I feel like awarding the great Hemingway only two stars has officially consigned me to the seventh circle of literary hell. But I must be honest. By this website's criteria, two stars indicates that a book is "okay" - and to me, that describes this work perfectly.

Hemingway himself is undeniably gifted. I love his succinct style (though at times it degenerates to downright caveman-speak), his honest diction, and his wonderful sense of humor. That being said, he gets away with utterly ignoring most rules of writing - which I admire at times, but let's face it, some of those rules are there for a reason. This book is overflowing with extreme run-on sentences, constant use of qualifiers (I think "very" might actually be his VERY favorite word), adjectives (even NOUNS!) used four or five times in the same paragraph, and long stretches of dialogue involving more than two speakers with absolutely no indication of who is saying what (if I hadn't been reading a library book, I would have color-coded the darn thing!).

And besides style, the story itself just didn't grab me. I didn't give two farts about the self-absorbed, unthinking, unfeeling protagonist or his codependent, psychologically damaged doormat of a girlfriend. This is NOT a love story. In fact, I feel sorry for anyone who thinks it is. Men who hate women are incapable of writing love stories. And for the life of me, I can't derive a theme - or even a general POINT - to this book... unless mayhap it is "stupid, senseless tragedy happens sometimes to people you don't care about." I did feel like crying several times while reading, though... but only because of the mention of alcohol on almost every page of text... I could literally HEAR Hemingway drinking himself to death. It broke my heart.

CRAP WE LET HIM GET AWAY WITH BECAUSE HE'S HEMINGWAY:
"We walked to the door and I saw her go in and down the hall. I liked to watch her move. She went on down the hall. I went on home. It was a hot night and there was a good deal going on up in the mountains. I watched the flashes on San Gabriele. I stopped in front of the Villa Rossa. The shutters were up but it was still going on inside. Somebody was singing. I went on home." (FOR THE LOVE WILL SOMEBODY HELP THIS GUY GET HOME????)
"I came up onto a road. Ahead I saw some troops coming down the road. I limped along the side of the road and they passed me and paid no attention to me. They were a machine-gun detachment going up toward the river. I went on down the road." (FOR THE LOVE WILL SOMEBODY HELP THIS GUY GO ON DOWN THE ROAD???)

And now that I've slammed him so hard, here is a glimpse at the genius that allows him to get away with it all.
FAVORITE QUOTES:
"If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry."
"They were beaten to start with. They were beaten when they took them from their farms and put them in the army. That is why the peasant has wisdom, because he is defeated from the start. Put him in power and see how wise he is."
"The coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave but one... Who said it?... He was probably a coward. He knew a great deal about cowards but nothing about the brave. The brave dies perhaps two thousand deaths if he's intelligent. He simply doesn't mention them."
"Life isn't hard to manage when you've nothing to lose."
"I was blown up while we were eating cheese."
AND MY FAVORITE SCENE: (His friend Rinaldi begins the dialogue)
"Loan me fifty lire."
I dried my hands and took out my pocket-book from the inside of my tunic hanging on the wall. Rinaldi took the note, folded it without rising from the bed and slid it in his breeches pocket. He smiled, "I must make on Miss Barkley the impression of a man of sufficient wealth. You are my great and good friend and financial protector."
"Go to hell," I said.

In conclusion, while Hemingway's work has its flaws, it also contains moments of genius that make it worth reading. His unique style and powerful quotes have had a lasting impact on literature. However, I cannot overlook the aspects of the book that I found lacking. Maybe I'm just too critical, or maybe Hemingway's reputation has preceded him and set my expectations too high. Either way, I'm glad I read this book, but I'm not sure I would recommend it to everyone.

Books are always wonderful for writing comments.

Farewell with a gun is much simpler than any fictional plot you can imagine.

