"Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?"

Looking through my copy of The Sun Also Rises, I believe it is the most quotable Hemingway I have read. Line after line resonates with me on the deepest level possible. I used to think the Lost Generation represented a unique time in history, and I was vaguely jealous of their beautiful misery. The older I get, the more I believe this is the universal novel describing the human condition. The hardboiled by day, broken by night attitude to life hurts and attracts. As a person who has been dragging myself along from country to country, I know Hemingway was right when he said you can't escape yourself by moving.

But you can build that fashionable surface of the glorious expatriate - which haunts you by night.

Wonderful, wonderful prose!

I love how Hemingway writes, he was so great at saying a lot while keeping his prose clean and sparse. I found the co-dependent relationship between Brett and Jake fascinating. That Spanish bullfighting though, oof. It was pretty hard to read at times.

Let me begin by saying that I hold Hemingway in high esteem: so much so that while at the Key West Literary Seminar this year I visited his home for a second time. I have read nearly all of his novels and admire his devotion to writing insofar as he lived humbly in Paris among the Lost Generation to establish himself as a novelist. He paid his existential and literary dues as a novelist and was richly rewarded for his gifts. "The Sun Also Rises" is an early work and, although one can see his promise as a novelist, this particular novel suffers from a green, immature style, which is often the case of early novels. The book is taken from Hemingway's experiences in Paris on the Left Bank, the fiestas of Pamplona during the running of the bulls and fishing for trout in the mountains of Northern Spain. Despite the relative immaturity of his style he was an innovator: he was one of the early novelists to write dialogue with a truly sensitive ear attuned toward the ways in which ordinary people spoke to each other. He was committed to creating verisimilitude in dialogue and dialect. The characters cover themselves in their conversations with the slang of the day: "Women made such swell friends. Awfully swell. In the first place, (sic) you had to be in love with a woman to have a basis of friendship...The bill always came. That was one of the swell things you could count on." One claim he makes, the truth of which may not be denied, is that we certainly pay for the things that we do: "You paid some way for everything that was any good." So Hemingway produces a literary style for dialogue that is so readily played out in the novelists who follow him and becomes so advanced in its execution by them that a work like "The Sun Also Rises" almost seems a parody in many places. It must be one of the most quoted works in the Good Bad Hemingway Contest held annually which both praises and parodies his novels. He writes in criticism of another writer that "He's through... He's written about all the things he knows, and now he's on all the things he doesn't know." Hemingway always wrote about the things that he knew from first-hand experience: war, fishing, writing, Cuba, Key West, the UP of Michigan, Paris, safari and women. Hem was a man of half as many wives as Henry VIII. Although he knew many women intimately, he didn't really understand them fully. I find that in many places Hemingway's women, even Lady Brett Ashley, play over and over again primarily as helpless objects of desire. In this book like most of his other characters Brett is a flat character and a stereotype for women of his era. I also found that other minorities (Jews, Afro-Americans) seem diminished in his work except for bull fighters and fishermen, essentially they are servants to a greater or lesser extent. Later in the "Old Man and the Sea" clearly this is not the case but it is true here in this book. He still has not yet really developed the sense of humanity which would emerge later to earn him a Nobel Prize for Literature. The male characters also seem flat with the Jewish boxer, Robert Cohn, and his hedonistic friends, Bill and the drunken Michael. He draws the bullfighter, Romero, a Spanish Romeo quite elegantly because he imbues in this character the deep respect Hemingway had for the courageous bullfighters and also portrays the bulls themselves as heroic, magnificent forces of nature, downstream like the great marlin, doomed by man's tragic desire to conquer and kill them for sport or sustenance as God similarly may play with mankind. Jake Barnes is a well drawn figure because he is Hemingway. It's as if Hemingway created Robert Cohn to be himself like a boxer, and Mike like the big drinker and the Hemingway women as the objects of desire that he sought. The book is poorly edited: I know, sorry, not withstanding Maxwell Perkins this is heresy but I stand by my claim. The stories about the fiesta at Pamplona and running of the bulls and the trout fishing and Brett with Romero weave a compelling tale worth reading. His writing about bull fighting and fishing attest to his fascination with both sports and elsewhere in hunting on safari. Then there is, of course, the elegant innuendo of the unfortunate war wound, one of the great scars of life for a man devoted to total immersion in his existential experience: none of us go through life without scars and a few may become immortal but rarely do we come out alive in the end. By all means read Hemingway but perhaps not this novel. Read the immortal works of Hemingway in "For Whom the Bell Tolls" and "A Farewell to Arms" and "The Old Man and the Sea" and "The Torrents of Spring" and even "Across the River and into the Trees" which impress me more as the Nobel Prize winner rather than the green, American newspaperman in Paris of the Lost Generation. Hemingway is an iconic American author whose simplicity of style and power in telling a story earned him vast wealth and reverence as a writer during and after his lifetime: what novelist worth his salt wouldn't want to come back in the next life as Hem?

