Writer Ernest Hemingway committed suicide on this day in 1961. He shotgunned himself in his home in Ketchum, Idaho. In 2011, Hemingway’s friend A.E. Hotchner wrote that friends knew Hemingway’s suicide was probably related to his ” suffering from depression and paranoia for the last year of his life.”
Hemingway’s depression was brain chemistry, drinking, and aging. His paranoia was focused on the FBI. As Hotchner admitted in his New York Times op-ed, he believed his friend’s fear of the feds was akin to psychosis.
It was not. Hotchner:
Decades later, in response to a Freedom of Information petition, the F.B.I. released its Hemingway file. It revealed that beginning in the 1940s J. Edgar Hoover had placed Ernest under surveillance because he was suspicious of Ernest’s activities in Cuba. Over the following years, agents filed reports on him and tapped his phones. The surveillance continued all through his confinement at St. Mary’s Hospital [for electroconvulsive therapy]. It is likely that the phone outside his room was tapped after all.
This is the FBI’s page on Hemingway. It indicates they tracked the writer from 1942 till his death. The final pages include clippings of a column by a flatulently-named John Birch society darling, columnist Westbrook Pegler, in which Pegler drops turds like, “[Hemingway] annoyed me also with profanity and vulgarity and when I pointed out that Ring Lardner had never told a dirty story and had shunned mucky stuff on paper […] Hemingway answered that nevertheless people did speak as his characters spoke.”
The FBI file includes another clipping added in 1974 about a Hemingway documentary, and then is ended.
The Federal Bureau of Investigation hounded Hemingway, perhaps contributing to an already fragile mental state, therefore contributing to his suicide. They essentially end their file on him with a priggish nobody taking a drizzly piss on the author’s grave.
I am not a Hemingway fanboy. I like a good declarative sentence but writers need to find their own styles and aping any single great writer can lead to the death of creativity. There is a bit of a cult around Hemingway’s style, in particular. I understand it to some degree, but not completely. I’ve also sometimes found Hemingway’s work annoying and it can easily lend itself to parody.
And he may have been a posturing, macho egomaniac. He didn’t mind that perception, anyway.
But on the 54th anniversary of his suicide it’s hard to read about his death and not be angry. Angry at suicide, which struck my family. Suicides leave such emotional devastation behind.
Angry for Ernest Hemingway. No one made him pull a trigger. His own spiraling inner chaos did that. Yet the paranoia he felt was merited. He was living in a dystopia and unwanted eyes were watching him, which is crazy enough to consider now that there are still people who venerate that era as some sort of American idyll between wars and periods of severe social upheaval.
The paranoid certainty he was being tailed and watched was in 1961 perhaps more of a danger then to a high-profile world traveler like Hemingway. That the feds of that time targeted any famous person whose associations they found suspicious is pretty well-known today.
Wonder what Hemingway would have made of the world we live in now. He might have started handing out shotguns like party favors.
I’ve been pleased and surprised by the response to my previous post, “Digging Ditches…” which was about my brother’s suicide and our mutual struggles with mental illness. Several people whose own deeply personal writing influenced my decision to write the essay were kind of enough to link the piece, and I’m not sure they’ll ever know how grateful I am, as it was surprisingly hard to write, and that’s the kind of thing I find I both really want people to read and am a little afraid for them to.
It may have been my wife who unwittingly provided the spark to go ahead and do it, though. She recently attended a digital storytelling workshop in Denver, Colorado. Denver is Dana’s hometown and her grandparents live there. The result of the workshop and staying with her grandparents was a moving video essay, which you can watch in a post on her education blog, here.
I can be voluble and quick to show emotion. Dana can be reserved and uncomfortable with emotions and talking about them, as well. So when I watched her video essay, I was struck by just how deep she reached to express the great love and regard she has for her grandparents, and how frank she was about her childhood. She writes in her post on creating the essay how she was able to do that:
The [workshop] facilitator looked at me, a pointed expression on her face, and she asked me, “Dana, how is this story about you?” I was startled by the question, but I thought for a minute, and then, naturally, I burst into tears. It was about me because of everything my grandparents had done for me. It was about me because they are elderly, and I don’t know how much time I have left. It was about me because I will be devastated when they are gone.
“Digging Ditches…” was just going to be about my brother, but in the end it had to also be about our family and me. I’m not afraid to admit I can easily make a lot of shit about me, it’s a character flaw, but in this instance it was about things that even after years of therapy, I am afraid to admit and speak freely about–like how I was a little afraid of my brother after things started getting bad, like being suicidal enough to be admitted to a psychiatric hospital.