The story progresses calmly and in favor of the hero of the story, and at every moment you say to yourself: "Don't worry, it's not real." This emotionless and unfeeling hero even his love is quiet and dull. He doesn't even know exactly whether he likes being orderly or not, or what he is doing in the middle of that operation. Even the death of his wife and children passes by so indifferently. As if he is completely dead. Although he believes that when he falls into the hands of the enemy for the sake of the archers and escapes, he will die, but I promise you that his character is always dead.

This kind of story makes people feel a sense of powerlessness and desolation. It seems that in this cruel world, people have lost their most basic emotions and humanity. We should reflect on ourselves and cherish the emotions and relationships we have.

I'm not a person who is overly fond of Hemingway. What I truly yearn for in literature is internal dialogue that is rich and diverse, filled with profound spiritual questioning, and deep psychological exploration of the characters. I have a preference for writing that flows smoothly and is philosophical in nature. Sadly, Hemingway's works seem to offer me very little in these aspects.

However, I must admit that the settings described in this particular book were absolutely beautiful. They painted a vivid and enchanting picture in my mind. Additionally, the dialogue between the characters was incredibly poignant, touching my heart in ways I didn't expect.

By the time I reached the end of the novel, I was astonished to realize that Hemingway had skillfully managed to draw me in completely. His writing had a powerful impact on me, to the point where I found myself fully immersed in the story. It was such an emotional experience that it actually made me cry.

There's only one way to put it: War sucks. But that's about the only thing that I truly got from this novel. Are you allowed to say things like that about Hemingway? He is, after all, a Literary God some might argue, but one that I might fail to pray to.

Set against the backdrop of WWI, this is the story of an Italian ambulance driver who falls in love with an English nurse. It's the story of how bad things can happen to good people and how when you live in times of war, it becomes part of your average, daily life.

\\n  \\"If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places.\\"\\n

I think my main problem lies with Hemingway's language. He's famous for his simple and straightforward, minimalist use of words. In a way, his narrative style suits the language: in times of war, the shocking things you witness become nothing to shock you, you take it all in with a spectacular sobriety due to the sheer commonplaceness of horrors. Unfortunately, it also makes for a spectacularly boring read. The dialogues feel dimwitted, the romance loveless and the plot random. The things I understood about this story I failed to feel.

He's also got a strange way of writing female characters. Maybe it's the sign of the times, but Catherine was incredibly sentimental, solely characterised through her love for Henry. It makes me grapple the idea that they were just really into each other, but an annoying character is not one that I can make myself truly care about.

In total, I get this book, whereas I am failing to feel it. Maybe I'll re-read it one day and maybe I will find something amongst these words that slipped me now.

I can't truthfully say that I relished reading this book, for in fact, I didn't.

Nonetheless, it is simply impossible not to be in awe of Hemingway's forceful prose that is interspersed with tender descriptions.

(Regarding the dialogue, I side with F. Scott Fitzgerald: it comes across as too facile.)

It was fascinating to observe the influence Hemingway exerted on some of my favorite writers, whether it was an overt or a more subtle influence, and it was indeed significant.

However, it is extremely disheartening that his heirs, son Patrick and Patrick's nephew Sean, assume that the reader is so well-acquainted with AFTA that they feel a justifiable entitlement to completely spoil the book in their forewords.

Surprise: not everyone has read the book. It is disgraceful.

The forewords should not be forewords at all but rather afterwords, and the two of you, in your smugness, disrespect the reader by having it otherwise.

Re-reading this book after, what, ten years? More?

It was sparked by an offhand comment from the Radio War Nerd podcast where Mark and John brought it up and said they preferred it to For Whom the Bell Tolls, because there's no romanticism here.

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

Surprisingly, there's a lot more humour than I recalled. There are numerous wry, offhand comments from the protagonist. Also, the stuff about winter sports from the Swiss police really caught my attention.

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, however, 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 consider that to be 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.

Ultimately, I think 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.

For me, this was a mediocre historical fiction/romance story set against the backdrop of World War I. As I listened to it on audio, I failed to connect with any of the characters. The overuse of certain words became quite annoying, and I simply couldn't engage with the dialogue, which seemed trivial and never-ending.

