Ernest Hemingway was a brilliant stylist. I wish he had been a better storyteller.

I read A Farewell To Arms as part of my long term project — reading the literature of The Great War written by its participants. Though some critics praise it as the best novel inspired by that war, I was underwhelmed.

Though set in the war, A Farewell To Arms is not primarily a war novel. I knew that going in. But even its passages dealing directly with the war were uneven. Some war time scenes sang true — the teasing of the priest chaplain, the banter between protagonist Henry and his friend Rinaldi, the mixture of mundanity and chaos during the bunker shelling while eating pasta and cheese — these were excellent. But Hemingway’s famous iceberg theory sabotaged much of the impact the war scenes should have delivered. Whether responding to being wounded, seeing a comrade die, or killing for the first time, protagonist Henry remains infuriatingly remote and un-emotive. A line describing his state of mind after leaving the war could easily have described the characters reactions while in it:
“The war seemed as far away as the football games of someone else’s college.”

As to the central story of the love affair, Hemingway never sold me. Catherine never felt fully established, never fully breathed true as a character. Therefore, the affair lacked spark, and when misfortune struck it didn’t pack the impact that it should.

I gave the novel three stars because the writing is brilliant and occasional scenes are truly memorable. But as a whole, Hemingway failed to touch me with either Love or War.

4.5

Unknowingly I have read so many classics. I was not even counting them as classics when I first read them.
I reread this book after 10 years as I still cannot forget the characters and with what little time Frederic and Catherine had, the way they discovered the love of each other in a short time; the way they meet and exchange sweet nothing. I fell in love with all that. Because it was so innocent and sweet and meant to be.
I was so pissed off at the start regarding Frederick and felt sorry for Catherine falling for such a guy.
Oh heck! It turned out to be one of the most lasting love stories ever... I blushed, smiled from ear to ear and yes, cried and bawled too.
I will never ever be able to let go of the scenes where Catherine was begging for morphine... Sometimes her pain seemed to be too much that I was in pain too...becoming breathless when she was struggling for breath.
Their lives were becoming so beautiful and sunny and the ending had to be tragic.
I was not prepared for the ending. They have worked and suffered enough I thought. Well, a part of me died when the ending came too soon.
I came back to hating Frederick too much again towards the last few pages as he seemed a bit too self absorbed and uncompassionate at one time or the other, like he just didn't care enough.
Nevertheless, I couldn't hate him in the end.
I really wanted him to feel something regarding the unborn child...
It ended really sad and tore me apart.
Ernest did charm me with his simple writing style.
I am so going to reread this book again and this time I will try to focus more on other aspects other than the main characters and their personal relationship.
So looking forward to it

بخشي از كتاب
اينطوري است. مي ميري. نمي داني موضوع از چه قرار است. هرگز فرصتش را نداشته اي كه بداني. تو را مي اندازند وسط بازي و قوانين را به تو مي گويند و با اولين خطايي كه از تو بگيرند تو را مي كشند. يا تو را بي جهت مي كشند. اما در نهايت تو را مي كشند. از اين بابت خاطرت جمع باشد. كمي صبر كن تو را هم مي كشند

La saggezza dei vecchi è una leggenda. Non diventano saggi, diventano solo prudenti

