Absinthe is overrated

Yes, I performed the ritual.

Water. Sugar cube.

It is too strong and doesn’t mix with anything else; you cannot have more than one but you cannot have anything else after. Fine for a night in not for a night out.

As far as pastis goes, you’re better off with Ricard or Pernod.

Besides, absinthe isn’t the same; it will never be like turn-of-the-century Paris. Nothing is like it used to be; nothing is as good as it used to be.

Everything I’d love to do I don’t do because I don’t like how it’s done now.

But I’ll still have Hemingway’s aperitif, described in an article for Esquire:

2 parts French vermouth –1 part Italian vermouth – dash of bitters (Angostura I assume) – lemon peel garnish; in a tall glass (highball) with ice, stir and serve.¹

One must be educated in the history of spirits to know that French and Italian stand for ‘dry’ and ‘sweet’ varieties of vermouth. One need not substitute. In fact, there is no way to fail this recipe because every vermouth is different. There are no two kinds that are the same in their blend of herbs, spices, botanicals, aromatics.

Hemingway’s aperitif, which I nickname Moby Dick due to the subject matter of the article², will always be as good as it was because it exists to be enjoyed eternally now.

The same cannot be said about finding a job or raising children or being a writer.

The problem is that you can’t be a writer and get paid so you need a job but it’s difficult to find one and parenthood is a whole other matter that doesn’t make money and absolutely sucks if you don’t have everything else.

Fewer people would be unemployed if we simplified the unnecessarily tedious job application process.

One shouldn’t have to submit a ten-page resume, cover letter, pass 3 interviews, and orientation to stock shelves or flip burgers for 17$ per hour.

Back in the old days, you could hop on a boxcar, ride 5 hours, show up at some random mill or factory and say “where’s the foreman. I’m looking for work” and some bearded man with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth would say “seems like a good fella. Show up at 6 tomorrow”.

People want to work; they don’t want to fill out forms.

Now you also can’t be a great writer today because you’re alone.

Writers are not meant to work alone.

It is to be expected that the overall quality of writing today will not match the achievements of past generations because every writer must work alone. During the 1920s, the greatest writers of the century all found themselves in Paris; Hemingway benefited from the help of Stein, Pound, and Joyce (to name a few). And let’s not forget Sylvia Beach’s Shakespeare and Co. bookstore/publishing company! Without her help, Hemingway wouldn’t have been exposed to great Russian novels and Joyce wouldn’t have been able to publish Ulysses.

In the 1930s, in Paris again, Henry Miller was generously assisted by Anais Nin for the editing, writing, and publishing of his one great masterpiece Tropic of Cancer. Likewise, Nin herself was assisted by several men who helped her on refining philosophical, psychological, and aesthetic elements of her being.

Finally, we have the Beat Generation. Kerouac, Ginsberg, and Burroughs all edited each other’s work at some point.

Who can say they have several author friends to help them? Even then, it takes place through email inbox and private messaging. There is no group effort, and I am beginning to wonder if great literature always relied upon a collective effort—that greatness itself cannot and usually does not come from a single person.

Maybe we should not be so hard on ourselves, because we’re doing alright considering we’re doing it alone.

You cannot do parenting alone, or at least, it takes two to conceive a child. But everything else will fall apart because trying to be a decent father or mother in this age is just as bad as trying to be a great writer. Society compels you to compromise and adopt their way of life, instead of honoring a noble and traditional way of bringing up children.

I would probably do it if I didn’t have to do it like it’s done today.

Just like writing, just like absinthe, but at least everything else I can drink the same way.

1. Esquire, May 1936, see By-Line

2. “There She Breaches! or Moby Dick off the Moro” (reprinted in By-Line)