I could probably re-write everything I’ve ever written and not truly be happy with it, but with this one I can say I at least did much of what I intended to do, and am glad that people have responded to it. And a lot of credit for that goes to my wife, who somehow manages to teach me things even when she’s off-duty from being a teacher.
On August 20, 2000, my brother committed suicide. David Richard Huff was just over a month away from his 42nd birthday.
I have written about David almost every year since, usually around the anniversary of his death. Some years I make a minimal acknowledgement that it happened, a tweet, perhaps, including the number or web address for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. Some years I write something in-depth.
This year, because suicide is so much in the news after the heartbreaking death of the gloriously gifted comedian and actor Robin Williams, a performer I’d loved ever since I first heard the word “Shazbot” in the late 70s, I feel like I can’t escape the subject. So here I am, again. I am tired of reading the things even the most well-meaning people have to say about mental illness and suicide. This is probably all I have to say about it, at the moment. This isn’t an admonishment, or an explanation. It’s just a story, and a ragged one.
You could read this as if it was a poem. But for this, poetry feels weak. You could read it as fiction. But it’s not.
A couple of years before David died, my father said, “You should talk to your brother. You’re more alike than you realize.”
I probably sneered. We resembled, sure. Both 6’0″, both fair-haired, him blond and me a redhead. We had similar jawlines and noses. But David was trimmer, better-looking. He had an ease with women that was unnatural compared to my overly intense awkwardness. He could be incredibly funny and fun to be with, but he was also tough as nails, the kind of rough and ready fighting man other rough men tell admiring tales about, like one I recall of him taking on more than 2 or 3 other guys in a brawl outside a redneck bar. I was a writer and went to college to be an opera singer, for God’s sake. Aside from having the same parents, what did I truly have in common with my hard-living, rough-handed, truck-driving big brother?
Memories of the days surrounding David’s death are patchy. Some moments are crystalline, far too clear for comfort even 14 years later. Others are blank, or veiled in grief’s gray and lingering haze.
There was the call to where I lived at the time, in rural middle Georgia. My sister Sherry, her voice ragged, calling early in the morning to tell what she knew.
A little later, I talked to my parents. They’d moved to a town in central Mexico where many Americans go to retire, because it’s temperate and beautiful and the locals are always friendly to the expats.
Mom was choked, but she could talk.
Dad just wailed. Across all those miles, his was the voice of a great wounded animal, terrible, trumpeting spasms of grief.
He had always been a wild man but the first report of David’s madness was so florid and strange it took me years to really believe it happened. I was in college at the time, engaged to a surreal blonde girl whom I would later realize was far too smart and disturbed for me.
He had come home to Smyrna, Tennessee after a long-haul trucking run to Pennsylvania, convinced he was possessed with the spirit of a little boy from France. He’d spiraled further out of control once he reached the trailer he shared with his wife and young son on Almaville Road. At some point he threw things through the living room window. There was apparently a police standoff before they took him away.
At some point David made his wife and son dance to shake the demons out.
I never lost track of reality. Sure, in my junior year of college I came down with food poisoning then convinced myself my girlfriend had tried to poison me. Sure, I stopped fulfilling all my obligations at one point because I convinced myself if I stayed home the world wouldn’t end. But I never hallucinated. I still knew I was Steve. I was nothing like my brother, with his ramblings, his ideas about demons.
David parked his truck at a rest stop in east Tennessee. He took off his clothes and ran around giving away his money. Again, the police came. They had a standoff while he held a Swiss Army Knife to his throat.
David thought the knife was a blessing. It bore the Cross of Jesus.
I’d broken up with the surreal blonde girl. My new girlfriend and I would marry in the next couple of years. I was taking my first antidepressant, prescribed by a doctor who had cerebral palsy. He looked like Allen Ginsberg if the beat poet had been hatched from an alien chrysalis. He hugged me at the end of our last session and told me I’d climbed a mountain.
I was slated to sing the solo with our university choir in a grand and escalating spiritual that sketched the birth of the Christ child then traced his path to Easter. I entered the music hall dry and tired from the antidepressant, but the moment I began the solo, some animating spirit took hold. The audience stood and applauded for several minutes. I took several bows. Our director loved the response so much he encored the piece in the spring concert.
