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The Paris Wife Deluxe Edition (English Edition) [Format Kindle]

Paula McLain
4.0 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (4 commentaires client)

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The very first thing he does is fix me with those wonderfully brown eyes and say, "It's possible I'm too drunk to judge, but you might have something there."

It's October 1920 and jazz is everywhere. I don't know any jazz, so I'm playing Rachmaninoff. I can feel a flush beginning in my cheeks from the hard cider my dear pal Kate Smith has stuffed down me so I'll relax. I'm getting there, second by second. It starts in my fingers, warm and loose, and moves along my nerves, rounding through me. I haven't been drunk in over a year--not since my mother fell seriously ill--and I've missed the way it comes with its own perfect glove of fog, settling snugly and beautifully over my brain. I don't want to think and I don't want to feel, either, unless it's as simple as this beautiful boy's knee inches from mine.

The knee is nearly enough on its own, but there's a whole package of a man attached, tall and lean, with a lot of very dark hair and a dimple in his left cheek you could fall into. His friends call him Hemingstein, Oinbones, Bird, Nesto, Wemedge, anything they can dream up on the spot. He calls Kate Stut or Butstein (not very flattering!), and another fellow Little Fever, and yet another Horney or the Great Horned Article. He seems to know everyone, and everyone seems to know the same jokes and stories. They telegraph punch lines back and forth in code, lightning fast and wisecracking. I can't keep up, but I don't mind really. Being near these happy strangers is like a powerful transfusion of good cheer.

When Kate wanders over from the vicinity of the kitchen, he points his perfect chin at me and says, "What should we name our new friend?"

"Hash," Kate says.

"Hashedad's better," he says. "Hasovitch."

"And you're Bird?" I ask.

"Wem," Kate says.

"I'm the fellow who thinks someone should be dancing." He smiles with everything he's got, and in very short order, Kate's brother Kenley has kicked the living room carpet to one side and is manning the Victrola. We throw ourselves into it, dancing our way through a stack of records. He's not a natural, but his arms and legs are free in their joints, and I can tell that he likes being in his body. He's not the least shy about moving in on me either. In no time at all our hands are damp and clenched, our cheeks close enough that I can feel the very real heat of him. And that's when he finally tells me his name is Ernest.

"I'm thinking of giving it away, though. Ernest is so dull, and Hemingway? Who wants a Hemingway?"

Probably every girl between here and Michigan Avenue, I think, looking at my feet to keep from blushing. When I look up again, he has his brown eyes locked on me.

"Well? What do you think? Should I toss it out?"

"Maybe not just yet. You never know. A name like that could catch on, and where would you be if you'd ditched it?"

"Good point. I'll take it under consideration."

A slow number starts, and without asking, he reaches for my waist and scoops me toward his body, which is even better up close. His chest is solid and so are his arms. I rest my hands on them lightly as he backs me around the room, past Kenley cranking the Victrola with glee, past Kate giving us a long, curious look. I close my eyes and lean into Ernest, smelling bourbon and soap, tobacco and damp cotton--and everything about this moment is so sharp and lovely, I do something completely out of character and just let myself have it.


There's a song from that time by Nora Bayes called "Make Believe," which might have been the most lilting and persuasive treatise on self-delusion I'd ever heard. Nora Bayes was beautiful, and she sang with a trembling voice that told you she knew things about love. When she advised you to throw off all the old pain and worry and heartache and smile--well, you believed she'd done this herself. It wasn't a suggestion but a prescription. The song must have been a favorite of Kenley's, too. He played it three times the night I arrived in Chicago, and each time I felt it speaking directly to me: Make believe you are glad when you're sorry. Sunshine will follow the rain.

I'd had my share of rain. My mother's illness and death had weighed on me, but the years before had been heavy, too. I was only twenty-eight, and yet I'd been living like a spinster on the second floor of my older sister Fonnie's house while she and her husband Roland and their four dear beasts lived downstairs. I hadn't meant for things to stay this way. I assumed I'd get married or find a career like my school friends. They were harried young mothers now, schoolteachers or secretaries or aspiring ad writers, like Kate. Whatever they were, they were living their lives, out there doing it, making their mistakes. Somehow I'd gotten stuck along the way--long before my mother's illness--and I didn't know how to free myself exactly.

Sometimes, after playing an hour of passable Chopin, I'd lie down on the carpet in front of the piano and stare at the ceiling, feeling whatever energy I'd had while playing leave my body. It was terrible to feel so empty, as if I were nothing. Why couldn't I be happy? And just what was happiness anyway? Could you fake it, as Nora Bayes insisted? Could you force it like a spring bulb in your kitchen, or rub up against it at a party in Chicago and catch it like a cold?

