across this. I would guess, thanks to the color of the tail that it's a yellow tail snapper. However because anglers are so difficult it's probably a lesser spotter drum wrasse juvenile. Or some such inexplicable string of words.
What happened to the head is a question that raises all kinds of unpleasant speculation. And why it ended up on the sidewalk...?
Actually the sidewalk was closed by the digging and the side street, I think it was William, was closed. We turned back. I saw this pretty little porch arrangement which put me in mind of southern gentility. 
Bring me a mint julep. I prefer rum, so make it a Mojito on a doily. Look at this classic conch porch. Tennessee Williams ain't in it.
This one is pretty classic, but imagine the fortitude of people who live in a house propped up by struts!
How in the name of all that's holy did this get here?
I walked past the former Haitian Art Gallery, now on Truman Avenue, and I looked inside the new gallery and it looked lovely.
Mangroves are cool enough to paint so all I can do is take their picture. This man adjusting his velo is part of the housing agglomeration I like to call Quebec Ville Sud that huddles around Rest beach in winter. I no longer envy them as we too have almost, sort of, universal health insurance, similar to those northern latitude socialistes!
But in Canada, land of niceness they don't have suave hostelries like Eden House. You need to visit Key West and spend tourist dollars here to see this classic hang out.
Chuck is a smart guy and is working on some clever alternative energy ideas about which we nattered. It was a very pleasant interlude. 
I hope he succeeds because when I talk to engineers like Chuck I actually feel a stirring of hope that things may well get better one day. The fact that he rides a motorcycle is a bonus. I used to ride a Stella until it blew up a few weeks after I got it home. I saw this lovely vintage red for sale at the Yamaha shop which is doing a land sale business selling Genuine Buddys. I expect some optimist special-ordered the Stella all the way from India. I hope they have better quality control these days. My wife got agitated when I told her how lovely it looked. "Not to me!" she said, remembering the misery of the broken oil pump, seized engine and the fight to get it fixed. It had all of 2,800 miles on the clock when my $4,000 Stella 150 blew up. Not one of my better investments!
I don't know what happened or why but please note the two wheeler comes off second best in every case. Here on the Cow Key Bridge northbound. This also held me back from my appointment so perhaps Chuck's intelligent conversation wasn't to blame for my tardiness.
Adult Ed is weird. We revert to childhood mannerisms at the drop of a hat. Look at this granddad, like me raised in a more polite educational era. Please, teacher!
It was a long afternoon in town and lucky for Cheyenne I carry food, cookies and water in the kennel for use in emergencies: 
And by the time we finally got home after dinner with friends in town, there was but one thing left to do: 
Sleep, tired nature's sweet restorer, as the poet puts it.
It's all about nostalgia methinks, an emotion I am learning to come to terms with after half a century on Earth. 
My pleasure in motorcycles never translated into a desire for cars, perhaps because as a yout' I never drove much. Even I have heard, vaguely, of Dyna flow automatic transmissions. Haven't I?
A gathering of cars is a good place to make a political point. Perhaps it really is time we killed federal subsidies to Kansas corn farmers?
Let us speculate wildly what club members are talking about.
Police officers are just like you and me when off duty. You thought they spent time handcuffing each other for the fun of the thing eh?
Drooling in public is entirely appropriate in these kinds of gathering. Back to La Habana for a moment of 1950s (I think) nostalgia.
Register, sign in, be clubby.