In the end I only drank too much that night, but I clearly recall going back to my apartment feeling that was a good high note. I could go out on that. I could kill myself.
The last time I saw my brother alive, I was afraid. He’d had more meltdowns and my parents said he’d long been compounding things with drugs. I’m still ashamed to say I awaited his arrival at the apartment I shared with my (first) wife with fear and hesitation. Our first baby had been born premature several months before and as David pulled up in his ramshackle car all I could think about was her.
Then he was in the door, and he was the old Dave, the brother I knew. His shoes were threadbare, and his false teeth ill-fitted, but he was funny and kind and unrelenting with big brotherly advice, even though I kind of knew much of what he tried to tell me already. As we sat on my apartment balcony talking at sundown, he spotted a pretty woman close to his age entering an apartment on the bottom floor. He said hello and smiled and her eyes crinkled and she smiled back.
I asked him if there was anything he needed. He asked for a clock radio and a coke. That was all. He was that specific.
And I realized, I told my mom later, that I would have given him almost anything he asked for then, if I’d had it. I had no explanation for feeling that way, save that he was my brother.
I left work that day to commit suicide. I’d realized I couldn’t take my life, my shattered marriage, just breathing anymore, and there was only one rational solution. I selected a bridge downtown. Along the way I passed the mental hospital near Nashville’s Centennial Park. I thought of my children and something my chrysalis Ginsberg doctor once said about what you should do if you want to hurt yourself.
Admit me or I’ll kill myself, I told the trim little man with the silly mustache who met me at the lobby desk.
He took me into a small room and questioned me about my state of mind.
His hands shook as he took my things for safekeeping, as the initial observation ward was more like jail than a hospital ward: keys, my wallet, a bottle of Prozac that had stopped working weeks ago, a notebook, a ridiculous packet of Vivarin.
I was admitted to the psych ward wearing jean shorts, a tee-shirt, sandals, and an empty fanny pack.
Driving north from middle Georgia toward Nashville on the day David died, I saw off the side of the interstate a great natural sculpture built from kudzu vines and a telephone pole. It was a towering green reaper shimmering in a hot yellow haze. Great green summer Death, pointing north.
I pulled off the interstate and cried for what seemed a very long time.
I want this to be about real blood and the idea of blood, the thing that sings in our veins when we’re with family. How the song sometimes slips for a moment into a great column of harmony, flooding the listener with relief. Family as a hymn.
I want this to be a neatly-rendered essay suitable for framing or publishing elsewhere.
Instead, I can only recount cleaning David’s watch.
After his funeral, we divided up his meager things. Among them was a watch in a biohazard bag. It was a silver wind-up analog Timex with a flexible band. It was splattered with blood and other matter.
Once I was back in Georgia I put the biohazard bag in a roll-top caddy we kept at one end of the kitchen counter.
I don’t remember how long it sat there, but it wasn’t long. I know I often stared at it, imagining David buying it in a truck stop. Winding it. Slipping it off before bed.
One night I couldn’t sleep and I decided to clean the watch. Under the glare of that cookie cutter apartment kitchen’s track lights I put on dishwashing gloves and slipped David’s watch from the biohazard bag. I washed it under very hot water.
I remembered playing Go Fish with David, how the game would always devolve into “52-Card Pickup.”
I remembered getting him a “10-4 Good Buddy!” joke license plate for Christmas one year, a nod to his job, to his drawling and sarcastic persona on the CB radio, and overhearing him tell my mom he didn’t have the heart to tell me he’d never use it because “Good Buddy” was trucker slang for a gay man.
I remembered being 7 and riding with him on his motorcycle down the straightaway on Hamilton Church Road toward the sharp hairpin turn in the road where it once snaked into what was now a lake, how I screamed in joy and fear as he banked along the curve.
I washed David’s watch for several minutes, carefully inspecting each segment of the band as I went.
When I was satisfied it was clean, I set it to the proper time and put it on.
Memory’s ostinato doesn’t constantly repeat the last time I saw my brother alive, even though I hold onto the low, waning light, the woman in the parking lot, his rattle-trap car and his shoes. It doesn’t cycle obsessively through those good childhood memories, or the times he was a typical big brother, teasing me, hassling, mocking.
When I turn over my brother and I in my mind, the memory that burns brightest is working beside him one summer when I was 15 and he was 24. We worked for our father’s company and the big job was installing runway lights at a small airfield south of Nashville. David enjoyed telling me what to do, but I felt like he was protecting me from the many strange and rough men on the crew, with their beards and Bowie knives and .357 Magnums tucked under driver’s seats.
