I’m not supposed to admit that I don’t like Hemingway, am I? It’s like confessing to Mile-O that I don’t understand Burns. To be honest, it just failed to excite me. I don’t get enjoyment from reading about bulls having swords thrust between their shoulders, or horses galloping, entrails flying. And the hunting, shooting, fishing thing, well . . . I don’t want to start a heated debate, but I can’t see the fun in shooting an animal. I would love to have a go at
stalking one, right up to the point where you are close enough to shoot. But I wouldn’t actually shoot. Fishing too. Can’t see the point. I have a good relationship with my goldfish and I would never drag him around his tank by a hook in his mouth.
I couldn’t get into the Hemingway characters, either. He gave a lot of detail and description of the men, enough that you could empathise, and stand in their shoes. But the female characters were about as exciting as pot-plants or standard lamps – just put there to serve a purpose.
Oh, and the dialogue. I suppose it must be dated now, but I can’t imagine people talking the way his characters talked . . . Oh, and the length of the sentences. Sometime he would give you a whole paragraph with around twelve equal-length sentences. Reading it was like marching to the beat of a drum. Not that I’ve ever marched to the beat of a drum . . .
That’s it, Wabbit! I can’t relate to it. Never been a bull-fighter, a fisherman, a waitress, a pot-plant. Or marched to the beat of a drum. Da-da-Da-da-Da-da. Da-da-Da-da-Da-da.
Enough silliness. Why did the stories mean so much to
you.
Third Man Girl