While I was reading this I thought time and again about a quote from another book.

This one: Mrs. Poe

“That’s it!” I dropped the magazine.
“What Mamma?” asked Vinnie
“This silly alliteration – it’s clinkering, clattering claptrap.”
Ellen’s face was as straight as a judge’s on court day. “You mean it’s terrible, trifling trash?”
I nodded. “Jumbling, jarring junk.”
Vinnie jumped up, trailing shawls like a mummy trails bandages. “No it’s piggly, wiggly poop!”
“Don’t be rude, Vinnie,” I said.
The girls glanced at each other.
I frowned. “It’s exasperating, excruciating excrement.”

As I am sure you’ve guessed they are not discussing Hemingway.

I had just come off reading The Paris Wife If ever there was a time for Hemingway to shine for me. this was it, the pump being well primed and all.

Still only two words come to mind, while I am thinking about this book, the first is vapid and the other, drivel.

I can say that there are some scenes, during the running and fighting of the bulls, where the bare bonesness of his words, paints a very clear picture.

But seriously, how does one write a review about nothing?

OK - I have no business writing reviews or longish reviews about novels - I don't read criticism and know nothing anyway… -- but WTF… of all the books I've re-read from my youth of late -- this one… not only held up best, but I realize I had no frikkin' clue whatsoever what this book was about when I was 16 or 17 and when I read it with my buddy X., the most tragic kid I ever knew… along with a lot of other Hemingway books and all the Scott Fitzgerald we could find -- even the The Crack-Up at 17… with Mr. McCaffrey, who was all of 22 and straight out of Harvard and very cool and whose father had been one of the editors on the publisher's side of The Moveable Feast, we were told…, and X., who at the age of 6, looked (and still looked a decade later) EXACTLY like Opie Taylor (Ron Howard), and who had had to watch his father shoot his mother dead in the kitchen, slipping on the blood holding his teddy bear…, and then watch him (the father) shoot the older brother who survived and is now a well known or well enough known writer…. and who looked like Opie but with an awesome intensity… and this, of course… all in New York… during the days of the Revolution… at the very prep school where J.D. Salinger got kicked out of… but anyways…, I digress.



So Jake Barnes… Jake's had an accident. But apart from a somewhat ironic look in the mirror and a few crappy days and some tears on the top of his bed thinking of Brett…, seems basically OK, no…? in fact, the picture of health…, the very PICTURE of it… walking and drinking and staying up all night and hopping up and down from the tops of buses and up mountains and fishing and stripping down and bathing and floating and diving and soaking in the sun and the sand and taking off his suit and bathing and drying down and drinking and looking and being basically happy -- showing no ill effects, really -- certainly no obvious PHYSICAL wounds of any mutilation -- and even… psychologically… is more happy and clear and sober than anything else, having "paid" he says for everything and for more good than bad…



And so it appears, frankly, that the "accident" is more metaphor than bruise. And that what Jake lost in the war… were simply his illusions. And that the source and goad of those illusions… is love. Which Brett is in the grip of…. Brett, who can only love the man she can't have… but that Jake, at least… is basically free of -- free enough, at least… to allow him to see and note and breath the air….



Obviously fame and alcohol and depression and electric shocks and god-knows-what-else fucked up Papa Hemingway eventually -- but oh… what a book he wrote at the tender age of 26….!



The end.

Oh, to have been Ernest Hemingway. Except for the whole shotgun thing.

He was a man, back when that meant something. Whatever that means. He had it all: a haunted past; functional alcoholism; a way with words; a way with women; and one hell of a beard. I mean, this was the guy who could measure F. Scott Fitzgerald's penis without anyone batting an eye. He was just that cool.