One day a summer storm blew in from nowhere as David and I were finishing a ditch the crew had dug to find the old conduit carrying cables to the runway. There was pounding rain, jagged blasts of lightning. The other men on the crew figured they weren’t paid enough to work in the rain and dispersed, thinking (wrongly, I’m certain) my dad would understand.
My brother decided the ditch was too important to wait for the rain. You don’t have to, he told me, grabbing a shovel, but I’m going to keep it up.
In the steadily strengthening storm he hopped into the ditch and began digging wildly. In a moment I grabbed another shovel and joined him. We were alone on the job, at the bottom of a steadily flooding ditch, slinging wet red mud onto the scarred tarmac above. We only quit when the muck reached our knees.
That’s how it happened, that’s where it ended and we went on home, both soaked to our bones.
I keep re-imagining that day.
In my mind I keep breaking time’s chains to return to that ditch and the rising, rusty water. The broken slideshow reel in my head becomes a film of us flailing at the mud as the ditch floods. We are indistinguishable mud men, wielding flashing shovels against the storm’s onslaught.
We match each other, shovelful for shovelful, until the water takes us, and we drown.
It was a small but intriguing notice, published in several northeastern papers on February 27, 1914. The New York Sun’s item was cabled to the paper, not taken from a wire service. In the Sun’s brief account, a modern reader might scent a lover’s quarrel gone wrong. The more worldly New Yorker of 1914 may have assumed the same. The Sun’s article:
AMERICAN KILLED IN PARIS Man Found Dead In Room, His Companion Being Sought
Special Cable Dispatch to The Sun.
Paris, Feb. 26–Henry Collett, an American ship’s officer, 30 years of age, employed on the Hamburg-American liner Cleveland, was found dead in his room in a hotel here to-day. Death had been caused by a revolver shot. Mr. Collett arrived here from Marseilles on February 22 and hired a room at a cheap hotel for himself and an eighteen-year-old boy named Dubois. Tho man and boy made so much noise at the hotel last night that the landlord ejected Dubois. The latter called at the hotel early this morning and left shortly afterward.
At 11:30 o clock Collett was found dead in his room. The police are looking for Dubois.
The same day, the New York Times published its own item. It was the same story, but different.
Papers would put out morning and evening editions well into the 20th century (I can recall one of the 2 papers published in my hometown running two daily editions in my lifetime). The variation between the Sun’s possibly prurient tale and the Times’s less tawdry but sad story of Mr. Collett’s death being a suicide may have had more to do with when the papers went to press.
The Times story caught my attention for the headline. I was further drawn in by “In the pockets of the dead man were a letter bearing the name ‘Henry Collett, Worcester, Mass.’ and seven francs…”
I’m from the south but live in Worcester and threadbare as the tie was, I was still curious to know whatever else I could about the man who died in that Paris hotel.
I couldn’t really satisfy my curiosity the way I wanted, but I did find out a few things about a man named Henry Collett who lived in Worcester at the right time and was the right age.
In the 1910 Census, a Henry Collett in the right age range lived at 199 Hope Avenue in Worcester. He lived with the Mallett family and was listed as the head of household’s single brother-in-law. Collett was employed as an operator at a screw factory. He’d been born in Massachusetts, but his parents were French Canadian. Worcester’s population grew a great deal in the 19th and 20th centuries from Canadians crossing the border seeking better jobs.
I pass that address on Hope Avenue on a regular basis. It’s along the route to my kid’s school. At the end of Hope a traveler can follow the roundabout to the right and end up on Webster Street. Hope Cemetery is on Webster. Dedicated in 1852, it is the final resting place of luminaries such as poet Elizabeth Bishop the father of rocket science, Robert H. Goddard.
Part of me wants to find out if Henry Collett was taken from his shabby hotel room on Rue Aux Ours about 100 years ago and put in the hold of another ship. If he made it back to Worcester, and perhaps to Hope Cemetery. It seems improbable, but you never know.
Was it really suicide? A single man in his thirties traveling the world, partying too much with an 18-year-old frenchman… questions there, too. What really happened, Henry, before the war came and erased questions about so many things with gigantic questions we still ask today?
If Henry Collett is in Hope Cemetery I have unanswerable questions to ask his headstone.