A. E. Hotchner

Writer

1920-06-28 – 2020-02-15

A. E. Hotchner was an American writer, editor, and biographer. He authored novels, plays, and screenplays, and wrote notable biographies including works on Ernest Hemingway and Doris Day. He also co-founded Newman's Own with actor Paul Newman.

Books by A. E. Hotchner

Papa Hemingway
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Doris Day
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King of the Hill
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Quotes by A. E. Hotchner

When I first wrote 'Papa Hemingway,' there were too many people still alive, and the lawyers for Random House didn't want to OK it. But now all that's been filtered away by the passage of all these people. And having the fortune of surviving, I now feel that I am the custodian of what Ernest wanted the world to know about him and these women.
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Back in the days when American billboard advertising was in flower [said Hemingway], there were two slogans that I always rated above all others: the old Cremo Cigar ad that proclaimed, Spit Is a Horrid Word-but Worse on the end of Your Cigar, and Drink Schlitz in Brown Bottles and Avoid that Skunk Taste. You don't get creative writing like that any more.
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From the time I read my first Hemingway work, The Sun Also Rises, as a student at Soldan High School in St. Louis, I was struck with an affliction common to my generation: Hemingway Awe.
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Every man's life ends the same way, Ernest Hemingway had said, and it is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another.
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Ernest Hemingway was always uneasy in New York and liked being there less than in any other city he frequented.
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Each day was a challenge of enjoyment, and he [Hemingway] would plan it out as a field general plans a campign.
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There are bullfighters who do it just for the money-they are worthless [said Hemingway]. The only one who matters is the bullfighter who feels it, so that if he did it for nothing, he would do it just as well. Same holds true for damn near everyone.
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On July 2, 1961, a writer whom many critics call the greatest writer of this century, a man who had a zest for life and adventure as big as his genius, a winner of the Nobel Prize and the Pulitzer Prize, a soldier of fortune with a home in Idaho's Sawtooth Mountains, where he hunted in the winter, an apartment in New York, a specially rigged yacht to fish the Gulf Stream, an available apartment at the Ritz in Paris and the Gritti in Venice, a solid marriage, no serious physical ills, good friends everywhere-on that July day, that man [Hemingway], the envy of other men, put a shotgun to his head and killed himself.
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He [Hemingway] used a stand-up work place he had fashioned out of the top of of a bookcase near his bed. His portable typewriter was snugged in there and papers were spread along the top of the bookcase on either side of it. He used a reading board for longhand writing.
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