Ernest Hemingway was still very much a stranger to me, but he seemed to do happiness all the way up and through. There wasn't any fear in him that I could see, just intensity and aliveness. His eyes sparked all over everything, all over me as he leaned back on his heel and spun me toward him. He tucked me fast against his chest, his breath warm on my neck and hair.

"How long have you known Stut?" he asked.

"We went to grade school together in St. Louis, at Mary Institute. What about you?"

"You want my whole educational pedigree? It's not much."

"No," I laughed. "Tell me about Kate."

"That would fill a book, and I'm not sure I'm the fellow to write it." His voice was light, still teasing, but he'd stopped smiling.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing," he said. "The short and sweet part is our families both have summer cottages in Horton Bay. That's Michigan to a southerner like you."

"Funny that we both grew up with Kate."

"I was ten to her eighteen. Let's just say I was happy to grow up alongside her. With a nice view of the scenery."

"You had a crush, in other words."

"No, those are the right words," he said, then looked away.

I'd obviously touched some kind of nerve in him, and I didn't want to do it again. I liked him smiling and laughing and loose. In fact, my response to him was so powerful that I already knew I would do a lot to keep him happy. I changed the subject fast.

"Are you from Chicago?"

"Oak Park. That's right up the street."

"For a southerner like me."


"Well, you're a bang-up dancer, Oak Park."

"You too, St. Louis."

The song ended and we parted to catch our breath. I moved to one side of Kenley's long living room while Ernest was quickly swallowed up by admirers--women, naturally. They seemed awfully young and sure of themselves with their bobbed hair and brightly rouged cheeks. I was closer to a Victorian holdout than a flapper. My hair was still long, knotted at the nape of my neck, but it was a good rich auburn color, and though my dress wasn't up to the minute, my figure made up for that, I thought. In fact, I'd been feeling very good about the way I looked the whole time Ernest and I were dancing--he was so appreciative with those eyes!--but now that he was surrounded by vivacious women, my confidence was waning.

"You seemed awfully friendly with Nesto," Kate said, appearing at my elbow.

"Maybe. Can I have the rest of that?" I pointed to her drink.

"It's rather volcanic." She grimaced and passed it over.

"What is it?" I put my face to the rim of the glass, which was close enough. It smelled like rancid gasoline.

"Something homemade. Little Fever handed it to me in the kitchen. I'm not sure he didn't cook it up in his shoe."

Over against a long row of windows, Ernest began parading back and forth in a dark blue military cape someone had dug up. When he turned, the cape lifted and flared dramatically.

"That's quite a costume," I said.

"He's a war hero, didn't he tell you?"

I shook my head.

"I'm sure he'll get to it eventually." Her face didn't give anything away, but her voice had an edge.

"He told me he used to pine for you."

"Really?" There was the tone again. "He's clearly over it now."

I didn't know what had come between these two old friends, but whatever it was, it was obviously complicated and well under wraps. I let it drop.

"I like to think I'm the kind of girl who'll drink anything," I said, "but maybe not from a shoe."

"Right. Let's hunt something up." She smiled and flashed her green eyes at me, and became my Kate again, not grim at all, and off we went to get very drunk and very merry.

I found myself watching for Ernest the rest of the night, waiting for him to appear and stir things up, but he didn't. He must have slipped away at some point. One by one nearly everyone did, so that by 3:00 a.m. the party had been reduced to dregs, with Little Fever as the tragic centerpiece. He was passed out on the davenport with long dark wool socks stretched over his face and his hat perched on his crossed feet.

"To bed, to bed," Kate said with a yawn.

"Is that Shakespeare?"

"I don't know. Is it?" She hiccuped, and then laughed. "I'm off to my own little hovel now. Will you be all right here?"

"Of course. Kenley's made up a lovely room for me." I walked her to the door, and as she sidled into her coat, we made a date for lunch the next day.

"You'll have to tell me all about things at home. We haven't had a moment to talk about your mother. It must have been awful for you, poor creatch."

"Talking about it will only make me sad again," I said. "But this is perfect. Thanks for begging me to come."

"I worried you wouldn't."

"Me too. Fonnie said it was too soon."

"Yes, well, she would say that. Your sister can be smart about some things, Hash, but about you, nearly never."

