We can think more and better, or worse or even, perhaps, differently, if not a bit sadly today about Ernest Hemingway.
If we think of him at all.
It was on this day in 1961 that Hemingway committed suicide in Ketchum, Idaho.
Joseph O’Neill does not like pickles on his burgers. Or onions. He is indifferent to the choice of beverages, but his ears prick when lemonade is spotted. He notes the happy accompaniment of fries with the burger, popping the slender brown ribbons into his mouth between sentences. All in all, it is a pleasure to have lunch with Joseph O’Neill.