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Understanding “The Lost Generation” of Authors

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In the annals of the writing world, there is a legendary group of artists who came from post-war America to transform the written word. These artists were known as The Lost Generation. In the time between World War I and World War II, these artists existed in various states, but many of them congregated at a house in France to share ideas. These individuals were responsible for creating the modernist movement. Their art continues to inspire authors, painters, and poets to this day. In this post, we examine the modernist movement.

Background of the Lost Generation

The Lost Generation came out of the horrors of World War I. There, many of the writers and painters who would make this generation work in their favor found themselves fighting senseless, violent battles. Likewise, those who hadn’t fought, were fed into the zeitgeist of the times–consumerisms and modernity. Then, they were lost in the streets of Europe thereafter. As such, the artists from this generation were cynical and disillusioned with the country. The promises of heroism and nationalism turned sour when looking at the realities of warfare and changing times.

These artists were lost because they felt that their “values were no longer relevant in the postwar world.” They also experienced “spiritual alienation” from the Warren G. Harding administration post-WWI.

Characteristics of The Lost Generation

The key elements of the Lost Generation include alienation from society. That is to say, the society at large did not understand what the Lost Generation understood. The morals of the world were imperfect, and there existed a sense that America’s imperfections were far too noticeable. Many of these artists moved to Europe as expatriates. The superficial nature of American life also played a role in the Lost Generation. This included the materialism of buying and consumerism as a whole. The US at this point was in the Roaring ’20s. During this time, the country was in an economic boom.

In F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, the author discusses two of the characters just as he would about people living in the Lost Generation.

Fitzgerald writes that Tom and Daisy were “careless people,” because “they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness …” What Fitzgerald means is that the carelessness of the Lost Generation was there and apparent. They were lost, dangerous and living on the edge of society.

Lost Generation Artists

  • Ernest Hemingway – The Sun Also Rises (1926)
  • F. Scott Fitzgerald – The Great Gatsby (1925)
  • Gertrude Stein – Three Lives (1909)
  • T. S. Eliot – The Waste Land (1922)
  • E. E. Cummings – The Enormous Room (1922)
  • Erich Maria Remarque – All Quiet on the Western Front (1929)

Conclusion

The Lost Generation is an exciting and interesting group of artists. While they fell off their particular themes later in life, they found themselves in the US during a time of prosperity and changing norms. In this way, their own values contradicted what was being forced upon them. A return to normalcy in presidential terms caused blowback and vitriol from these authors. Many of their lives were filled with drinking, adventuring, and seeking an answer to where they belonged.

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“Hills Like White Elephants” by Ernest Hemingway

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In “Hills Like White Elephants,” Ernest Hemingway demonstrates how setting can fully impact a story’s narrative, symbolism, and theme. In the story, an American man and a Spanish woman have a discussion before he departs for Madrid. Hemingway published this story in his short-story collection Men Without Women in 1927.

Ernest Hemingway was a modernist writer and extremely popular and influential in his time and afterward. Moreover, his writings have spanned short stories to novels and feature many themes. Across many volumes and many texts, Hemingway proved that his modernist approach spoke volumes to readers across the world. Short-story collections like In Our Time spoke to the horrors of war compared to the common themes of love and friendship, while post-war misanthropy and despondency in novels like The Sun Also Rises reveal the inner reflection of an artist dealing with his own trauma.

“Hills Like White Elephants” by Ernest Hemingway

The hills across the valley of the Ebro were long and white. On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was the warm shadow of the building and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads, hung across the open door into the bar, to keep out flies. The American and the girl with him sat at a table in the shade, outside the building. It was very hot and the express from Barcelona would come in forty minutes. It stopped at this junction for two minutes and went on to Madrid.

“What should we drink?” the girl asked. She had taken off her hat and put it on the table.

“It’s pretty hot,” the man said.

“Let’s drink beer.”

“Dos cervezas,” the man said into the curtain.

“Big ones?” a woman asked from the doorway.

“Yes. Two big ones.”

The woman brought two glasses of beer and two felt pads. She put the felt pads and the beer glasses on the table and looked at the man and the girl. The girl was looking off at the line of hills. They were white in the sun and the country was brown and dry.

“They look like white elephants,” she said.