I gave her a grateful smile and said good night. Kenley's apartment was warrenlike and full of boarders, but he'd given me a large and very clean room, with a four-poster bed and a bureau. I changed into my nightdress then took down my hair and brushed it, sorting through the highlights of the evening. No matter how much fun I'd had with Kate or how good it was to see her after all these years, I had to admit that number one on my list of memorable events was dancing with Ernest Hemingway. I could still feel his brown eyes and his electric, electrifying energy--but what had his attentions meant? Was he babysitting me, as Kate's old friend? Was he still gone on Kate? Was she in love with him? Would I even see him again?

My mind was suddenly such a hive of unanswerable questions that I had to smile at myself. Wasn't this exactly what I had wanted coming to Chicago, something new to think about? I turned to face the mirror over the bureau. Hadley Richardson was still there, with her auburn waves and thin lips and pale round eyes--but there was something new, too, a glimmer of potential. It was just possible the sun was on its way. In the meantime, I would hum Nora Bayes and do my damnedest to make believe.


The next morning, I walked into the kitchen to find Ernest leaning lazily against the refrigerator, reading the morning newspaper and devouring half a loaf of bread.

"Did you sleep here?" I asked, unable to mask my surprise at seeing him.

"I'm boarding here. Just for a while, until things take off for me."

"What do you mean to do?"

"Make literary history, I guess."

"Gee," I said, impressed all over again by his confidence and conviction. You couldn't fake that. "What are you working on now?"

He pulled a face. "Now I'm writing trash copy for Firestone tires, but I mean to write important stories or a novel. Maybe a book of poetry."

That threw me. "I thought poets were quiet and shrinking and afraid of sunlight," I said, sitting down.

"Not this one." He came over to join me at the table, turning his chair around to straddle it. "Who's your favorite writer?"

"Henry James, I suppose. I seem to read him over and over."

"Well, aren't you sweetly square?"

"Am I? Who's your favorite writer?"

"Ernest Hemingway." He grinned. "Anyway, there're lots of famous writers in Chicago. Kenley knows Sherwood Anderson. Heard of him?"

"Sure. He wrote Winesburg, Ohio."

"That's the one."

"Well, with your nerve, you can probably do anything at all."

He looked at me seriously, as if he were trying to gauge whether I was teasing or placating him. I wasn't. "How do you take your coffee, Hasovitch?" he finally said.

"Hot," I said, and he grinned his grin, elastic and devastating.

When Kate arrived for our lunch date, Ernest and I were still in the kitchen talking away. I hadn't yet changed out of my dressing gown, and there she was sharp and fresh in a red wool hat and coat.

"I'm sorry," I said, "I won't be a minute."

"Take your time, you deserve a little indolence," she said, but seemed impatient with me just the same.

I went off to dress, and when I came back, Kate was alone in the room.

"Where did Nesto run off to?"

"I haven't the faintest," Kate said. And then, because she clearly read disappointment in my face, "Should I have invited him along?"

"Don't be silly. This is our day."

Revue de presse

Advance praise for Paula McLain:
"The Paris Wife is mesmerizing. Hadley Hemingway's voice, lean and lyrical, kept me in my seat, unable to take my eyes and ears away from these young lovers. Paula McLain is a first-rate writer who creates a world you don't want to leave. I loved this book."
— Nancy Horan, bestselling author of Loving Frank

