Wednesday 30 June 2021
Monday 28 June 2021
Saturday 26 June 2021
I was terribly sorry to
hear this morning in a note from your father that you were laid up in Denver
for a few days more and speed off this note to tell you how much I hope you’ll
be feeling better.
It has been very hot and muggy
here in Rochester but the last two days it has turned cool and lovely, with the
nights wonderful for sleeping. The country is beautiful around here and I’ve
had a chance to see some wonderful country along the Mississippi where they
used to drive the logs in the old lumbering days and the trails where the
pioneers came north and saw some good bass jump in the river. I never knew
anything about the upper Mississippi before and it is really a very beautiful
country and there are plenty of pheasants and ducks in the fall. But not as
many as in Idaho and I hope we’ll both be back there shortly and can joke about
our hospital experiences together.
Best always to you, old
from your good friend who
misses you very much
Best to all the family. Am
feeling fine and very cheerful about things in general and hope to see you all
LIFE magazine published the letter in its August 25, 1961, edition, saying, “To the tragedy of Ernest Hemingway’s death there is now added a tender, peculiarly fitting postscript – a letter to a little boy forced to put aside for good the rugged outdoors world they both so loved. The letter’s words were the last that Hemingway ever wrote. The boy is Fritz Saviers, 9, of Ketchum, Idaho, whose father was Hemingway’s doctor and his hunting and fishing friend. Fritz delighted in going on their trips, and Hemingway was charmed by the boy’s Hemingwayesque pleasure in what his athletic young body could do. ‘There’s a boy,’ the author would say. Around Ketchum where the children called Hemingway ‘Mr Papa’, Fritz was allowed plain ‘Papa’.
“Then, together, the man
who was a living legend and his small friend turned a sad corner. Hemingway,
himself in the Mayo Clinic for hypertension, learned that Fritz was hospitalised
with heart disease. Ernest Hemingway immediately wrote the note at right,
characteristically spare yet full of the physical zest that is his trademark,
full of the things dear to this 9-year-old. And as usual with Hemingway, it was
what he did not say that carried the measure of his sadness. Two weeks later,
back in Ketchum, when Fritz had to return to the hospital for diagnostic tests,
he came to say goodbye to ‘Papa’. As always the two had a solemn conversation –
the Yankee’s pennant chances, a 14-inch trout Fritz had caught. As they parted,
Hemingway put his arm around the little boy, and said, ‘Be a good scout.’
“The next day Fritz was
told that his famous friend was dead. As in The Old Man and the Sea,
when the young boy sees the defeat of the heroic old fisherman he loves, Fritz
wept. But as his eyes filled with tears, he fled the room, unwilling that
anyone see his sobbing.”
Only three weeks before his own death, Fritz Saviers won the Expert B boys division of the Intermountain junior slalom championships at the Thayne Canyon outside Park City, Utah. Fritz’s father George died, aged 78, on June 23, 1994. He was the son of a pioneer Twin Falls newspaperman, George Delno Saviers, and the husband of a champion skier, Patricia Gordon Pierce, the daughter of a superior court judge who he married in 1947. They were divorced in 1968. George Saviers had travelled to Spain to be with Hemingway for the author’s 60th birthday on July 21, 1959, during the “Dangerous Summer”. Antonio Ordóñez dedicated his second bull to Saviers at a corrida in Valencia on July 25. Saviers acted as one of Hemingway’s pallbearers.
Friday 25 June 2021
Theroux, who turned 80 in
April (“The biggest cloud on my horizon,” he called the event), contributed the
Diary column to that month’s edition of Literary Review. His latest
novel, Under the Wave at Waimea, was about to appear. Set in Hawaii, it’s
about an older surfer feeling his age and wondering if he still has his mojo. Judging
by the tone of the column, it’s Theroux himself who’s reaching for the magical
charm bag. Is he tiring of his eternal search for the most idyllic place in the
I’ve long since found my
pick, a fact that was powerfully reinforced by a visit to my homeland of New
Zealand earlier this month. Indeed, it’s not far from Waimea, although the waves
of Waimea referenced in the title of Theroux’s new novel are a long way from
the Waimea I know. As Theroux alludes in Literary Review, there are many
words and place names which are common, or very similar, throughout Polynesian
culture, and of course through the Māori these extend to New Zealand. An
example Theroux uses is kapu in Hawaii, from which ‘taboo’ derives. In Māori it’s even closer: tapu.