“I’ve never seen one,” the man drank his beer.

“No, you wouldn’t have.”

“I might have,” the man said. “Just because you say I wouldn’t have doesn’t prove anything.”

The girl looked at the bead curtain. “They’ve painted something on it,” she said. “What does it say?”

“Anis del Toro. It’s a drink.”

“Could we try it?”

The man called “Listen” through the curtain. The woman came out from the bar.

“Four reales.”

“We want two Anis del Toro.”

“With water?”

“Do you want it with water?”

“I don’t know,” the girl said. “Is it good with water?”

“It’s all right.”

“You want them with water?” asked the woman.

“Yes, with water.”

“It tastes like licorice,” the girl said and put the glass down.

“That’s the way with everything.”

“Yes,” said the girl. “Everything tastes of licorice. Especially all the things you’ve waited so long for, like absinthe.”

“Oh, cut it out.”

“You started it,” the girl said. “I was being amused. I was having a fine time.”

“Well, let’s try and have a fine time.”

“All right. I was trying. I said the mountains looked like white elephants. Wasn’t that bright?”

“That was bright.”

“I wanted to try this new drink. That’s all we do, isn’t it—look at things and try new drinks?”

“I guess so.”

The girl looked across at the hills.

“They’re lovely hills,” she said. “They don’t really look like white elephants. I just meant the coloring of their skin through the trees.”

“Should we have another drink?”

“All right.”

The warm wind blew the bead curtain against the table.

“The beer’s nice and cool,” the man said.

“It’s lovely,” the girl said.

“It’s really an awfully simple operation, Jig,” the man said. “It’s not really an operation at all.”

The girl looked at the ground the table legs rested on.

“I know you wouldn’t mind it, Jig. It’s really not anything. It’s just to let the air in.”

The girl did not say anything.

“I’ll go with you and I’ll stay with you all the time. They just let the air in and then it’s all perfectly natural.”

“Then what will we do afterward?”

“We’ll be fine afterward. Just like we were before.”

“What makes you think so?”

“That’s the only thing that bothers us. It’s the only thing that’s made us unhappy.”

The girl looked at the bead curtain, put her hand out and took hold of two of the strings of beads.

“And you think then we’ll be all right and be happy.”

“I know we will. You don’t have to be afraid. I’ve known lots of people that have done it.”

“So have I,” said the girl. “And afterward they were all so happy.”

“Well,” the man said, “if you don’t want to you don’t have to. I wouldn’t have you do it if you didn’t want to. But I know it’s perfectly simple.”

“And you really want to?”

“I think it’s the best thing to do. But I don’t want you to do it if you don’t really want to.”

“And if I do it you’ll be happy and things will be like they were and you’ll love me?”

“I love you now. You know I love you.”

“I know. But if I do it, then it will be nice again if I say things are like white elephants, and you’ll like it?”

“I’ll love it. I love it now but I just can’t think about it. You know how I get when I worry.”

“If I do it you won’t ever worry?”

“I won’t worry about that because it’s perfectly simple.”

“Then I’ll do it. Because I don’t care about me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t care about me.”

“Well, I care about you.”

“Oh, yes. But I don’t care about me. And I’ll do it and then everything will be fine.”

“I don’t want you to do it if you feel that way.”

The girl stood up and walked to the end of the station. Across, on the other side, were fields of grain and trees along the banks of the Ebro. Far away, beyond the river, were mountains. The shadow of a cloud moved across the field of grain and she saw the river through the trees.

“And we could have all this,” she said. “And we could have everything and every day we make it more impossible.”

“What did you say?”

“I said we could have everything.”

“We can have everything.”

“No, we can’t.”

“We can have the whole world.”

“No, we can’t.”

“We can go everywhere.”

“No, we can’t. It isn’t ours any more.”

“It’s ours.”

“No, it isn’t. And once they take it away, you never get it back.”

“But they haven’t taken it away.”

“We’ll wait and see.”

“Come on back in the shade,” he said. “You mustn’t feel that way.”

“I don’t feel any way,” the girl said. “I just know things.”

“I don’t want you to do anything that you don’t want to do——”

“Nor that isn’t good for me,” she said. “I know. Could we have another beer?”

