Last night, some friends and I agreed to reread “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place,” the story I usually dredge up to counter the fashionable dismissal of Hemingway as a drooling, half-literate boob.

I was surprised by how much I had forgotten about the very short story. I like to think I forgot so I could enjoy rediscovering its sweet, sad sentences, from “Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name…” to “an old man is a nasty thing” to this exchange, which I intend to forget before the day is through:

“Last week he tried to commit suicide,” one waiter said.
“Why?”
“He was in despair.”
“What about?”
“Nothing.”
“How do you know it was nothing?”
“He has plenty of money.”

That kills me.