As for Waimea, in Hawaii there
are places, rivers and a bay on O'ahu with that name. In New Zealand, there are
plains, rivers and an inlet. The Waimeas I’m familiar with are in the Tasman
Bay, the northern part of what I would argue is the most scenically spectacular
strip of land to be found anywhere on God’s earth. This stretches down from the
Golden Bay and is enclosed within the western side of what is known as the
Alpine Fault, running alongside the Southern Alps. Being earthquake country, there
are many signs of the destructive force of nature, but it remains so beautiful
because, in the main, it has resisted the destructive force of man.
A man from the Tasman
Waimea unleashed much of the destructive force of man. He was Ernest, Lord
Rutherford, the father of nuclear physics, the New Zealander who split the
atom. Rutherford, born in Brightwater, attended the same school where Bill
Pickering later went; Pickering was the man behind America’s first satellite. My
ties with the area are that I once worked in Nelson and my paternal grandmother
was born in Belgrove in the Waimea, south of Brightwater, Wakefield and Wai-Iti.
I have a nephew now living in Wakefield.
Theroux gave up using a typewriter because, for him, “banging at a typewriter was very exhausting”. That’s never been my experience. My “biggest cloud” is not being able to type with every type of typewriter that was ever made. While I was in New Zealand, the type of typewriter I’d have once jumped at came up for auction on TradeMe, New Zealand’s more trustworthy equivalent of eBay. A friend alerted me to a Pittsburg Visible No 10, which I gather was passed in at the starting price of just under $NZ600 ($US425). The agent in New Zealand for the Pittsburg was George Manley Yerex, mentioned in my post about his son Lowell in mid-March. I tried to tempt a couple of fellow typewriter lovers to “have a go” for the one on TradeMe, but neither did.
I’m resigned to the fact a
Pittsburg Visible is one typewriter I’ll never get to use. Nor will be the nice
little Brother I saw in a bookshop in my hometown – the owner understandably didn’t
want to part with it. She did, however, give me the Olivetti Dora brochure and
the Hermes typeface guide I posted last week. Where there’s a true typewriter lover,
it seems, there’s also always a touch of good-heartedness and generosity. Such
a pity Paul Theroux didn’t persevere with typewriters a little longer. He might
still have his mojo in full working order.
Lake Mahinapua, where I went in search of the elusive kōtuku. This was the site of a significant battle between Ngāi Tahu and Ngāti Wairangi Māori.
The newspaper where I started out in journalism in 1965.
The reason I went to New Zealand was to visit my eldest sister Elaine, now sadly suffering from dementia.
Wednesday 23 June 2021
Way back in the early
1980s, the mother of a young female West Australian tennis player rang me at The
Daily News and told me to stop publishing her daughter’s earnings. “It’s
nobody else’s business,” she said. I tried pointing out that the money winners’
list was not my work, but was issued from the US by the Women's Tennis
Association itself, and sent out on the international wires. It was a bit like
the rankings lists that are regularly referred to these days, now that the
old-style pioneering pro tours, when just about everyone played in the same events,
no longer exist. But back then it there was also a large slice of PR about it.
“Look what sort of dough your daughter could be pocketing if she joined the
professional tennis tour,” it was saying.
(The WTA was founded by Billie Jean King in 1973 with just nine players.)
Not that the accumulated winnings would have been difficult for anyone to work
out. As with golf, the total prizemoney on offer in each tournament was known,
as was the way that prizemoney was allocated. Extras, like Extra chewing gum endorsements,
didn’t come into the reckoning.
But of course the mother
of the WA player on the WTA tour was having none of this. And it seemed strange
to me that she might imagine her daughter, so prominent on the international
sporting stage, was somehow entitled to some privacy about the amount of money
she was winning. The mother’s savage outburst on the phone came back to me when
Naomi Osaka withdrew from the French Open three weeks ago. I’m sure she’d now be
siding with Osaka, but perhaps for more defensible reasons than those expressed
all those years ago.
The amounts highly-paid
sports professionals earn should be in the public domain. In Osaka’s case, however,
the question is whether she has the right to earn much less money by refusing
to attend press conferences. Surely it’s her call, and “nobody else’s business”.
I’m still not sure what
position to take on the Osaka affair. At least one colleague, whose opinions I
respect, went online declaring Osaka is in the wrong, that she had a responsibility
to the sport which has rewarded her so handsomely. My initial reaction was to
feel some sympathy for her, especially on the mental health issue. But those
who heard my Zoom talk on sports writing during the Herman Price gathering late
last year will know that I’m very much of the old school when it comes to
journalists relying on press conferences for their stories. Without taking into
consideration the real reasons Osaka took her stand, my first reaction was that
Osaka was doing sports writers a favour by making them file their copy without
any additional help from her.