“All right. But you’ve got to realize——”

“I realize,” the girl said. “Can’t we maybe stop talking?”

They sat down at the table and the girl looked across at the hills on the dry side of the valley and the man looked at her and at the table.

“You’ve got to realize,” he said, “that I don’t want you to do it if you don’t want to. I’m perfectly willing to go through with it if it means anything to you.”

“Doesn’t it mean anything to you? We could get along.”

“Of course it does. But I don’t want anybody but you. I don’t want any one else. And I know it’s perfectly simple.”

“Yes, you know it’s perfectly simple.”

“It’s all right for you to say that, but I do know it.”

“Would you do something for me now?”

“I’d do anything for you.”

“Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?”

He did not say anything but looked at the bags against the wall of the station. There were labels on them from all the hotels where they had spent nights.

“But I don’t want you to,” he said, “I don’t care anything about it.”

“I’ll scream,” the girl said.

The woman came out through the curtains with two glasses of beer and put them down on the damp felt pads. “The train comes in five minutes,” she said.

“What did she say?” asked the girl.

“That the train is coming in five minutes.”

The girl smiled brightly at the woman, to thank her.

“I’d better take the bags over to the other side of the station,” the man said. She smiled at him.

“All right. Then come back and we’ll finish the beer.”

He picked up the two heavy bags and carried them around the station to the other tracks. He looked up the tracks but could not see the train. Coming back, he walked through the barroom, where people waiting for the train were drinking. He drank an Anis at the bar and looked at the people. They were all waiting reasonably for the train. He went out through the bead curtain. She was sitting at the table and smiled at him.

“Do you feel better?” he asked.

“I feel fine,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.”

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Metaphorical Loss in Hemingway’s ‘The Three-Day Blow’

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In Michigan, a certain feeling fills the air in the autumn months that is nearly indescribable. It is the feeling of aging and nostalgia, of cold nights from before, and it’s the feeling of all things coming to an end. Such a backdrop is perfect for examining the metaphorical loss in Hemingway’s short story “The Three-Day Blow.” For this post, we are going to discuss Hemingway’s short story as it relates to this ending and how the permeation of Michigan fall make that feeling all the more tangible, real, and emotional.

Summary of “The Three-Day Blow”

In Hemingway’s “The Three-Day Blow,” we meet the contemplative Nick Adams, who is visiting a friend, Bill, in Northern Michigan. The atmosphere is somewhere near late fall. For a story about a break-up, it’s the perfect setting. As Hemingway describes, the “fruit had been picked and the fall wind blew through the bare trees” (Hemingway). The two friends spend time drinking and talking, the conversation veering from literature to relationships. All the while, Nick gets drunker and thinks on his own feelings and appearance. Coming through the kitchen, he knocks down a pan and some soaking apricots, but puts it all back together, remarking on his own practicality.

Afterward, Nick begins to address the loss of a recent romance that troubles him. His disappointment is palpable and he tries to reconcile his breakup through reflection and male bonding. “Nick said nothing. The liquor had all died out of him and left him alone … All he knew was that he had once had Marjorie and that he had lost her. She was gone and he had sent her away. That was all that mattered” (Hemingway). In the end, Nick overcomes his emotional loss and realizes that it wasn’t important anymore.

Hemingway writes, “The wind blew it out of his head.”

a road running through an autumn forest
An Autumn Scene | Unknown Author

Analysis

Metaphorical Loss

This is a story of loss and the end of a relationship. However, it addresses the story not in a straightforward, hum-drum way, but only has Hemingway can, steeped in metaphor. Considering that Hemingway plays an important role in the modernist movement, his writing particularly addresses loss and PTSD. I would argue that he dips his toes in the theme of futility as well. This short story has both of these elements throughout.

As mentioned before, the story starts with the fall wind greeting the protagonist Nick Adams. Hemingway’s remark that the “fruit had been picked,” only means that the season has come to an end. This loss is coupled with the inevitability of the end, perhaps a reference to the two aforementioned themes. Moreover, Nick stoops to grab a Wagner apple that lay “shiny in the brown grass,” and that tells the reader that the environment has turned toward winter. Yet, the juxtaposition is one that is sweet with the bitter reality of death.

