An Excerpt From European English

In school I am apart of 18NAA-the nature science program. My friends are all 17/18 years old, and a lot smarter than the average looker. It's pretty intimidating to be around them but I make do.

Well anyway I figured I would share this assignment we did a few weeks back. We got into groups and shared what we wrote. Our teacher is open to whatever we write-the system is fairly individual-based in Sweden. The folks I got paired with are definitely talented, men självklart när vi delade vad vi har skrivit alla mina vänner fortfarande sa att det var något speciellt. de är fel och borde accepterar komplimentet.

The Lost Generation

Kara Newman

9 December 2019

Sweden, Malin Janko Enander

Dialogue Of Dead Poets

Preliloquy

An author named Stein once coined the term “The Lost Generation” to eloquently express matters concerning a group of expatriates in France. These specific persons felt as a whole America had collapsed into itself-in some ways they were correct. For the time being, the world had never experienced such universal strife and carnage before. More than 40 million lives were lost in this war alone. The drastic effects of this war instilled a depressing perspective into who those whom survived; especially survivors born during the war. Growing up, American youth observed futile death and destruction, thus creating a lack thereof purpose and ambition.

Can you imagine watching this unfold-even more so as a mere child? Thomas Jefferson, author of the Declaration of Independence, defined the true meaning of the American Dream as the “the God-given right to pursue happiness”. Well, not to diss a Founding Father, but not only were the hopes and dreams of the American people thoroughly annihilated in the first world war, but the American Dream lost it’s value as well. And what is a country without dreams? Absolute shit. Thus, a truly creative period of banal hedonism for literary artists began anon.

(should read this aloud-it's meant as a story)

Text

It’s a rainy day in Paris. More than usual of the lovely locals rest in their homes with their adoring families. But one man sits alone in a bar, because why not hammer Hennessy before midday?

All of a sudden a stranger enters an almost-empty room.

“Bartender, make me a scotch”, this foreign man barks. His name is Hemingway, but the other fellow doesn’t quite know that yet. Due to the foul weather, the bar is mostly empty. This Hemingway man hasn’t noticed because he is an alcoholic. He sits down with his Scotch, thinking of how he is more alone than ever. Unbeknownst to him, the other man has noticed his appearance.

Since the other fellow in the bar is European, he is not going to start a conversation with this foreigner. But, he does order a Scotch on the rocks-just like the stranger. This, Hemingway notices. He mutters something to himself. The Frenchman surprisingly speaks up.

“Hey, you good pal?”, the stranger asks.

“Do I look okay to you”, he responds.

“Of course not-that’s why I asked, you drunken idiot. You practically stumbled into here!”.

“What do you expect you sick bastard. My country is in ruins! Fighting as a soldier did nothing to help”. Unbeknownst to most people, Ernest Hemingway had 4 failed marriages, and committed suicide decades after his release from the army.

“Putain! That is not my problem. Go cry to your woman”.

Little did this stranger know, Hemingway’s first marriage was falling apart as if it never had had value in the first place. Självklart, he hadn’t developed alcoholism over nothing.

As the Frenchman abruptly left the bar-clearly offended-, another stranger strolls into the bar. Others after him soon follow. The foreigners seemed to trickle in as if delicate raindrops from a dark cloud overhead. All ordered decent liquor; as if they had the money for an overpriced glass of gin or scotch. At this point in history, the American dollar had great value whereas the French currency did not, thus making France a prime place to escape to for those with the necessary funds.

As the day progressed into the evening, one American after another began to notice each other in the bar. Being rowdy folks, conversations and common little tiqs began friendships anew. What they didn’t know yet is they weren’t so different from each other-just like me and you. Among themselves they shared crazy stories and sweeter memories as the hours passed; reminiscing of a simpler time when they all once hoped of achieving a simple satisfaction in life each of them had come to understand they could never have: happiness.