Under the headline “More
than just a game: the ageless art of the sports writer”, The Guardian’s
Barney Ronay last week talked about his newspaper’s team “taking to the field
once again to report on an exciting flurry of events that hopefully will serve
as an agreeable distraction from the horrors of the past 18 months”. Among the
events he mentioned was Wimbledon, which Osaka will also miss. Ronay said, “One
thing that is startlingly unchanged through the years is the florid, waspish
tone of Guardian sports writing, a style much beloved of readers who
have always wanted far more than just results and action from their sports
pages. An early protagonist was Neville Cardus [who] is the obvious place to start
when comparing the experience of sports writing then and now.” Ronay believes
Cardus invented “a way of seeing and describing sport” and that he became
“sports writing’s first popular star”. On that point Ronay overlooks Pierce
Egan, whose Boxiana preceded Cardus by more than a century.
All that aside, Cardus
never attended a press conference. Nor did Egan. I have attended many, but
never once did I go into a press conference depending on it for a story. By a
sheer fluke, however, one press conference did give me a scoop. It was in Kuala
Lumpur during the 1998 Commonwealth Games, and I was the only Australian
journalist in attendance. I had sensed earlier in the day, being in a similar
position at the finish line of the women’s road cycling race, that “something
was up” in the Australian camp. None of the clearly anguished Australians would
“spill the beans”, but the race winner, Canadian Lyne Bessette, opened up on how the Australian team had
self-destructed through Kathy Watt deciding to ignore the race plan and go it
alone. Once on to it, I managed to get a call into the Games Village and, realising
I was armed with details, an Australian official confirmed all. The thing about
that particular press conference was that everyone had expected the usual scripted
replies – no one anticipated that Bessette, now a politician, would put her unexpected
triumph down to a severe outbreak of Australian cattiness.
Press conferences are no more or less than an easy way out for sports reporters who are incapable of constructing a news story from a mere sporting event. At a Press gathering before the 2000 Sydney Olympic Games, as I asked the head of the News Corp team what Jesse Owens had done at the 1936 Berlin Games. She didn’t know. “What does it matter?” she asked. It matters. Knowledge of sports means a reporter doesn’t have to go into a press conference, desperate for a story and prepared to ask Naomi Osaka questions which bear no relation to her tennis playing, or the outcome of the match in which she had just played. Press conferences also give athletes opportunities to lie, as Ben Johnson did in Seoul in 1988 and Marion Jones did in Sydney in 2000. In the broader world, they’re a platform for politicians to spread fake news about fake news. So I’m inclined to back Osaka. More power to her tennis elbow, I say.
Friday 18 June 2021
Olivetti Dora Portable Typewriter Brochure: 'Designed to Make Typewriting Even More Universally Available'
The Olivetti Dora portable typewriter (aka Olivetti Lettera 31, Ventura, Italia ’90 and Class, Underwood 315 and 310, Mercedes and Mercedes Super T, and Montgomery Ward Escort 33) is named for the Fiume Dora Baltea, a 110-mile long river in north-western Italy which runs through Ivrea, the home town of Olivetti. It is a tributary of the Po. It originates by Mont Blanc as the confluence of the Dora di Ferret, fed by the Pré de Bar Glacier in Val Ferret, and the Dora di Veny, fed by the Miage Glacier and Brenva Glacier in Val Veny. As it crosses the Aosta Valley, the Dora Baltea flows through the city of Aosta and near all the main cities of the lower Aosta Valley: Châtillon, Saint-Vincent, Verrès and Pont-Saint-Martin. After it enters Piedmont, it passes through Ivrea and a good part of Canavese and reaches the Po at Crescentino. It is popular place for whitewater rafting and kayaking. The Dora Riparia is another tributary of the Po.
Thursday 17 June 2021
Corona Portable Typewriters of the Chinese Communist Martyr and the British-Mexican Surrealist and Feminist
Two typewriters, both Corona portables, have gone on display in museums in the past few weeks – one, a Groton-made Corona 3 folding, is in Shanghai, and the other, a West Bromwich-made plastic fantastic SCM, is in Mexico City. They belonged to two very different people, though both did much for major 20th Century movements – Communism and Feminism.
The Corona in Shanghai forms part of the centenary-marking Memorial for the Site of the First National Congress of the Communist Party of China. It was, the organisers say, the typewriter used by Li Dazhao, or Li Ta-chao (1889-1927), to type up party documents. Li was a Chinese intellectual who took part in the New Cultural Movement in the early years of the Republic of China, established in 1912, and co-founded the Communist Party of China with Chen Duxiu in July 1921. However, seven years ago a later model Corona portable (a four-bank) was on display at the Li Dazhao Memorial Hall in Li’s birthplace, Laoting County, Hebei Province.