In the next paragraph, Hemingway writes, “The big trees swayed far over in the wind as he watched. It was the first of the autumn storms.” The weather has turned, much like the surroundings, for the worse. Hot and cold air has come to greet each other before the permanent turn toward winter. The freezing cold is on its way and the frigid ending of winter is on its way.

As it relates to the story thematically, Hemingway is trying to tell us that the climate has a parallel to Nick Adam’s troubles. The autumn is over and therefore life is over. The green has turned to grey, the rain has come in ahead of the snow, and the fruit has been picked. Likewise, his relationship with Marjorie, his longtime girlfriend, is over. The season may seem like merely a backdrop, but it is so much more representative of the secret grief Adams is facing, even though he doesn’t understand that it’s happening.

Desertion

Continuing, Nick couldn’t get into the story of Feverel, even though it is about a man’s wife deserting him, just as Marjorie has deserted Nick. Or so he perceives it. As for “Forest Lovers,” a possibly fictitious book, the title itself suggests the pastoral nature of Nick’s venture to the cottage to see Bill and his failed relationship with Marjorie. Is Nick and Marjorie’s relationship not akin to “forest lovers” in a way? While the rural and serene environment of the end of autumn is wonderfully beautiful, anybody in Michigan can tell you that it’s haunting.

Nick’s drunken attitude also reflects loss in that he no longer recognizes the person he was while he was with Marjorie–he has changed. As he moves back to the living room, “he passed a mirror in the dining room and looked into it. His face looked strange … It was not his face but it didn’t make any difference” (Hemingway). That is to say, the person who once existed, the one who dated and loved, was now a different person–both a lost person and a person at a loss.

Conclusion

Hemingway’s “The Three-Day Blow” is an excellent story. Not only does it capture the feelings of loss, but it also captures a specific time and place that can be difficult describe: Northern Michigan in the autumn. As such, the metaphorical loss in Hemingway’s “The Three-Day Blow” deepens when it is contrasted with the dying landscape of Northern Michigan.

Moreover, Hemingway’s story captures drinking with friends and the confusion of a breakup. As such, the execution of a story of loss is expertly done, and intentionally so, as the themes of futility, loss, and PTSD act as layers of metaphor to further demonstrate Nick’s feelings toward his own depression and unhappiness. In the end, he moves on with his life, and walks out into the dying landscape around the cottage.

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Struggles of Famous Writers: Futility from Hemingway and Plath

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Have you ever felt like the world makes little sense and therefore nothing means anything? In a similar post, I talked about futility in Ray Bradbury’s short story “Kaleidoscope.” The story tells us that at the end of our lives, the reasons for living and being present are varied…or nonexistent. In this post, I would like to take a deeper look at the idea of “futility” in writing. We will do this in order to examine its effect on stories and the struggles of famous writers.

What is futility?

How futility is defined depends on the source from which you harvest the idea. This this includes what media “futility” makes an appearance. For instance, the way modernist Hemingway uses futility to explain emotional detachment differs slightly from the cosmic horror and existentialism in works by H.P. Lovecraft.

As defined by Cambridge Dictionary, futility is “the fact of having no effect or of achieving nothing.” This explains its usage in Bradbury’s “Kaleidoscope,” in which multiple astronauts fly through space on their way to oblivion, all the while questioning their purpose. Merriam-Webster defines “futility” as “serving no useful purpose” and “completely ineffective.”

With both of these definitions, we can begin to explore the idea of futility in writing. Futility then is the feeling of having no effect on the universe or the world whatsoever. Therefore, it is also the lack of achievement in attempting to do something small or large.

Hemingway: In Our Time
Exploring the Text

There is an excellent piece of writing in a short story collection titled “In Our Time” (1925) by American author and modernist Ernest Hemingway. In it, Hemingway is discussing the violence of war—something that plagued him throughout his life and lumped him into the Lost Generation of artists. If analyzing the struggles of famous writers, one could definitely look at Hemingway.

Here, in this excerpt, futility acts as a sort of explanation for his feelings toward warfare in general. As you read, notice how he describes everything matter-of-factly in its execution.

