That time Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald measured dicks

Originally published at: https://boingboing.net/2020/12/28/that-time-ernest-hemingway-and-f-scott-fitzgerald-measured-dicks.html

But I guess it’s true what they say: the pen is mightier!

Connery: I’ve got to ask you about the Penis Mightier.
Trebek: What? No. No, no, that is The Pen is Mightier.
Connery: Gussy it up however you want, Trebek. What matters is does it work? Will it really mighty my penis, man?
[SNL “Jeopardy”]

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This context should be included in any English class literary canon that uncritically reveres these two men

But why? “Go to the Louvre” is sounder advice than “let me find a ruler.”

The real thrust of this piece (and admittedly, I am of the male disposition) was “Zelda was bad for Fitzgerald’s writing”, and “Drinking is bad for anyone’s writing career.” Both debatable propositions.

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I feel like real Trebek would’ve had a little fun with SNL Connery, while both real Connery and SNL Trebek were far too humorless to get along. I have now done as much thinking as I intend to do today. And both real and SNL Connery seem likely to have been obsessed with their genitals.

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If writers had locker rooms.

Well, it’s Hemingway’s telling, so we don’t know what Fitzgerald fell for and what he was actually rolling his eyes at.

The annoying thing about macho posturing is how people (and, it must be said, American people in particular) just take it at face value. It’s a pet peeve of mine when someone is described as an “alpha male” as though that were an objective reality, and not just a fragile plea to be treated a special way because you’re, like, wearing a really manly brand of sunglasses.

So when Hemingway says Fitzgerald venerated him as a wise manly daddy figure, my take is, maybe it was like that, or maybe Fitzgerald thought of you as a clown, but anyway I’m not going to take the word of someone with such obvious trouble being honest with himself.

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Personally - I prefer the contest between Hunter Gathers and Phantom Limb on the bridge in Central Park.

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Nowadays, authors argue over the size of their books. “Mine is bigger” is countered with “quality matters more than size”.

Though maybe that’s all euphemism.

If only Trump had had a friend like Hemingway to set his mind at ease, things might have turned out differently for him.

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The title made it seem like they were just arguing over who had the bigger dick and decided to prove it (in a completely non-homo-erotic way of course). Hemmingway trying to reassure Fitzgerald isn’t quite as toxic.

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This context should be included in any English class literary canon that uncritically reveres these two men (although, in truth, it makes me kind of sad that Fitzgerald would fall for the misogynistic bluster of Hemingways depressive mask).

But the account is of Hemingway compassionately reassuring his friend, who was scorned by a woman on account of his dick size, that he is adequate. I don’t really get how that is misogynistic or depressive. Also, there doesn’t seem to be any dick measuring in the story, just Hemingway having a look. Bluster indeed.

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Something poetic about sounding with a whale bone.

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Yeah the story itself seems pretty compassionate and the title seems to make it more salacious than it is. Clickbait i suppose, but at least i do find the story somewhat heartwarming of a friend doing his best to reassure the other that there’s nothing wrong with them.

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I read my friend’s dad’s copy of ‘A Moveable Feast’ back when I was young and hungry and crashing in
their basement apartment and pretty much all I remember about it is that F. Scott Fitzgerald had a small dick and Gertrude Stein seemed nice.

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Something, something… two cunning linguists.

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Right, that was my take as well. Felt like I really missed out on what was misogynistic about that whole conversation.

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That’s one way to look at it. Another is that a man is trying to offer support to a friend going through a crisis of self esteem due to body image issues. So I don’t see Hemingway as the bad guy here.

…that is, until he decided to include the presumably-personal anecdote in his memoir. That’s kind of a dick move.

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Fitzgerald died in 1940; Hemingway died in '61, and the memoir came out in '64.

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Ah! The Lourve reassures me that my member is perfectly normal growing out of my face as it does.

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The passage right after that is the one I like better. Picasso and Gertrude Stein were discussing Hemingway’s latest book. They both agreed is was a good book but not a great one. Then they put on boxing gloves and Gertrude Stein broke Woody Allen’s nose.

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