Che stranezza la rilettura di questo libro. Dentro ci sono delle cose che avevo dimenticato, loro invece non si sono mai scordate di me. La pagina di cui parlavo nel precedente commento è ancora al suo posto. Per quella pagina cinque stelle sono poche, va aggiunta una cometa. Al libro non le avrei assegnate se questa fosse stata la prima lettura. Le confermo solo perché mi è vissuto dentro a mia insaputa. La prima parte è assai lenta, altrove c'è un uso eccessivo del discorso diretto (di cui H. è l'indiscusso sovrano). La storia d’amore è senza scaramucce, Hemingway deve aver pensato che l’orrore della guerra fosse sufficiente come contro altare, inoltre c’è il fatto che quella storia condurrà in un punto preciso. Non ricordavo il finale, ma ho rivissuto uno stato d’animo. Ho scoperto che alcune di quelle parole mi si erano conficcate dentro.
Non avete mai letto niente di E.H.?
Mi verrebbe da consigliarvi di partire con l’introduzione a questo libro (che lui scrisse nel 1948) per capire se è un autore che può fare per voi
Il fatto che la materia del libro fosse tragica non mi rendeva infelice, perché ero sicuro che la vita è una tragedia e finisce sempre allo stesso modo. Ma il vedere sempre in modo nuovo che era possibile creare qualcosa, tanto veridicamente da ricavarne felicità nel leggere gli effetti della creazione, e ritornare a farlo tutti i giorni di lavoro mi dava un piacere superiore agli altri che avevo già conosciuto…
Il libro fu riscritto nell'autunno e nell'inverno 1928 a Key West e questa nuova stesura fu conclusa a Parigi nella primavera 1929. Mentre lavoravo alla prima stesura nacque il mio secondo figlio Patrick, a Kansas city, mediante taglio cesareo, e intanto che la rifacevo mio padre si uccise a Oak Park (Illinois). Non avevo ancora compiuto i trent'anni quando terminai il libro, e uscì nel giorno del crollo in borsa.
Ho pensato sempre che mio padre avrebbe potuto aspettare fino a quel giorno, ma forse aveva fretta. Non voglio mettermi qui a far il giudice perché volevo molto bene a mio padre.

Per una coincidenza ho letto di recente queste parole di Malamud
Per certi scrittori diventa difficile scrivere quando sono a fine ormai alla fine della carriera, specialmente se decidono di escludere elementi importanti legati alla loro esperienza personale. Hemingway non riusciva a parlare della famiglia se non attraverso rapidi accenni..
Ovviamente non tutto ciò che accade nella vita di uno scrittore deve divenire materia di narrazione, ma sono dell’idea che, se Hemingway avesse cercato, diciamo negli ultimi cinque anni della sua vita, di raccontare di suo padre, invece di continuare a parlare di tori o di un grosso pesce, magari non si sarebbe suicidato
In ‘Addio alle armi’ l’unico accenno al padre è questo
E tu? Hai ancora il papà? - No - risposi. - Solo un patrigno. - Credi che andremmo d'accordo? - Oh, anche tu potrai fare a meno di lui.

Infine un’annotazione per lo scrittore che, diventato mito, ha reso mitiche numerose delle cose che ha toccato.
M'incamminai verso l'Iles Borromèes, con la valigia, sotto la pioggia. Vidi una carrozza e feci segno al vetturino, perché era meglio d'arrivare in carrozza. Ci fermammo dopo aver attraversato il giardino, il portiere uscì con l'ombrello e fu molto gentile. Mi accompagnò in una bella stanza, molto ampia, con le finestre sul lago.
http://www.borromees.it/
Camere: HEMINGWAY SUITE

------1994-----
Io vi consiglio di leggerlo "Addio alle armi" perché nessuna recensione gli renderà mai giustizia. Vi è scritto di dolore e amore, di amicizia e di guerra, della vita, lontano dalle favole buoniste troppo spesso raccontate dal cinema americano.
Un informazione valida? Fra la pagina 250 e quella 300 ce n'é una che da sola vale il prezzo del libro.

There is something so fulfilling in Mr Hemingway's achievement in 'A Farewell to Arms' that one is left speculating as to whether another novel will follow in this manner, and whether it does not complete both a period and a phase.

The story begins with such beautiful mannerisms which is a subtle way to undertake a book where the centre stage is that of war, with the love-making between the young American hero, Henry, a volunteer in the Italian Ambulance Service, and Catherine Barkley, an English nurse in the British hospital at Goritzia. There is sublime feminine quality in her response to the man, who, at first, is just amusing himself, but the affair soon develops into real passion.
Henry, whose good relations with the Italian officers in his mess are drawn with delightful freshness, is wounded, with a smashed knee in a night assault near Plava, and is sent down from the field hospital to the American hospital at Milan, where he is the first case, and here Miss Barkley gets a transfer to nurse him.

All the descriptions of life at the front and in the hospitals, the talk of the officers, privates, and doctors, are crisply natural and make a convincing narrative, though the hero is perhaps already a little too mature and experienced. Catherine (who might be a younger sister of the heroine of Fiesta) is most skilfully modelled as the eternal soul in nursing dress.
During moments spend in the Milan hospital, where love laughs at matrons and maids, the author increases his hold over us, and spells out that even with our worse fears the compassion of others can sometimes be enough to give hope in the darkest of days. The story appears to deepen in force when Henry, patched up, returns to the Isonzo front. The year has been a serious one for the Italian army, and the breakthrough of the Germans at Caporetto brings disaster.