I love Hemingway. You might have guessed that, but let's make it clear off the bat. For Whom the Bell Tolls is in my top five all-time fave books (there's nothing better than a literary novel about blowing up a bridge). The Old Man and the Sea is a fever dream. A Farewell Arms is one of the most exquisitively depressing things I've ever read.

Despite my high expectations, The Sun Also Rises does not "rise" (get it?) to the level of those books. Or maybe I'm an idiot. It's possible. This book is supposedly one of his masterpieces - if not his magnum opus. I thought it was - gulp - kinda boring.

Generally, I attempt to avoid using the word "boring" in a review. It's a broad, vague, and diluted descriptor; a subjective one-off that doesn't tell you anything. Its use is better suited for a bitter 10th grader's five-paragraph theme, turned in on the last day of school after that tenth grader skimmed twenty pages, read the Cliffs Notes version, and stayed up all night typing with two fingers. I try to hold my Goodreads reviews to a slightly higher standard (the standard of an 11th grader who is taking summer school classes to get a jump on senior year).

Really, though, that was my impression: boring. Of course, I didn't read this while lapping sangria in Madrid, which I've heard will heighten this novel's overall effect.

The Sun Also Rises tells the story of Jake Barnes, an ex-patriate living in Paris. He was wounded in World War I and is now impotent. He is in love with Ashley, who is a... What did they call sluts in the early 20th Century? Because that's sort of what she is, though she has a tender place in her heart for Jake, to whom she keeps returning. Jake is a journalist, apparently haunted by the war, and he spends his time drinking in Paris. There's also a guy named Robert Cohn, a former boxer, who's also in love with Ashley. Bill and Mike also hang around; Mike was originally in a relationship with Ashley, before he lost her to Cohn, who in turn loses her to a Spanish bullfighter.

The plot, as it is, involves a bunch of drinking in Paris. Jake drinks a lot, stumbles home, then drinks some more before falling asleep. (The drinking and stumbling home reminds me of my own life, which is worth at least one star). Jake eventually takes the train to Spain to do some fishing. Hemingway describes the scene in excruciating detail and you really get a feel for the place:

Then the road came over the crest, flattened out, and went into a forest. It was a forest of cork oaks, and the sun came through the trees in patches, and there were cattle grazing back in the trees. We went through the forest and the road came out and turned along a rise of land, and out ahead of us was a rolling green plain, with dark mountains beyond it. These were not like the brown, heat-baked mountains we had left behind. These were wooded and there were clouds coming down from them. The green plain stretched off. It was cut by fences and the white of the road showed through the trunks of a double line of trees that crossed the plain towards the north.

The book goes on in this manner, for some time. It's as though Hemingway has turned into an eloquent Garmin device. Step by step. The walk to the creek. The heat of the sun. The taste of the wine. It is all very vivid, and beautifully written, but really, it didn't go anywhere. It seemed like filler. Something to break up the constant drinking (while the drinking breaks up the Spanish travelogue).

The lack of a plot normally wouldn't bother me much, but the book as a whole just wasn't working for me. I didn't care for the characters, who are mostly drunken, indolent, well-off whiners. Also, I was intensely jealous of the characters, who are mostly drunken, indolent, well-off whiners. In other words, aspirational figures.

Really, though, I just wanted more out of this book. Hemingway's other works have burrowed deep into my consciousness, so that I find myself referring back to them time and again.

The Sun Also Rises did not achieve this feat.

Eventually, Jake's merry band of drunkards go to Pamplona to watch the bullfights. There is drinking. Fighting. Drinking. Bullfighting. Drinking. Drinking. Passing out. Drinking. I actually got a contact drunk from reading this book.

I imagine that sex also occurred, somewhere in the midst of the drinking and the bulls and the overflowing testosterone, but Hemingway is discrete.

There are some good things, here. As I mentioned earlier, Hemingway is a master of description. His prose is deceptively simple; his declarations actually do a great deal to put you there, into the scene, with immediacy. The book also features one of Hemingway's most famous quotes: "Nobody lives life all the way up, except bullfighters." For some reason, that line has taken on a kind of profundity, though I have to admit, I almost missed it in context.

The best part of the book is the last lines, uttered by Jake Barnes: "Isn't it pretty to think so." I'll leave it to you to determine its meaning. As for me, I am anxiously awaiting the moment when, after a night of hard drinking, I can use this line on someone who has just uttered an inane comment.

