A Farewell to Arms

Not much of a story here, and it's very much a downer.

I have also read "The Sun Also Rises", and from what I can tell so far, Hemingway doesn't really tell a traditional story. He just writes about a series of events that seem to lack a proper beginning, climax, or end.

The events he describes are interesting enough, but after reading, I'm left with the feeling that I've just witnessed a few weeks or months in someone's life, and these are the random things that happened to him.

It would be like me writing a book about my own life over the past few months. Some interesting things might have occurred, but it wouldn't be a complete and engaging story.

SPOILER

Also, the end of this is a depressing cliffhanger. There's no resolution, just an abrupt end, and the main character seems pretty apathetic about it. It's really quite weird!

I'm not sure if this is Hemingway's style or if I'm just not getting it. Maybe I need to read more of his works to understand his approach better.

“Would you like to live after death?” I asked, and instantly felt a fool to mention death. But he did not mind the word.
“It would depend on the life. This life is very pleasant. I would like to live forever,” he smiled. “I very nearly have.”

I am truly glad that I did a reread of this passage. As I delved into it again, I discovered far more than I did when I was younger. It is poignant and beautifully written, with a deceptively simplistic appearance. However, within its lines, there lies a wealth of profound insights into life, love, and mortality. It makes one stop and reflect on the meaning and value of our existence. It makes us question what it means to live a good life and whether we would indeed desire to live forever. The simplicity of the words belies the depth of the thoughts and emotions they evoke. It is a piece that has the power to touch our hearts and make us think deeply about the human condition.

(Spoilers ahead.)

THE DOUBLE DATE

Dramatis Personae:

Henry, the protagonist of A Farewell to Arms, an ex-soldier.

Catherine, Henry's wife, an ex-nurse for wounded soldiers.

Michael, a 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, an 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.*

At the beginning of this year, I made a decision to give a try to reading some of those books that we are all supposed to have read during our school days. I had never read anything written by Hemingway before, and after reading this particular book, I don't think I have missed out on much.

This was allegedly one of Hemingway's better works, yet it was truly dreadful. A great writer has the ability to utilize words in the same way a painter employs a full palette and a variety of sable brushes to construct a vivid and picturesque scene. However, Hemingway seems to use a palette of thin primary colors and paint with his fingers.

Regarding the romance between the two main characters, Frederic and Catherine, I could only view them as a foolish pair of adolescents who are overly influenced by hormones. The development of their relationship lacks logic and foundation, and the dialogues they exchange are immature and sophomoric. This book reads like the fantasy of a teenage high school boy who has a crush on a cheerleader, written with very little insight and depth.

I guess you could say that I didn't have a liking for this book. Well, that's probably why there is vanilla and chocolate. Now, it's time to move on to my next book.

2.5 This was my first encounter with a full-length work by Hemingway, and to be quite honest, I'm still not entirely certain what I make of him as an author.

Regarding this particular novel, I believe my concerns were more centered around the content rather than the prose itself. His straightforward writing style is remarkably easy to understand and effectively conveys his ideas, ensuring that I never found myself confused about the events unfolding, which is quite rare when it comes to classic literature.

However, when it comes to the plot, that's a different matter altogether. None of the characters, except perhaps Rinaldi, truly made an impression on me. The romance was rather questionable, and when both of these crucial elements in a story lack luster, it becomes difficult for me to maintain interest in what I'm reading.

That being said, the ending!!! THE ENDING!!! There's something about books that abruptly conclude in the midst of a tragic scene that always leaves me staring blankly at a wall, attempting to come to terms with what I've just read. This was no exception. It almost reminded me of the last sentence of Giovanni's Room, which is one of my all-time favorite finales.

All things considered, I do think Hemingway has a certain appeal for me in a strange way. I simply need to discover a work of his that is more captivating, so that I'm not bored out of my mind until the final 25 pages!

Observational tragedy is a rather unique concept. Consider a bloke who, during the chaos of war, falls for a sub-moron. It's almost comical in a tragic way. And then there's this act of *petitions friendly bombs*, which adds an element of absurdity to the whole situation.

Hemmingway, on the other hand, seems to have absolved language of its beauty. Not only that, but he also seems to have done the same to the world. His stated intent was to expose the mundanity of war, but his method ended up rendering art as something menial.

One can't help but offer *sarcastic applause* at this turn of events. It's as if the very essence of what makes life and art meaningful has been stripped away. The whole scenario leaves one with a sense of profound disappointment and a feeling that something precious has been lost.

Perhaps we should take a step back and reevaluate our approach to war and art, and try to find a way to restore the beauty and significance that seems to have been so easily cast aside.

Hemingway was a strange writer. He didn't mince words and was direct and honest. He wasn't fond of adornments and beauty, and sometimes he didn't mind repetition. Reading him on some days was like listening to the news from different channels. Everyone wants to inform, but at the same time, they only give the same news. Maybe the chapters and numbers of his books changed, but the content seemed to be in harmony, as the news network title said. Now he comes and asks a nurse from the language. Then an officer. Then a priest. Then a comrade, and so on, and this story continues.

However, he makes a move. Like the news, journalists, and news anchors, he doesn't refer to the past to influence the listener. He comes and in a book that travels around the front in Italy during World War I, he clings to the present. To the only moment when he can be pinned down and life becomes meaningful at this moment.

Maybe you would say he didn't do anything special, but in my opinion, he did. This move is very beautiful and makes the capital become inalienable, which can dig a deeper connection. It's as if you go to therapy and don't look at the past. Don't talk about the fatal events and nightmares of the night. Let him ask you to be silent, but say that only seven thousand tons of the military died in Wawa. Ask him where he came from, why there is no news of his family, and why he has become so lonely, and say that in return, I have Catherine and that's my family. That is, freeze time in the moment and let it create depth and receive more information.

Hemingway was like this for me. He had reached something that seemed to be slipping away from many of us in the stream of life. He didn't say what it felt like to see the chaos of the war in front of his eyes. Instead, he took refuge in the nature of the wounded, which is beautiful and how well he could kiss with his love and see the passage of time.

Henry and Catherine are not like the others even in their love relationship. Maybe they can analyze why their dialogue can't be deep, but what about their relationship? Because of the war, they know that this may be their only chance. They don't easily pass by each other's love and easily decide what they want. So that if he says we have to close the shutters, he will get to work and say let's move now. But if there was no war, how long would it take to take life by the reins?

Hemingway even has a fair view of the conflict. When he enters into discussions about war, with a little research, it can be understood that his words are not baseless and he has a correct and thoughtful look.

Even in my opinion, the characters he creates, although fear has taken root in their existence, they are strong. For example, he says somewhere: "You are so full of heart and silence that I even forget that you are in pain." Or in a place where Henry lies in bed and talks to the doctor and nurse, he says: "I'm not sick. I'm wounded." And he reflects the reality in simple words and there is no exaggeration in his work. He doesn't show off and he doesn't have delicacy. He is tough and continues in the same way until the end.

The translation was sometimes subject to being made more Iranian, but aside from this, I can't find any flaws in it and it came from behind the writer's style for me.

Finally, I'm grateful to Sara and Ali for always doubling the pleasure of reading for me and with their unique perspectives, making me not give up on my own view and expand my worldview.

Review of the book:

I had a newspaper but I didn't read it

Because I didn't want to read any news about the war

I had arranged a separate peace for myself

Are you a believer in God?

At night, yes

Hemingway writes in a very simple and touching way

Just like this.