I was an infant of six months when she died. There are no accessible memories to speak of, only a faint and foggy familiarity when I think of her: I was seventeen when I found her journals, written during the last years of her life.
Hemingway once wrote, in A Moveable Feast, that all he expected of himself on any given day, was one true and perfect sentence. This is, in my opinion, one of his finest books, and one of the finest examples of descriptive language there is in modern auto-biographical writing. The man made a habit of crafting amazing prose; deep, rich textures and visceral experience with very few words.