No offense to my older sister, but I didn’t grow up having to experience the sort of pressure that comes from living in the shadow of greatness, or trying to live up to someone else’s legacy. I imagine it’d get pretty annoying at some point.
I imagine being a descendant of Ernest Hemingway must be like that–only multiplied by a zillion and three. Of course, there was more to Hemingway than being a celebrated writer–much more–so you can probably add in an exponent of some kind.
Last night, listening to the grandson and great-granddaughter of the great author, it sort of felt surreal. Because yeah, knowing even a little about Hemingway’s life, one can deduce that his relatives probably spent at least a bit of time trying to understand him a bit more. But to see these people in front of you who have this legacy to live up to, and yet have tried, for the most part (from what I could tell in the 47 minutes they sat there talking), to separate their real lives from the legend…it felt like something you’d read about in a book.
Maybe in a Hemingway novel.