Détails sur le produit

  • Format : Format Kindle
  • Taille du fichier : 3573 KB
  • Nombre de pages de l'édition imprimée : 401 pages
  • Pagination - ISBN de l'édition imprimée de référence : B004ZIFSOQ
  • Editeur : Virago (29 novembre 2012)
  • Vendu par : Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ASIN: B00A7C9DNG
  • Synthèse vocale : Activée
  • X-Ray :
  • Word Wise: Activé
  • Composition améliorée: Non activé
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 4.0 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (4 commentaires client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: n°131.660 dans la Boutique Kindle (Voir le Top 100 dans la Boutique Kindle)
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1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
3.0 étoiles sur 5 Hemingway, au début. 15 mai 2012
Un roman relativement court pour relater un épisode court de la vie d'Hemingway, son premier mariage qui dure cinq ans. C'est avec une écriture fluide que Paula McLain nous raconte la rencontre d'Hem et de Hadley, provinciale musicienne pleine de santé et de bon sens qui est vite fascinée par l'intensité du jeune Ernest. Lui revient de la première guerre mondiale où il a été blessé et il est déjà persuadé qu'il écrira de grandes choses, il doute un peu, mais il sait de façon presque viscérale qu'il est écrivain et rien d'autre. Très peu de temps après leur mariage, les amoureux s'en vont à Paris, car Ernest décrète qu'il ne peut écrire que loin des Etats Unis. C'est d'ailleurs à Paris que se trouvent tous ceux qui comptent alors où qui compteront dans la littérature américaine : Sherwood Anderson, Ezra Pound, Scott Fitzgerald, et puis aussi Gertrude Stein, et c'est eux qu'Ernest et Hadley fréquentent à Paris, en Espagne, en Autriche, sur la côte, pendant l'élaboration de son premier roman `Le Soleil Se Lève Aussi'...
Le livre de Paula McLain est bien documenté, intéressant car il nous donne un aperçu de la personnalité du jeune Hemingway et de la façon dont il a débuté dans ce Paris des années 20 imbibé d'alcool et de la fumée de ces cafés où le couple passait toutes ses soirées. En revanche, l'histoire du mariage est plus banale, plus attendue. Il s'agit là d'un roman plus intéressant par son côté documentaire que par ses qualités littéraires, mais avec lequel on passe un bon moment.
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1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
3.0 étoiles sur 5 Hemingway: a bully 23 avril 2012
Par Pam Well
Format:Broché|Achat vérifié
Of course talking about somebody's wife you end up talking just as much about that somebody, here Hemingway. I didn't like him before and much less after reading this book. The "wife" is a bit dull which doesn't help.
In fact the only thing I liked about the book was that it recreates quite well the drunken and antagonistic intellectual atmosphere of the 20's in Paris dominated by American writers, Spanish painters...
But I much preferred the way it was treated in Woody Allen's last film "Midnight in Paris".
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5.0 étoiles sur 5 Another love 31 mars 2013
Par Janet B.
Format:Format Kindle
I read this book fairly swiftly after reading A moveable feast so it all felt in context and from two different perspectives. After the first few chapters it is really a sad book about a strong women who loved a man who could never give himself to her or anyone else for long.
The book gives again a great picture of life in Paris in the twenties for the great writers and artists but it also skims over the despair of poverty in the same way that Hemingway did. Maybe that was part of the time, and we in our modern wrappings feel it looked worse than it was.
A thoroughly enjoyable read.
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5.0 étoiles sur 5 A must read! 4 juin 2015
Par Vanessa
Format:Format Kindle|Achat vérifié
Fiction or not, romanced or not, this book is just brilliant! A very interesting insight in Hemingway's life... I really enjoyed the book !
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Amazon.com: 4.2 étoiles sur 5  2.386 commentaires
1.127 internautes sur 1.159 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 "Papa" was a rolling stone 4 février 2011
Par "switterbug" Betsey Van Horn - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Relié|Commentaire client Vine pour produit gratuit (De quoi s'agit-il?)
At the end of Ernest Hemingway's memoir, A Moveable Feast , he writes of his first wife, Hadley Richardson, "I wish I had died before I loved anyone but her." After their divorce, Hemingway marries three more times, each one prompt to follow, like serial wives. This is the story of the woman that loved him before he was famous.

Paula McLain researched their biographies, letters, and Hemingway's novels, culling the material to imagine a story of their charmed and battered marriage in Paris, from 1921-1926. The tortured life and tragically foreshadowed suicide of Ernest Hemingway is public knowledge, as was his legendary womanizing. McLain's novel dodges the palaver, blending the facts that are known together with credible inference, creating a plausible, informed depiction of Hemingway and Hadley's marriage--the quotidian, the famed, the halcyon, the harsh.

The author writes from Hadley's point of view, inviting the reader inside their most tender and demolishing moments. A few choice sections belong to Hemingway's perspective, urgent and telling. The narrative deftly folds in their histories--the years before they met--artfully revealing early and private woes, which ripple and sometimes hiss beneath the ardor. We get the back stories without muddled exposition; by the time it arrives at the failure of their union, readers have acquired a fluency of Hadley's nature and Hemingway's core.

Hadley sustained several painful childhood experiences that eerily parallel Hemingway's, and was a recluse and "spinster" at twenty-eight, when she met and was courted by the twenty-one-year-old Hemingway. He was a struggling, ambitious writer, home after the shock and agonies of the Great War, where he endured trauma and its aftereffects, described today as PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder). He couldn't sleep without a light. His mother was an insufferable controller, and he didn't want to marry a woman like that.