The last 50 pages of book three describe the Italian army in retreat, the block of transport on the main roads, the bogging and abandonment of Henry's cars on a side road, the Italian privates' behaviour and their hatred of the war, and finally the shooting of the elderly officers in retreat by the Italian battle police at the Tagliamento - these pages are masterly and devastating.
The American hero escapes death by diving into the river and, later, arrest by concealing himself in a gun truck till it reaches Milan. Thence in mufti he gets to Stiesa and meets Catherine, and the lovers escape to Switzerland by a long night row up the lake. The scenes on the Italian plains hold more atmospheric truth than those of the mountain roads, but all are admirably wrought.

The impartiality of the presentation of war is as remarkable as the sincerity of the record of love passion. With remorseless artistic instinct Mr Hemingway proceeds to match the horrors of human slaughter by his final chapter of Catherine's agony and death as, "a maternity case".

Here he rises to his highest pitch, for Catherine's blotting-out is but complementary to the massacre of the millions on the fronts. Henry's coolness of observation in its detailed actuality is perhaps too stressed in the last pages, for in hours of great emotional strain material fact seems to detach itself as a separate phenomenon, and Henry remains too set; but the author's method prevails and triumphs in the last line. Hemingway's masterpiece, that touches in so many ways.

Re-reading this book after, what, ten years? More? Sparked by an offhand comment from the Radio War Nerd podcast where Mark and John bring it up and say they prefer it to For Whom the Bell Tolls, because there's no romanticism here.

Funny how it was different than I remembered it. There was one part in particular I was waiting to show up, then realized it wasn't going to, now I'm wondering what WW1 novel I'm thinking of. Or was it in Dashiell Hammett or maybe The Sun Also Rises?

There's a lot more humour than I remembered as well. A lot of wry, offhand comments from the protagonist. Also the stuff about winter sports from the Swiss police really had me.

The retreat from Caporetto takes up far less of the book than I remembered. I remember the first time I read it, I felt the devastation and the chaos. This time, I feel like I can see through the text to a Young Hemingway playing soldiers in the woods as a child, just like we all did, once upon a time. I don't hold that as a bad thing, though. One of my favourite writers, Matthew Stover, said of Hemingway's iceberg technique that more so than most novels his works require you to contrast them with your own experiences, and so as you read the novels again at different points in your life, you get something different out of them.

I think ultimately this is one of the rare times I have to dissent from the War Nerd's opinions and declare For Whom the Bell Tolls to be the better novel.

(Spoilers ahead.)

THE DOUBLE DATE

Dramatis Personae:

Henry, protagonist of A Farewell to Arms, ex-soldier.
Catherine, wife of Henry, an ex-nurse for wounded soldiers.
Michael, book "reviewer," handsome and devilish rogue.
Joy,  Michael's wife. She'll cut a bitch.
The Waiter, self-explanatory.
Distressed Customer #1, Only has one line.
Dying Man, just proposed to his girlfriend.
Dying Man's Fiance, happy, but frightened her dude will croak before they tie the knot.
Harold Bloom, asshole.


SCENE 1: The Date


Catherine: Oh, Henry, I do so love you, and I hope you don't tire of me. I'm going to do my best to be a good wife for you. I am doing well, aren't I?

Henry: You couldn't be doing better, my love. I can't imagine what I'd do without you.

Joy: Pardon me while I puke under the table.

Michael: Try not to get any on my shoes.

Waiter: Could I interest you in any appetizers?

Michael: Sure. What kind of animals are in your sausage?

Waiter: Ummm . . . I'm not sure, but I can check.

Joy: No, don't worry about it; we'll have the queso dip.

Catherine: Order for me, Henry, I want whatever we choose to please you.

Henry: Okay. We'll have two more bourbons and the chicken fingers.

Joy: *looking at Catherine, makes whipping noise, and does the accompanying arm gesture.*

Catherine: What does that mean? That thing you just did?

Joy: Thing I just did? Whatever do you mean?

Catherine: You went. . . *makes whipping noise, does the accompanying arm gesture*

Joy: I most certainly did not, and I don't know what something like that would mean.

Catherine: Well, I'm confident I saw you do it.

