I love Hemingway's essays about his home. His Paris apartment in the 20s was, to put it bluntly, austere. It did not have a fireplace nor a private toilet, and, for furniture, had only a mattress on the floor. Nonetheless, its walls were adorned with pictures he and his wife Hadley liked, and so they loved it immensely.
It reminded me of my own current home, bare and in desperate need of some furniture, but home nonetheless. Here are some snapshots:
The chandelier I told you about
The bird cage we found at an antique shop
Fitzgerald books waiting to be devoured-- a surprise from Ice
Some of my classic Hollywood books
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