He writes:

“They shot the six cabinet ministers at half-past six in the morning against the wall of a hospital. There were pools of water in the courtyard. There were wet dead leaves on the paving of the courtyard. It rained hard. All the shutters of the hospital were nailed shut. One of the ministers was sick with typhoid. Two soldiers carried him downstairs and out into the rain. They tried to hold him up against the wall but he sat down in a puddle of water. The other five stood very quietly against the wall. Finally, the officer told the soldiers it was no good trying to make him stand up. When they fired the first volley, he was sitting down in the water with his head on his knees.”

Examining the Text

The passage explores the futility of death. Each minister is lined up and shot, even one that is stricken with typhoid. The men stand quietly, unable to speak, perhaps acknowledging the meaningless of their own lives now in the face of a gun barrel. His writing is bleak and dark and it describes a feeling of hopeless abandon when humanity has left us and we are alone with our own barbarism. Hemingway’s punchy prose (the muscular prose) tells us directly what is happening and therefore his syntax acts like a freight train headed our way. There is no existence in the face of death. Even the sick are without dignity and respect.

However, his directness in attacking these feelings and how humanity can consume itself with its most basic hatred and violence help us see the world differently–a world of futile gestures.

Furthermore, I feel as though this passage and interpretation encapsulate a lot of Hemingway’s work (a sentiment I gleaned from Kurt Vonnegut as well). In his novel, The Old Man and the Sea, one could interpret much of the action through a lens of futility, as even the climax of the story involves the loss of the protagonists catch.

Sylvia Plath: Widow and The Colossus
Exploring the Text

Sylvia Plath’s poetry was riddled with the ideas of futility (and anxiety, fears, depression, and sadness), and the loss that permeates her writing spell out a world in which the struggles of famous writers is useless in the face of despair. However, her poems ring with an aching beauty, one that can only come from mournfulness in futile existence.

In “Widow,” she writes about the experience of being an outcast when societal mores push a misanthropic view onto widowers. After all, if a widower, one will achieve nothing and serves no useful purpose. She writes, “Death is the dress she wears, her hat and collar. / The moth-face of her husband, moonwhite and ill, / Circles her like a prey she’d love to kill” (Plath).

Examining the Text

With such depth of thought as it relates to her existence, she pushes the reader to think of the pain and anger that the title of “widow” has created. Her futile existence is apparent and therefore her conscience is acting out against it, regardless of its lackluster effect. Furthermore, Plath writes in “The Colossus” that loss is permanent and painful and causes horrid emotions that feel gigantic in scope. The futility of these emotions are a great weight, as they are massive in comparison to one’s reality. “My hours are married to shadow,” she writes. “No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel / On the blank stones of the landing.”

Here, and according to some sources, she is writing about the loss of her father, who was apparently a huge force in her life. Yet, the line, “My hours are married to shadow,” tell us that each waking moment is but darkened existence, held captive by the loss she has endured; thus, the meaningless, the lack of achievement, the completely ineffective way her heart works against the loss of life, spell futile existence in her heart.

Conclusion

In other words, if we see a world in which nothing matters, we have to ask ourselves not just “Why?” but “Why do we think that?” The answer to that question can unlock a door into growth and responsibility, even in the face of famous writers’ struggles.

Futility may have a negative connotation. It creates a feeling of emptiness–what I call The Void–and inhibits our understanding of the universe at large. Yet, I also believe that by understanding futility, we can actually begin to see purpose in the world. That is to say, the act of “achieving nothing” and being “completely ineffective” must make us rethink our own purpose and dealings in life. Recognizing futility can be a reflective moment that allows us to see ourselves in third person and it also enables us to question our own motives and wants.

In context, and through the eyes of Hemingway, futility is the realization that warfare is horrid and leads only to death and loss. As such, moments like the one illustrated in this post–in which the ministers are shot–show is this shocking world and make us, the reader, reflect on humanity’s foibles.

Meanwhile, as it relates to Plath, her exploration of being a widow and the loss of her father can feel like the fingers of futility on our soul. In reflection we can see how loss can create understanding in ourselves and being labeled a certain way in culture can help us see how other marginalized groups feel in society.

Works Cited

Plath, Sylvia. “Widow.” Poetry. March 1962. Web. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?volume=99&issue=6&page=18

Hemingway, Ernest. In Our Time. Boni & Liveright. New York. 1925.