Joy: I had a thing on my arm. I was shaking it off. Maybe I sneezed at the same time, I can't remember.

Henry: It was good of you to invite us on this double date. I've just returned from the war, and I'm glad to be out with friends again.

Michael: Don't mention it, Henry, it's my pleasure. I always like having dinner with fictional characters. How is the war going?

Henry: Not so well. It's over, actually, and Italy lost. The two of us are living in Switzerland now, getting ready for the baby.

Michael: How long will it be?

Joy: That's what she said.

Michael: *punches Joy in the arm*

Joy: *Slaps the side of Michael's head*

Henry: Another two weeks. We can't wait.

Catherine: We're simply dying for the baby to be born.

Joy: *Whispering* Well, that was tasteless.

Catherine: What did you say?

Joy: Oh, nothing.

Catherine: *glaring at Joy* I get the feeling you truly don't like me, Joy. What on earth did I do to you?

Joy: You're just so fucking submissive, Catherine! How do you ever expect to be happy if Henry never gets to know the real you?

Catherine: What do you mean, the real me? He knows I was a nurse during the war, and that I love him . . . what else is there to know?

Michael: But don't you have any hobbies? I mean, do you like French movies? Do you like gardening?

Henry: Wait a minute. Why would you require a greater depth of character from my wife than you get from me? I'm not an especially complex person, either.

Michael: Well, not especially, but we know you have a fetish for sports, and you dig fishing and stuff. So, that lends a greater realism to your personality than Catherine has.

Catherine: *blushing* This is hardly polite conversation.

Joy: Sorry, Catherine, but you asked.

*The waiter delivers appetizers. They begin eating.*

Michael: This is good queso. Good choice, babe.

Joy: As usual.

Michael: So, you two read any good books lately?

Henry: *ignores Michael's question* I object to the way you're talking about my wife. She might not be the most complex person, but she's still admirable: like my own sacrifice--fighting in the war--Catherine is going to make a great sacrifice when. . . well, you know.

Catherine: What?

Henry: Nothing, dear.

Joy: AAAH, so YOU make a sacrifice by voluntarily going off to war. She makes a sacrifice by getting knocked up and dying during childbirth. You defend the country and come home safely, while she dies trying to poop out a baby.

Catherine: What? I die during childbirth?

Henry: I thought we weren't going to talk about that.

Michael: Well, it IS kinda the elephant at the dinner table.

Henry: We both show equal courage in the face of hopeless adversity, and neither one of us have a false sense of optimism!

Harold Bloom, from the next table over: I'm sorry, but NOBODY would say that. That's just bad dialogue.

Michael: Fuck off, Harold. Go find some Dickens to stroke off to.

Harold: Well, I never. . .

Joy: Yeah. Go pick your wick. And, in response to your unrealistic dialogue, Henry, here's what I think: she might be brave, but she only does three things, really: take care of wounded men, love a man, and have a baby. You and half the lit crits in the world can try to convince yourself that she's a 'feminist' character in some context, but it's like when Intelligent Design people try to re-explain scientific findings so they'll agree with a predetermined worldview.

Michael: THAT'S realistic dialogue.

Henry: Oh, god, do we have to talk about politics?

Catherine: Why not? We've already talked about how I'm going to f______ die!

Michael: It's the year 2010 now. You don't need to censor your swearing anymore.

Henry: Good. You two are cocksuckers.

Michael: Do you wanna walk out of here or get carried out, soldier boy?

Henry: Try me. Just try me.

Distressed customer #1, from across the restuarant : Help! Help! Is there a cynic in the house?

*All four characters raise their hands.*

Michael: I've been waiting my whole life for that to happen.

*Henry rushes toward the distressed patrons, but Joy trips him and pushes him down. The other three rush over to find a customer hyperventilating on the floor.*

Dying Customer's Fiance: He just proposed to me, and when I said yes, he started hyperventillating! I think he's on the verge of dying from sheer happiness!

Michael: What is this world coming to?

Catherine: Don't be so happy. You'll inevitably give away your youth, vigor and passion as a sacrifice for the generation coming after you. And YOU *pointing at the fiance* just be careful about using birth control.

Joy: *crouches over the dying man* And, anyway, women are genetically designed to seek out other potential mates once they've found a man to take care of their children, so she'll probably cheat on you with every bad boy she meets.