The pliable and less progressive Hadley was a sound match for the needy, talented, and egocentric Ernest. He required a woman who would unshakably support his career. Hadley was a generous lover and devoted supporter who sacrificed her personal ambitions for Ernest. She was also playful and warm and smart, but not savvy and edgy like the emerging modern women of the 1920's.

In prose that reflects the style of the era, McLain illustrates a glittering world of élan expatriates and literati. Hadley and Ernest (and their baby, Bumby) lived in the (then) modest Latin Quarter, and soon became a vibrant part of the Left Bank artists, such as Gertrude Stein, Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound, James Joyce, Ford Maddox Ford, Jean Rhys, and many others. Open marriage, and mistresses living in the same house with wives, were not unheard of in this set.

Blithe talk, bottomless glasses of whiskey, and bottle after bottle of wine was the norm in their active social lives. In the mornings, the hair of the dog was the cure for the night on the town. Jaunts to Pamplona to see the bullfights were illustrated by McClain in all their gory splendor.

During this time, Hemingway wrote copiously and tirelessly, jealous of some of his peers who were already established. The germination and completion of The Sun Also Rises is covered, as well as his ruthless parody of Sherwood Anderson's work, The TORRENTS OF SPRING. Hadley loved him utterly, propped him up buoyantly, and assured him of his inevitable success. Eventually, Ernest acquired more expansive needs, and Hadley needed less, but got more than she bargained for. McClain limns their marriage as more than just a cautionary tale.

"To keep you from thinking, there was liquor, an ocean's worth at least, all the usual vices and plenty of rope to hang yourself with. But some of us, a very few in the end, bet on marriage against the odds."

This isn't standard "chick-lit" fare, nor is it cloying. I recommend this to anyone interested in the psyche of Hemingway, his first marriage, and his genesis as one of the greatest American authors of our time--from a wife's perspective.
204 internautes sur 213 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 It's a winner 19 février 2011
Par Rushmore - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Relié|Commentaire client Vine pour produit gratuit (De quoi s'agit-il?)
I had the most curious reaction to this book. About 3/4 of the way through I had decided I would give it 4 stars, and I wasn't happy about it. Although it felt very authentic, the prose didn't sing, and I thought I knew why. Hadley Richardson Hemingway simply didn't have a dynamic personality. The story as told mostly through her voice contained lots of detail but Hadley felt more like an observer than a player much of the time. Then when Ernest strayed, the game changed. Hadley showed her considerable inner strength and I felt her heart breaking. She let down her guard enough to show that she was in fact a remarkable woman, and this is a remarkable book.

Paula McLain has clearly read lots of Hemingway. The writing style is Hemingwayesque. It feels right for this story and for Hadley's voice because she was so much more reserved than the others in their circle. In the end, McLain quite neatly analyzes Ernest and the marriage, and the book is so readable. Although it is fiction, I don't doubt that it really could have happened this way. The book is obviously thoroughly researched. Historic fiction is so tricky, and I think it fails more often than it succeeds. This is by far the best historic novel I have ever read. I don't want to spoil the delights in these pages, but I will share a highlight for me. When Hemingway and Fitzgerald were editing The Sum Also Rises at the kitchen table, Hadley compared them to surgeons. At that point I think she realized that Ernest's greatness as a writer would surmount his failings as a husband and a human being. I thought it was a fabulous moment.

I really think this book is a triumph. The subject matter definitely piqued my interest, the writing was flawless, and I wish there could be a sequel.
363 internautes sur 389 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 An Intriguing, Engrossing Read. 11 février 2011
Par Gayla M. Collins - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Relié|Commentaire client Vine pour produit gratuit (De quoi s'agit-il?)
Ernest Hemingway, 21, marries Hadley Richardson eight years his senior and promptly moves with her to Paris to be among the upstarts, the in crowd, the expatriates that worshipped Paris as their city of creativity. Ezra Pound, Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald not to mention famous actors, musicians and painters were their companions though they often lived hand to mouth. Content to live in Ernest's shadow, providing him with much needed stability and a shoulder, Hadley embraces his love of of the outdoors, spontaneous moves to various Euorpean locals, bull fighting, horse racing and for a time, drinking. But soon the lure and glamour began to fade. The eccentricities of open marriages, mistresses and provocative lifestyles leaves Hadley at loss especially after the birth of their son. Hemingway's constant moodiness, carousing, heavy drinking, lack of decorum and superior attitude begin to unravel his wife's resolve. His resentment of her few friendships also speak to his possessiveness and selfish nature. When "fame" arrives it shatters all handrails that Hadley has clung to. The intense love she feels for Ernest drives her to fight for their marriage and for Ernest's life, but to what avail?

