Conversations with Dead People - Ernest Hemingway
The Writer at 75. A self-taken photograph.
Here is another extract from my book, Ghost Guidance & Automatic Writing.
Welcome to Conversations with the Dead People - Ernest Hemingway.
Below is another extract from my book, Ghost Guidance and Automatic Writing. This piece was taken down in 1975. It starts off, as most of my channeling did in those days, with an introduction from my spiritual guide, U.R.
“This is U.R.. I am glad that you are now beginning to realise that what we have been telling you in the past is true. Your colouring by your own desires is still with you, but it is gradually losing its power to corrupt these messages. I have Jerry here now.”
“Hi, Tom. Jerry Ames. (another of my guides) My pleasure is to bring to you a man who you’ve often read, but whom you do not necessarily think to be right. He is a celebrity. On our side of life he is still regarded as a bit of a rebel. I’ll say no more.”
I had no idea who this man was until he introduced himself.
“This is most unusual. A live medium with a brain. Wonders will never cease. Do you think, Mr. Ware, that you could continue with this writing (automatic writing) even if I were a bit rude to you from time to time? I am told sensitives are not able to take harsh criticism. Is that true in your case?
Self: I do resent criticism, yes. But if U.R. is able to police the conversation, I am willing- simply for the sake of authentication- to take whatever you dish out.”
“This is U.R.. I will see that neither of you get into real trouble. Please go right ahead.”
“Good. Good. You have no idea who I am, have you, Mr. Ware? U.R. tells me that you have perused my works in a half-hearted manner on several occasions. Good. Even half-hearted reading is better than complete ignorance.
“I once wrote a book on a man who caught a big fish. Yes, my name is Ernest Hemingway. Ah. So you are impressed. Papa Hemingway, ‘they’ used to call me. Though who ‘they’ were I don’t really know.
I once did a very foolish thing, took my own life.
“I once did a very foolish thing, took my own life. Don’t ever do it. Plainly I thought that my life would be over when I did it. It continued. Hence this.
“I can recall that in my book, The Sun Also Rises, there was a scene where a man was fighting a bull. In the fight he was gored. The bull’s horns penetrated his abdomen. I’d like you to read this book. Get it from wherever you can, and check that what I tell you is correct. If you do, you will then know that the man who is talking to you now is...”
Self: I am blocking by being too interested. Please try again, Mr. Hemingway.”
“I can see that you are giving me the benefit of your doubt, Mr. Ware. The Sun Also Rises is a book about Spain. I spent a good deal of my time there, and I wrote a number of novels and papers on Spain. I was, as you are aware, a successful author. And I put this success down to luck, as well as hard work. To work hard is not necessarily to succeed. You have to have the Goddess of Luck on your side, too.
“But I am losing the point. It is a novel thing to be able to talk so freely with a ‘writer-type medium.’
Find that book of mine, The Sun Also Rises.
“My message is this. Find that book of mine. The Sun Also Rises. Read it through. You’ve read it before? Read it again. As you read it, look out for a passage that says that the hero is unable to work out the reasons for existence.”
Self: “ Is that interpreted correctly, Mr Hemingway?”
“No. Not quite. The hero was a man who had lost his ability to be a man in an accident. He has lost his testicles, or the use of them, in action at war. This colours his relationships with women, he is unable to function as a man. This causes him to be regarded as a platonic friend by the woman he really loves, the woman he would like to make love to but is unable to do so.
From the great writer himself: "Papa Hemingway was a failure."
“I realise that that sounds very far-fetched; an exaggeration. But it is in reading through my own works objectively whilst I reside on this side of the ‘curtain of life’ that I have made this discovery. Papa Hemingway was a failure. He killed himself. I accept it, but I wish to hell I had not ended it. I now have to face greater ordeals. The more a man deliberately escapes from what is put to him to face the greater the same ordeals become when he is again forced to face them. For he is then the weaker from his precious action. But I am starting to sound like a psychologist.
“Fishing was my sport. Fishing, and to a lesser degree, shooting. My desires to shoot big game were caused by several reasons. One, experience. I wanted to experience the dangers and thrills of hunting big game. I wanted to be able to write of them with authenticity. I loved the thrill of imminent danger. Danger that I could stand up to because I trusted my ability with a rifle.
This is Papa Hemingway. Many of my biographies are very good - and very untrue.
“But it was in fishing for big game that I grew to a state of almost drug-like addiction.
“I lived in Havana for many years. Havana, Michigan, and even in Colorado.”
Self: “Is that correct. Did you live in Colorado ever?”
“This is Papa Hemingway. I said so, didn’t I?”
“You do not know a great many things about me, Mr. Ware. The light of reading of half-a-dozen of my novels does not fill you with my biography. Biographies have been written. Plenty of them. And many are very good- and very untrue. And many are flatteringly exaggerated. I suggest you look at them if you are really interested in what I am and what I have done. As for me, I haven’t been able to work that out yet.
Your interest in the occult was something that never interested me at all.
“I wanted to tell you in this discourse that your interest in the occult was something that never interested me at all. I know that you imagined that in The Snows of Kilimanjaro, Harry passed on and his spirit moved to heaven. I wrote that passage by sheer instinct. I was not spiritually inclined. I did not believe in life after death. In this respect it was sheer coincidence that I described the passing of a human spirit in such a manner.
“Please bear with me whilst I search for something of significance to say. I cannot do so whilst you are filling my thoughts with all the ideas you have gleaned from my books. Your interpretation of my books might be very different from the ideas I wished to convey.
“Here I am again. It is only to be hoped that you will believe that this is me. Ernest Hemingway. Yes, your visualisation of me was correct. I was certainly overweight. And I did normally wear a beard. My main affectation was to desport a superior attitude. I also wanted to impress with my sagacity. On arrival here, I realised I knew nothing. Nothing of importance.
Papa Hemingway - Most of my books dealt with war. I hated war.
“My best friend is here. I loved him on earth. He died in the north of Italy when I was just a boy. You read my book about the fighting in Northern Italy. They made it into a film with Jennifer Jones and Rock Hudson. The film never really satisfied me, though it was well acted.
“In my works on earth, Mr. Ware, I tried always for realism. I tried for simplicity. I tried to convince people that if they kept on killing each other they would solve nothing. Most of my books dealt with war. I hated war. You might find that hard to understand: how a man could volunteer for war and yet hate it. I wanted to experience it all: war, love, hate, fear, power- all the big, driving ambitions. That was what I sought. To know it all and to write and tell it all. I did that to some extent. But it never satisfied me. I remained a lonely and dissatisfied man all of my life.
I never found this thing which is bigger than ourselves.
Oh, I had good times. I had my periodic drunks and my fair share of whoring. I experienced many many things. But you know this. But I never found peace. I never found this thing which is bigger than ourselves. The thing that if we devote our lives to it gives of itself to us. I never found that. Ernest Hemingway was a failure in his life. Despite his fame, despite his ability to write the written word, he never really put a message of any importance across.
“Your guide, Mr. U.R., says that your wife will be home any minute now. She has all but arrived. If you would like to stop it is all right with me. I really had nothing much to say, anyway. It was flattering that your friend, Jerry Ames, decided to include me with the rest of the big names. But I didn’t warrant it.
“I am sorry. But that is all I have. Do read The Sun Also Rises again, Mr. Ware. That book meant a lot to me. Goodbye.”
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