Mr. Ernest Hemingway,

In the late summer of a year of poor weather, I took a trip from Princeton to New Orleans. The train passed through the hills of Pennsylvania. Plants hung from the cliffs, still wet from the evening rain. The train created intense noise. The passengers were silent. When I switched trains in Chicago, the station was full of conversations. I did not speak to anyone until my train arrived in New Orleans a day later.

The buildings of the French Quarter were stone and wood worn down by age. When I found a bar where I could sit outdoors, I sat alone on a patio with a man wearing a suit. The man was pale, with a round face and a long forehead. He was staring into his book with an intense gaze. He seemed unaware of the world around him.

"It is very hot today." I said. I had begun to take my wallet from my pocket.

"The weather is alright." The man said. He was reading a book that he was careful to keep at a distance from his beer.

"This bar is quiet." I said. "I had heard that this city was lively."

"The band hasn't arrived yet." The man said. "I'm waiting for their show. I've been following them around for months."

"Do they play jazz?" I asked. There was a small jazz scene in Princeton.

"Yes." He said. "I arrive early to get a good seat."

"Do you always wear a suit?" I asked.

"I was in class earlier. I did not bother to change." The man said.

I peaked over his shoulder to look at his book. "What book are you reading?"

"The Old Man and the Sea." The man said. "I find the works of Hemingway interesting, even if I find his writing style a bit dry."

I had never read a book of yours before. The sentences in the book were short. The ideas were to the point. It was different than the writing I had read in college. I walked over to the bar with my wallet still in hand.

"I'd like one glass of whatever beer that gentlemen with the book is drinking." I said to the bartender, who was slouching with a bored look.

"Of course." the bartender said. He poured the beer from the tap and handed me the glass. I walked back to the man reading at the table.

"What inspired you to read that book?" I asked.

"I teach at a university, I write newspapers, and I write novels myself. I need a frequent intake of written word."

He had impressed me. "You are a novelist?" I said. "I've always wanted to write novels."

"Yes." He said. "Well, in a way. I wrote a novel when I was sixteen but could never find a publisher, and I tried. I'm working on a comedy now. A farce of sorts, set here in New Orleans."

"Well, I wish you the best of luck in finding a publisher." I said to him.

I stayed for the band who had a upbeat and brass-heavy sound. The man in the suit kept his eyes focused on the band all night. There was a look in his eyes, a hunger for success.

I bought the same novel the next morning at a bookstore in the Garden Distract. I found it simple but captivating. I read all your novels that fall. The beauty and power of nature. The horrors of war. The fragile nature of romance. I found all these ideas merged together in perfect balance in your novels. Simple words can convey complex ideas. Ideas that all people should consider. Your writing hits a nerve in the reader. Many of your words are still with me. You speak many truths, of the world breaking men. Of the sincere lack of people willing to listen to their fellow man. But one quotation of yours sticks with me still, memorized word for word. “There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man. True nobility is being superior to your former self.” I hope that I will improve myself. I will become a better person. I will become a better writer. There are many who think themselves superior, but few willing to improve themselves. I hope you are still striving to become an even better person and writer, since your works are already great. Your honesty as an author I greatly admire and there are many other people that you clearly have inspired. I hope you continue to write more, you may be the greatest novelist in this nation's history.

Your fan,

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