I am Atoned with Earnest Hemingway

What killed Earnest Hemingway was getting old and not being able to keep up with the bumpf. He shot himself in the head after being nattered to death with no help as an old man who had led a very spacious and brave life in Africa, Cuba, Europe, and the Far East. Life just got really petty, small and absurd. Hemingway said “This is not for me”, having lived a large, glorious, brave, and noble life. Hemingway was like a knight. He jousted with lions and elephants. He raised his kids. He wrote wondrous books — including Death in the Afternoon, about the culture a matadors in Spain. A great life led to a very sad end. Hemingway was not ready for the tiny-fi-ation of his life. He preferred to end it when he saw that ensmallification coming. He did not want his life to end under absurd conditions. He was a great-souled man of bravery. Megalopsychea in Greek. It would be like asking Odysseus or Achilles to stay in his room in a nursing home and like hectoring him if he did not. I know what was in Hemingway’s head. I feel his pain. His anguish. His sense of tragic absurdity. Shakespeare does not provide an apt example of tragic absurdity. He shows us absurd comedy, and fatal tragedy. No absurd tragedy. No Macbeth slipping on a banana peel and stabbing himself in the ass. No King Lear, falling into a ditch and being pissed on by a horse. I am Earnest. I know how he felt. I get his point.