Alas, I'm still waiting for that moment. And that gives me all the excuse I need to keep sidling up to the bar, ordering a whiskey straight with a whiskey back, and chatting up the people around me in the hopes that one of the drunks I meet will also be a Hemingway fan.

شخصیت محوری این داستان زن زیبایی به نام "برت" است که می‌شود گفت همه مردان اطرافش عاشقش هستند. راوی داستان "جیک بارنز" که به دلیل مصدومیت جنگی از برقراری رابطه جنسی ناتوان شده و به همین دلیل برت با تاجری به نام "مایکل کمبل" نامزد می‌کند. در این میان "رابرت کوهن" دوست صمیمی جیک که زمانی قهرمان بوکس بوده، پس از آشنایی با برت عاشقش می‌شود و به دنبال آن‌ها راهی اسپانیا می‌شود. اما در اسپانیا برت عاشق جوانی گاوباز می‌شود و ...
خوشحال شدم که در این داستان خبری از جنگ و مرگ نبود (مثل دو اثر قبلی که از همینگوی خوندم: وداع با اسلحه و زنگ‌ها برای که به صدا درمی‌آیند) اما چیزی که برام درک‌نشدنیه این سبعیت انسان‌ها نسبت به حیواناته. چطور به بازی گرفتن و تحریک کردن یک گاو وحشی و در نهایت کشتنش براشون لذت‌بخشه؟؟؟

For a long time I was convinced that there were two sorts of people in the world: those who adore Hemingway, gush about his genius and lavish praise upon him at every opportunity, and those who despise him utterly. As it turns out, there is a third category: those who have read him and still remain wholly indifferent. I am that third category.

I found my copy of The Sun Also Rises in a thrift-store for a buck, and I figured, 'meh, what the hell?' It is supposed to be one of the fabled great American novels, after all.

I feel rather odd about this book. I couldn't honestly tell you that I liked it, but I can't honestly say I disliked either. It's definitely not a bad novel, but I found I liked how Hemingway writes far more than I liked what he was writing about and so I have a hard time calling it good either. The story seemed to me to be somewhat flat, and the characters more like puppets than people. The narrator/main character seemed mostly detached from the actual story, and it felt like I was listening to a very interesting and eloquent man retelling an anecdote about some business he found himself in the middle of, but that he found very trying and tedious.

I don't know... maybe Hemingway just isn't for me. If this novel is indicative of the rest of his work I probably won't be reading very much more of him.

This is probably the trendiest novel from Ernest Hemingway. It was published one year after The Great Gatsby. It happens in Paris and Spain. It is about 'the lost generation'. Even though he hated those people, he was one of them.

He is the protagonist of this debut novel, even if the opening sentence is about Robert Cohn. He hated the real guy or his wife so much that he pretended to write a book about him, only to reduce him to the status of a secondary character, of course, that only after Hemingway shared his secrets with the world. :))

"I could picture it. I have a rotten habit of picturing the bedroom scenes of my friends."

Hemingway's reputation is unfortunately true. It's the reason people don't want writers as friends because they will write about your problems. At least, Hemingway also writes about his problems in this one, but I'm still unconvinced about it.

I think he made the right decision of leaving this world behind because he couldn't compete with Fitzgerald. His sensibilities are more about fishing and bullfighting, but you don't start a novel in Paris for that.

Rereading The Sun Also Rises in July is like watching It's a Wonderful Life in December -- a worthy tradition. Too bad I don't do it. Every fifth to tenth July, is more like it.

But I found three clippings in my old copy (pictured). One was a newspaper photo of a drunk being tossed by a bull in the running of the bulls in Pamplona. The San Fermin Festival there is always around the Fourth of July and provides much more bang for your buck than a silly fireworks show. All you do is don white, wear a red sash about the waist and neck, and get wasted. Then run like hell ahead of the bulls and hope you don't wind up on an AP syndicate photo released to the world under the words "Advantage: Bull."

The other clippings: one was a list of notes I wrote for an on-line book group. Don't remember which one or where, actually, but it happened. The other was a recipe for Rum St. James I wrote down. Oddly, though Hem describes every manner of drink and meal he has in this book, Rum St. James isn't one of them. That was from A Moveable Feast, proof that I mixed Hemingway books as frequently as I mixed metaphors at one time.