Michael: Not to mention, even if things somehow work out, what do you have left? Fifty, sixty years? And that's counting all those shitty years, where one of you will be living in a nursing home and dragging around a colostomy bag, wondering why the hell your grandkids aren't visiting. And that's the LUCKY one of you who doesn't die first. Honestly, buddy, you're probably gonna die in your mid-seventies, then SHE'LL head off to the nursing home, and maybe meet some hot old guy who she had an affair with twenty years ago, get remarried, and that old fucker will inherit all your money.

Dying Man: *stops hyperventillating, starts crying*

Dying Man's Fiance: Thank you so much! You saved him!

Dying Man: I'm not sure this marriage is a good idea.


SCENE 2: Awakening


Michael: *Wakes up with a start* Wow. That was a weird dream. Even weirder than the one where I was obsessed with buying Hot Wheels cars.

Joy: *Wakes up with a groan* Shut up or leave the bedroom.

Michael: *Rolling over.* If you were nice all the time, I don't think I could handle it.

Joy: Don't worry; I won't be.

Michael: Goodnight.

Joy: 'Night.

*Michael and Joy fall back asleep.*

I have, like a couple of the other reviewers, always wanted to like Hemingway; but "A Farewell to Arms" might be one of his worst. Some novelists never write a bad novel, and I wouldn't call this bad; it's just not my kind of novel. I would call it tragic treacle. It cloys so much that it anchors you down. You finish it feeling sticky, and it's not your own blood or syrup from a snow cone dripping on your lap .

I like Hemingway as a character in the biographies about him, such as the one by Carlos Baker, more than I do any of his created characters. I agree with another reviewer that his best book was "A Moveable Feast". Some writers want to be writers in fact and some want to be characters in their own novels.

When I mock false bravado and moustachioed machismo, an image of Hemingway flits through my mind's humor box. Sometimes I wonder if he were not in some ways a physical coward. Probably not. I wonder at his insisting on boxing men whom he judged he could beat convincingly in the ring or his tagging along into "combat" as a correspondent. I read once that he actually participated in the execution of a captured German soldier. Maybe Baker said that, but if it's true--shame and double shame. And go to hell, Hemingway.

Anyway, although he was indeed tough, suicide does not bravery make.

I like his short stories, however, especially the Nick Adams stories and his stories about Africa. I would not have liked him personally though even after I had flattened him in the ring.

بعد از پیرمرد و دریا این دومین کتابی بود که از همینگ‌وی خوندم. درواقع سبک نگارشی این دو کتاب تا حد زیادی با هم فرق دارند و این نوشتاری که در این کتاب بود خیلی باب میل من بود. جملات کوتاه کوتاه متن‌ها در خیلی از جاها شکل شاعرانه‌ای به خود گرفته بودند و این زیاد تعجبی ندارد چون همینگ‌وی پیش از آنکه یک رمان‌نویس شود یک شاعر بود. این کتاب به وضوح در مزمت و نکوهش جنگ نوشته شده است. جنگ جهانی اول که تا پیش از آن هیچ جنگی این چنین انسان‌ها را به کام مرگ نکشانده بود، جنگی که خیلی از نویسندگان آن دوره و حتی پس از آن را واداشت تا از چهره‌ی خشن و خانمان‌سوز جنگ بنویسند. جنگی که سیاستمداران و ژنرال‌ها عامل شروع و تداوم آن هستند اما خود را از معرکه دور نگاه می‌دارند و این فقط سربازان میان رده و مردمان عامی هستند که در میادین می‌جنگند و کشته می‌شوند. در مواقع پیروزی، خود را فاتح می‌خوانند و به آنان که زخمی شده‌اند یک مدال فلزی شجاعت می‌دهند، اما در هنگام شکست و عقب‌نشینی خود را از اشتباه مبرا می‌دانند و می‌خواهند ننگ عقب نشینی را از خود دور کنند و با محاکمه‌های صحرایی و نمایشی عده‌ای را به بهانه‌ی خیانت به خاک پاک میهن به جوخه‌ی اعدام می‌سپارند!
اما وضع در زمان دوری از میدان جنگ و یا پایان جنگ بغرنج می‌شود. آنجا که سربازانی که در میدان جنگ انسانی را کشته‌اند یا کشته‌شدن کسی یا دوستی را دیده‌اند و یا زخمی برداشته‌اند هرگز نمی‌توانند به زندگی عادی خود بازگردند. خود را مطرود شده از دنیا می‌بینند، خود را تهی و بی‌هویت شده می‌دانند. برای یافتن هویت به تقلا می‌افتند به هر چیز چنگ می‌زنند تا از آن اوضاع خلاصی یابند حتی به عشق حتی اگر عشقی ساختگی باشد.
اما نه...
راه نجاتی نیست
آنان به دام افتاده‌اند، اسیر این دنیا شده‌اند...
اسیر خاطراتی می‌شوند که یک دم از آنان دور نمی‌شود.
آنان محکوم به نابودی هستند...
.....................
از نظر من باید به این کتاب ۳.۵ و حتی کمتر می‌دادم و دلیلش قسمت عاشقانه‌اش بود که از نظر من خیلی خام و تا حدی ناشیانه نوشته شده بود و دلیل این نوع شخصیت‌پردازی و دیالوگ‌های خام رو نمی‌دونم و تنها دلیلی که به این کتاب ۳ ندادم همین رخدادهای جنگ و تاثیرش بر انسان‌ها بود و به ارفاق ۴ دادم.