From 1914-16, Li attended Waseda University in Tokyo, but was expelled for taking part in the campaign against Yuan Shikai's imperial endeavors. Li returned to China in 1916 and served as a newspaper editor in Beijing. In January 1918 he was hired by Cai Yuanpei to be the head of the library at Beijing University and became a professor of politics, history and economics there. He influenced students during the May Fourth Movement 1919, including Mao Zedong, who worked as an assistant in the library's reading room. Under the leadership of Li and Chen, the CPC developed a close relationship with the Soviet controlled Comintern. Directed by the Comintern, Li and Chen joined the Nationalist Party (Kuomintangin, or KMT) in 1922 and forged a close tie with Sun Yat-sen to form a United Front. Li was elected to the KMT's Central Executive Committee in Guangzhou in January 1924 and visited the Soviet Union late that year. In 1926 he was forced to take refuge in the Soviet Embassy in Beijing. When the United Front collapsed in 1927, Zhang Zuolin of the Fengtian clique ordered a raid on the embassy. Zhang had Li and 19 others, both Nationalists and Communists, executed by strangulation on April 28, 1927.
The much later model
Corona portable went on display at the end of last month in the former home and
studio of British-born Mexican artist, surrealist painter and novelist Leonora
Carrington (1917-2011). Carrington lived there for more than 60 years. It is
now open to the public as a museum, to show some of her works and possessions. More
than 8600 objects have been catalogued. Pablo Weisz Carrington, son of the late
painter and sculptor, sold the house to the Autonomous Metropolitan University on condition
it be converted into a museum. The museum in Colonia Roma has on display 45 sculptures
and other works and possessions, including the typewriter, donated by Pablo.
Mary Leonora Carrington was born at Westwood House, Clayton Green, Chorley, Lancashire, England, the daughter of a wealthy textile manufacturer. Educated by governesses, tutors and nuns, she was expelled from two schools for her rebellious behaviour. Her family sent her to Florence, where she attended Mrs Penrose's Academy of Art. In 1935, she attended the Chelsea School of Art in London for one year, and with the help of her father's friend Serge Chermayeff, she was able to transfer to the Ozenfant Academy of Fine Arts established by the French modernist Amédée Ozenfant in London.
In 1936 Carrington saw the work of the German artist Max Ernst at the International Surrealist Exhibition in London and was attracted to Ernst before she even met him. They met at a party in London in 1937. The artists bonded and returned together to Paris, where Ernst promptly separated from his wife. In 1938 they left Paris and settled in Saint Martin d'Ardèche in southern France. The couple collaborated and supported each other's artistic development. Soon after the Nazis invaded France, Ernst was arrested by the Gestapo because his art was considered to be “degenerate”. He managed to escape and, leaving Carrington behind, fled to the United States with the help of arts sponsor Peggy Guggenheim. After Ernst's arrest Carrington was devastated and agreed to go to Spain with a friend, Catherine Yarrow. She stayed with family friends in Madrid until her paralyzing anxiety and delusions led to a psychotic breakdown and she was admitted to an asylum. She was given “convulsive therapy” and was treated with the drugs cardiazol and Luminal. She was released from the asylum into the care of a keeper, and was told that her parents had decided to send her to a sanatorium in South Africa. En route to South Africa, she stopped in Portugal, where she made her escape. She went to the Mexican Embassy to find Renato Leduc, a poet and Mexican Ambassador. Leduc was a friend of Pablo Picasso and agreed to a marriage of convenience with Carrington so that she would be accorded the immunity given to a diplomat's wife. Meanwhile, Ernst had married Guggenheim in New York in 1941. That marriage ended a few years later. Ernst and Carrington never resumed their relationship.
After a year in New York, Leduc and Carrington went to Mexico, which she grew to love and where she lived, on and off, for the rest of her life. She befriended painter Frida Kahlo, future Nobel laureate Octavio Paz and Hungarian photographer Kati Horna, and had a relationship with the émigré Spanish artist Remedios Varo. Carrington and Leduc divorced in 1943. Carrington later married Emerico “Chiki” Weisz, born in Hungary, a photographer and the darkroom manager for Robert Capa during the Spanish Civil War. Carrington died on May 25, 2011, aged 94, in a hospital in Mexico City as a result of complications arising from pneumonia.