I adored the book, "Loving Frank" by Nancy Horner all about Frank Lloyd Wright and his mistress; it as well as "The Paris Wife," demonstrate the incredible sacrifices a companion must make to cajole an artist's tender ego. Not surprisingly I see Nancy Horan endorsed this book and rightfully she should. The writing is so beautifully strong as it exposes lifestyles of creative geniuses. Paula MClain does an amazing job of keeping the reader glued to the perils of this complex couple. Homage is paid to many parts of Europe and sent me to the computer to look at the sites the Hemingway's enjoyed. When a book fires your curiosity you know you have found a treasure.

Though a fictionalized account, the author did extensive research and to my mind didn't make any major mistakes in her accuracy. The tale is riveting because of her ability to breath life into all the major players.

Great novel that I highly endorse.
523 internautes sur 575 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
3.0 étoiles sur 5 Hemingway fans will pass. 22 février 2011
Par Alayne - Publié sur Amazon.com
I didn't know much about Ernest Hemingway or his wives before I started The Paris Wife by Paula McLain. This is the story of his first wife, Hadley; a story of how they met, the depth of their love, and how it came to wither away. Set mainly in Paris during prohibition, McLain paints us a picture of two newlyweds on the cusp of greatness. Perched to seize the world by storm, Hadley and Ernest rock on the edge of several lives: that of the happily married couple, that of the poor writer trying to make a living, and that of disaster brought on by depression and angst.

The positive aspect of Paula McLain's writing is that I forgot this book was about Hemingway's first wife. Meaning I was able to sink into Hadley's mind and Ernest's love and then feel emotional heartbreak as their marriage fell apart. The dialogue for the time period is authentic; quick, sharp, witty and sassy. We are very much inside Hadley's mind and our emotional connection with her is strong, we feel her passions and pains, her desires and needs. We support her entirely. But I also grew sick of her simpering passiveness, waiting for something to happen as she struggles to find her role in Ernest's life. Upon discovering this annoyance half-way through the novel, I was pulled out of it entirely. It made me question how much of what I was reading was actually fact. Was this really how Hem's first wife felt? Was he really this big of an ass?

Beneath my questions of the authenticity of Hadley is Ernest himself, and his pain and waywardness is what drives the story, as it drove their life together. As much as I grew to dislike him, and even Hadley at times, their story is tragically beautiful; so even though there were moments when I felt a lackluster performance from McLain's writing, the story of these two lovers carried me through to the end, like a good love story should.

Fans of historical fiction will enjoy Hadley's story, but Hemingway fans will bypass The Paris Wife in favor of his memoir, which I plan to read now that I know a bit more about the tragedy and triumph of this man, and his wife.
46 internautes sur 49 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Hadley and Hemingway 7 mars 2011
Par Terri Rice - Publié sur Amazon.com
Ernest Hemingway was a jerk and he had a wife who loved him. Older by about seven years, Hadley, Hemingway's first wife, married him when he was only a promise of a writer. But she believed in him. She encouraged him through his insecurities about his skill, how he matched up to other writers of the time, and through his fears about life. It is the sad story of Hadley's deep love and devotion to a man with whom she fell in love long before there was hope of The Old Man and the Sea, or The Sun Also Rises.

Ernest and Hadley strive to live an honest, if even at times painfully honest, life together. Hadley doesn't shy away from the knowledge that Hemingway loved deeply before she came along, and sadly, continued loving him even after their divorce and his remarriage to wife number two, Pauline.

Soon into the marriage, Hadley is shocked at herself for how much she absolutely depends on Hemingway. She hates the weakness and determines to appear strong even if she can't be entirely strong. Hemingway's life with Hadley seems so right and then he goes and spoils it all.

Moving to Paris, instead of the originally intended Italy, gives the Hemingways access to some of the most interesting parlors of the day: Gertrude Stein, Ezra Pound. Bad company seems to corrupt, their association with all the free love artists and writers has its effect.

If you are at all acquainted with Ernest Hemingway's life, you know this is not his only marriage, you know he commits suicide, and you know he becomes a very great writer. But, Paula McLain does such an excellent job of getting inside the head of Hadley that you find yourself hoping that history might rewrite itself as you read. Alas.

Paula McLain is herself such an excellent writer that it was pure pleasure to read of Hemingway's journey to being a great writer through McLain's words.
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