As it is his second book (but first famous one), The Sun Also Rises is less self-parody than some of EH's other books. Some of that clipped speech and repetition stuff, learned from Gertrude Stein (ugh), yes, but not so bad. And of course EH's fascination with women who had short, boyish hair (in this case, Lady Brett Ashley). Anti-semitism? Boy, howdy.

Imagine reading this if you were actually on this trip (it's a roman à clef, so characters match real people). Especially if you were Robert Cohn. Ouch. But really, the whole lot of them come off badly. It's the scenery that wins best character award. Especially San Sebastian at the end, where Jake "baptizes" himself in the Atlantic by cleansing off the whole rotten mess that the fiesta created. Love those ten pages or so. As a reader, I needed a rebirth too.

Then, of course, the ending. A perfect finish. How many episodes in life can end with the words, "Isn't it pretty to think so?" Too many. It's so good I thought it might be in Ecclesiastes like the title, but no.

Anyway, it was a grand mood read and a great book to reread in Maine on vacation in the sun with the dry smell of pine needles and the sun glinting off the water so its reflection does that gold dance thing on the tree boughs above. You can take naps, too, letting your head rest against the old book with its yellow pages and signature smell of old paper and ink.

That smell is comfort food for readers, plain and simple -- a time machine to the first time you read a favorite book and thought you'd found the best friend you never had. What can I say. First-blush sentiments carry you away like that....

fulfilling book riot's 2018 read harder challenge task #24: An assigned book you hated (or never finished)

the three-star rating is from my first go-round - from my memory of reading it in high school, and seems higher than the truth. let's see how karen enjoys this tale of a busted-peen, weary expatriates and bullfighting as an adult.

**********************************************

obviously this was going to be the read harder task i saved for last. i can hold a book-grudge as well as anyone, and i don’t need to be wasting any of my precious reading-time on a book that has already displeased me once. but i approached the task in good faith - of all the books i have ever been assigned in my life, there were only two i could remember disliking* - this (AP english junior year) and The Red Pony (honors english 8th grade). since i have loved every other steinbeck i have read but as far as hemingway goes, i've only read this (and maybe a short story here or there), it seemed more magnanimous to give papa a shot with an older, wiser karen.

older, wiser karen didn’t love it, either. older wiser karen has read The Alexandria Quartet and so has very little patience for any tale of the romantic or platonic entanglements of a buncha boozy and worldweary expats that is not as beautifully written as Justine.

however, you can play a fun drinking game with this one using the endless repetition of words like ‘swell’ and ‘chap’ and ‘tight’ or a game of millennial outrage bingo for all the occurrences of ‘nigger’ and ‘faggot’ and the baked-in misogyny and anti-semitic flavor. although it’s possible that it’s not anti-semitic so much as it is characters disliking one particular jewish character who, it must be said, is pretty irritating - smug, clingy, thirsty.

on that last point, everyone in this whole damn book is thirsty in the non-slang sense. there is some truly heroic drinking going on in this book - one imagines a row of rotting livers wincing at the excess…

“This is a good place," he said.
"There's a lot of liquor," I agreed.” 

why this was/is assigned at a high school level is bewildering (unless as a cautionary tale to teen drinking). assigning books like this is what makes teens think they hate reading. there’s nothing in this that speaks to a teen audience. sure, teens can read it, understand the words, identify the themes, but that’s the work part of it without the pleasure. there just isn’t anything here to relate to, for that age. kids full to the brim with sexual sap aren’t going to appreciate the incel woes of a man with a war-wounded peen resignedly drowning his feels for a vigorous lusty woman. obsessive love, yes, but the quiet sputtering disappointment of said obsessive love? bitch, please. you give those kids what they want - you feed their need for drama and trauma - you give them Wuthering Heights, you give them The Great Gatsby, you give them everybody’s dead and ruined and glamorously broken by the end, not just some dusty guy drifting from place to place watching a woman burn (figuratively).

this book is exhausting. it is about exhaustion - emotional, moral, physical, romantic, spiritual, intellectual exhaustion. the one thing i wasn’t when i was 16 was exhausted. and while i am exhausted now, as weary and brokendown as many of the grinning-through-it characters in this book, it didn’t leave any particular impression on me this time, either. is this a book report yet? probably not, but it’s what you’re getting.

three stars because why not?