I first read this book in high school. Maybe because I was young, maybe because it was summer reading, or maybe because I read it immediately following The Invisible Man (intense!), I more or less just slid through the book, enjoying the love story and not dwelling long enough in the war episodes to feel much of anything.

The second time I read it, I didn't make it past the time in Milan. I couldn't settle into the prose and, more importantly, I couldn't handle Catherine: "I'll say just what you wish and I'll do what you wish and then you will never want any other girls, will you?" Gah. I couldn't accept either Catherine or her relationship with Frederick as at all real, and because I assumed they were supposed to be not only real but also good (or pure or ideal or something like that), it completely turned me off the book.

This time I read Catherine and Frederick (especially Catherine) as damaged and completely desperate, which made her and the love story believable, acceptable, and very sad. A friend called their repetitive dialogue (“I have a fine life”, “I have a fine time” “Don’t we have a fine life?”) an ‘incantation’, like they’re trying to will their life into being. I find that moving. The love story still wasn’t my favorite part of the book, however. This time I found myself dwelling more on the war episodes, especially the army’s retreat. Something about the terse style and the mundane details (what they’re eating, etc.) makes it more brutal.

Not entirely sure what to say about this one. I finished it a few hours ago and have been processing the thoughts and emotions in my head. There is clearly a charged, personal story that courses through the centre of this novel. I usually do a lot more research when reading the classics, but for some reason I don’t have the energy to do so at the moment. All I can do is talk about what I thought in a raw and intimate way.

I remember seeing the famous A Farewell to Arms scene in Silver Linings Playbook, and for some reason, I never forgot the emotional tone of those few minutes. I would not be able to tell you character names or even what in the hell happens in that movie, but I can tell you that Bradley Cooper angrily tossed the hardcover edition of this book through the window, shattering it. He stormed into his parents’ room at 3 in the morning to complain about the ending. Oh, how cruel life could be. All throughout the novel, you find yourself cheering for this “Hemingway character” (Lieutenant Henry) to make it through the war and end up with the girl. And then he does. And then she dies. Such bullshit, right? These reactions are what the book is made of.

Hemingway’s portrayal of warfare (especially WWI, my god) is almost fully in the background. We are not there on the frontlines with the action. Instead, we see the physical and psychological ramifications. Lots of soldiers show reactions that I assume I would show if I was to be in that situation. Bitter apathy and a constant desire to go home. What is the point of all of this? I just want a bit of good food and the love of my life falling asleep in my arms. But here we are. Here is my mate, face down in the mud, bullet hole through the chin and the top of the head. Did he need to die? Doubt it.

Lots of drinking, lots of “manly man male macho man” emotions (that is to say, a grunt). I understand Bradley Cooper referring to Henry as the “Hemingway character” – I feel as though you cannot help but identify the main character with Hemingway, sitting there with a cigar and a typewriter. And alcohol. The more I go forward with Hemingway, the more tempted I will be to revisit the book I read that was filled with his thoughts on writing. I know he had some lofty aspirations there, like taking on Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. Not quite sure he achieved that for me, but he’s not bad. Not bad at all.