Hemingway, Ernest
▶ Watch on YouTubeCoverage note: full (short excerpt; note that the manifest/YouTube title dates the speech to 1948, but Hemingway's Nobel Prize was in fact awarded in 1954 — the transcript itself contains no date)
Core ideas
In this brief acceptance statement, Hemingway opens by insisting that no writer aware of other great writers who never received the prize could accept it except with humility, adding that everyone present could compile their own list of such overlooked writers according to their own knowledge and conscience. He explains that he could not have asked the ambassador to read aloud everything a writer might feel in his heart on such an occasion, since a writer's deepest concerns are not always immediately visible in his work — though he suggests this opacity can sometimes be a fortunate thing for the writer, since those concerns eventually become clear regardless, and it is by this quality, and by the degree of "alchemy" a writer possesses, that his work will endure or be forgotten.
He develops a meditation on the solitary nature of literary work: writing at its best is a lonely life, and while writers' organizations may relieve a writer's loneliness, he doubts they improve his writing — as a writer grows in public stature and sheds his solitude, his work often deteriorates, since true writing is done alone, and a sufficiently serious writer must confront eternity, or its absence, anew each day. For Hemingway, each book by a genuine writer should constitute a new beginning, an attempt at something beyond what can be fully attained — always reaching for what has never been done, or what others have already tried and failed to do, so that, with good luck, the writer might sometimes succeed. He notes how simple literature would be to write if it only required restating, in different words, what had already been well written — but because there have been such great writers in the past, a true writer is driven far out beyond where he can go, to a point where no one can help him any longer. He closes by acknowledging he has spoken too long for a writer, since a writer should write what he has to say rather than speak it.
Excerpts
“Writing at its best is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer's loneliness, but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness, and often his work deteriorates, for he does his work alone, and if he is a good enough writer, he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day.”
“For a true writer, each book should be a new beginning where he tries again for something that is beyond attainment. He should always try for something that has never been done, or that others have tried and failed. Then sometimes, with good luck, he will succeed.”
“It is because we have had such great writers in the past that a writer is driven far out past where he can go, out to where no one can help him. I have spoken too long for a writer — a writer should write what he has to say, and not speak it.”