*and also Moby-Dick or, The Whale, but i already gave that asshole his second chance.

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n  The wind goes towards the south,
And turns around to the north,
The wind whirls about continually,
And comes again on its circuit [...]
The eye is not satisfied with seeing,
Nor the ear filled with hearing [...]
And there is nothing new under the sun. [...]
There is no remembrance of former things,
Nor will there be any remembrance of things that are to come'n
- Ecclesiastes

-------

As complex as it may be, Hemingway's book boils down to one chief topic. It isn't a book about Paris, neither about road trip or pilgrimage, nor corrida, nor fashion, nor heavy booze, nor love.

Fiesta is chiefly a book about loss.


I read this one in 2015. There are passages when this book bored me stiff. And I was not far to think this book rubbish. It is almost as if no significant change could ever happen to the characters. By the middle of the book you hardly wait any twist or major spin in the plot. And right you are. What happens is only the same everlasting and dispiriting present, 'the same old bad play'.

I didn't enjoy this read, yet, I acknowledge Hemingway's efforts to be true-to-life. In my opinion, he scores a point when it comes to tackling the subject of loss.


Wild displays of pent-up tension hint at deeper issues and losses :

- Loss of illusions for Cohn, loss of trust and faith for Jake, who dumps Brett with Romero, loss of honour for Romero the bullfighter, who bends his stiff code of honour and is viewed as the worst casualty in this ride.

- Sheer waste of time.
As the story hovers from one bar to another restaurant, there are passages when this book bored me stiff. You may think it quite odd, but this miserable rambling is almost the same as in American Psycho. Strange as it is, by many features, it struck me as very close to Hemingway's novel.

In American Psycho, a pack of traders spend all their time in expansive restaurants and idle chats and make-belief, and pretense, and shallow social intercourse. Without intending at all to get better acquainted with one another. In fact, they even mix up first names and swap them with one another. Now, in Fiesta, this is the same disheartening frozen time. All this conveys an awkward impression of everlasting present. Is this a chance likeness? I assume it isn't: both novels are partly 'devoted' to loss and absence.

- The last and most salient feature of loss : the loss of enjoyment of life.
Initially, this journey was planned as a recreational ride. Mind that their recreational ride in Spain, an image for the fun in eternal youth, soon turns out to be a glimpse of hell.
I don't know about your own conception of hell. Here is mine : I size up hell as a place where people you love are absent on a regular basis, also you have no means to know how they get by. On top of that, a place devoid of any hint of purpose, where you spend time waiting for nothing to happen.
A place where you have null enjoyment in the present, you can't.


I have a mind to link their experience in Spain with Goya's series of Black Paintings...



Ever seen this eye-candy? This is Saturn devouring one of his sons, the most famous of all Black Paintings. Completed by 1823, the Black Paintings are an infamous series of 16 paintings interweaving images from Spain and manifold mythological pictures of horror, mock enjoyment and profound dismay. Quite like Fiesta when you give it a thought.


To me, this is, by far, the picture most akin to Fiesta.

La romería de San Isidro, 1823, carries a huge load of false merriment and jollity, strongly similar to parties in Fiesta. At the fore, a party of strollers, with a guitar player, singing out loud. On the rear, a herd of people, trailing after the procession in the hills, surrounding Madrid.
This results in a curious double-play between the mock jollity in the foreground and the gloomy throng of woeful drab and black-clothed people in the rear. This hardly resembles any merriment or cheerful communion.

Note the sharp contrast with La pradera de San Isidro, a picture from 1788, which features the same place!


These two pictures are far from one another as Fiesta is from a simple, carefree bit of fun between friends.


The farther they get, the fewer and the more stranded they are, the more estranged they feel from one another. High hopes, wishful thinking and a reckless drive to live without a past cost the characters past, present and future.

And loss isn't bound to entail future happiness, mind you. Hemingway doesn't provide you with any hope for the future.

I am quite happy with this blunted end, an end that adds nothing, hardly an end, really.
There is no way this situation could significantly evolve. The characters are left with no certainty about each other, about themselves, about their living the life to its full, about their futures. We all crave for control over our lives, but it is a fantasy.

All you are left with is loss. Different kinds of losses.
Pick your losses carefully.

n  - Written in 2015n


Spanish Theme - Pink Floyd