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Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald: Friends and Frenemies

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I love a good story from literature history. There is nothing better than a few tales about writers being eccentric weirdos while not working on their craft. Today, I have a a story of two literary titans and their friendly, yet combative, relationship. This is a story about a couple of drinking pals and their exploits, and it gets a little weird. After all, Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald were both friends and frenemies.

How The Two Literary Giants Met

During the modernist movement, The Lost Generation (a group of well-known artists) would get together with Gertrude Stein (who we discussed in a previous post) in Paris, France to kick around ideas and develop what would eventually become the modernist movement and style. Two of these characters included F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway, and they became chums shortly after Fitzgerald published The Great Gatsby.

“They first met in Dingo’s Bar in Paris and formed a fast friendship over mutual love of drinking and writing. Fitzgerald was already a successful author while Hemingway was a jobbing journalist.”

culturetrip.com

Their Tumultuous Friendship

Now, as mentioned previously, Fitzgerald and Hemingway got along famously at first. They enjoyed each other’s company and Fitzgerald was a bit enamored by Hemingway. Fitzgerald respected Hemingway for a variety of reasons, including his artistic capabilities, his adventurous spirit, and his reputation as a “man’s man.” Typically, these friendly occasions would result in an inordinate amount of alcohol consumption and general rowdiness.

Both men had opposite personalities. Hemingway was a brash, egocentric man who loved tall tales and adventure. Fitzgerald, meanwhile, was the shadow of an aristocrat, who wined and dined on the finer things in life. Yet, he was more effeminate and introspective. I suppose, in some ways. opposites do attract. However, both men reveled in literature and had highs and lows in their publishing careers. Fitzgerald was already on his way to becoming a famous writer when he met Hemingway, who was still kicking out shorter works and articles.

Zelda Fitzgerald’s Relationship to Both Men

Fitzgerald’s wife, Zelda, who had an unbalanced personality, loathed Hemingway about as much as Fitzgerald liked him. Zelda believed her husband’s friend was “bogus.” Likewise, Hemingway felt little affection for Zelda because he thought she was keeping Fitzgerald away from doing his best work. According to some sources, this was true. Zelda did not want Fitzgerald to work on novels, and, instead, encouraged “him to stay out all night drinking and partying, leaving him incapable of writing the next day” (Brouwer).

Her reasoning might be due to the writing economy at the turn of the century. Short stories made good money for a writer, and this allowed Fitzgerald and Zelda to keep up with their affluent lifestyle (drinking, partying, hobnobbing, etc.), while novels were a long and arduous process that detracted from the time one could spend on writing shorter works.

She also accused both men of a sexual affair:

“Zelda’s marriage to F. Scott Fitzgerald was reportedly a toxic one, complete with alcoholism, mutual infidelity, and jealousy. Zelda accused her husband of having a gay relationship with his friend and fellow writer Ernest Hemingway, and she had nervous breakdowns throughout their marriage.”

Suzanne Raga

The End of Their Camaraderie

Both men were also dealing with their own sorts of problems due to post-war trauma and difficult marital issues, but their friendship and alcohol-fueled lifestyles complimented one another regardless of their differing interests. There’s even an odd story about Hemingway checking Fitzgerald’s … well … “member” in order to disprove Fitzgerald’s inferiority after Zelda criticized him (Delistraty).

After their friendship had spoiled in the late 1920s, Hemingway was unpleasant when it came to discussing Fitzgerald.

“Hemingway was condescending about Fitzgerald’s work and mocked his former friend as a coward, a lap dog to the rich and a henpecked husband in thrall to a manipulative woman. He likened Fitzgerald to a dying butterfly, a glass-jawed boxer and an unguided missile crashing to earth on a ‘very steep trajectory’.”

Michiko Kakutani

Some sources have pointed out that Hemingway was mad about Fitzgerald’s post-resurgence, but he had also spent some years harshly criticizing former friends and acquaintances. These included Gertrude Stein and William Falkner.

Conclusion

While sad, I love the idea of two literary greats like Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald striking up a friendship and spending evenings discussing literature and experiences in low light at some watering hole in France. But, life is more complex than the fairy tales we weave—as are humans—so it should be no surprise that their friendship could not last cordially, especially due to the eccentricities of both men and their differing lifestyles.