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.
“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.”
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.
^
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