The story follows a young American, Frederic Henry, who volunteers for service with the Italian Army in World War I and falls in love with his English nurse.

I'm not a fan of "romance stories" or tales of all-consuming love, and that's precisely how I felt about this one. It wasn't what I was hoping for in a war novel. It was an okay read for me, but definitely not one that would make it onto my favourites shelf. I just couldn't get invested in the characters, and I found Catherine's character particularly annoying and strange. The excessive use of certain words and the ridiculously long sentences really grated on my nerves. The narrator was quite good, but due to the repetition of certain words, I felt he overemphasised them.

This wasn't at all what I was expecting from an Ernest Hemingway novel. I picked it up with different expectations, and unfortunately, this book just didn't deliver. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to the blurb, as it had too much of a love story and not enough war action for my taste.

My favourite fiction novels on World War I are Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks and A Long Long Way by Sebastian Barry.

**The Wisdom of the Elderly: A Legend or Just Prudence?**

The re-reading of this book is quite strange. There are things inside that I had forgotten, yet they never forgot me. The page I mentioned in the previous comment is still in its place. Five stars are too few for that page; a comet should be added. I wouldn't have given the book these stars if it were the first reading. I confirm them only because it lived within me without my knowledge. The first part is rather slow, and elsewhere there is an excessive use of direct speech (of which H. is the undisputed sovereign). The love story is without fuss. Hemingway must have thought that the horror of war was sufficient as an altar, and there is also the fact that the story will lead to a precise point. I didn't remember the ending, but I relived a state of mind. I discovered that some of those words had pierced me.

Have you never read anything by E.H.? I would like to advise you to start with the introduction to this book (which he wrote in 1948) to see if he is an author who suits you. The fact that the subject matter of the book was tragic didn't make me unhappy because I was sure that life is a tragedy and always ends the same way. But seeing anew that it was possible to create something so realistically as to derive happiness from reading the effects of creation and returning to do it every working day gave me a pleasure superior to the others I had already known. The book was rewritten in the autumn and winter of 1928 in Key West, and this new version was completed in Paris in the spring of 1929. While I was working on the first draft, my second son Patrick was born in Kansas City by cesarean section, and while I was rewriting it, my father committed suicide in Oak Park (Illinois). I was not yet thirty when I finished the book, and it was published on the day of the stock market crash.

I have always thought that my father could have waited until that day, but perhaps he was in a hurry. I don't want to be the judge here because I loved my father very much. For a coincidence, I recently read these words of Malamud. For some writers, it becomes difficult to write when they are almost at the end of their career, especially if they decide to exclude important elements related to their personal experience. Hemingway couldn't talk about his family except through brief references. Obviously, not everything that happens in the life of a writer must become the subject of narration, but I think that if Hemingway had tried, say, in the last five years of his life, to tell about his father instead of continuing to talk about bulls or a big fish, maybe he wouldn't have committed suicide. In 'A Farewell to Arms', the only reference to the father is this. And you? Do you still have your father? - No - I replied. - Just a stepfather. - Do you think we would get along? - Oh, you can do without him too.

Finally, a note for the writer who, having become a myth, has made many of the things he touched mythical. I walked towards the Borromean Islands, with my suitcase, in the rain. I saw a carriage and signaled to the driver because it was better to arrive by carriage. We stopped after crossing the garden, the porter came out with an umbrella and was very kind. He accompanied me to a beautiful room, very spacious, with the windows overlooking the lake. http://www.borromees.it/ Rooms: HEMINGWAY SUITE

------1994-----

I advise you to read 'A Farewell to Arms' because no review will ever do it justice. There is written about pain and love, about friendship and war, about life, far from the overly optimistic fairy tales often told by American cinema. A valid piece of information? Between page 250 and page 300, there is one that alone is worth the price of the book.

Ernest Hemingway is a renowned author, yet some might argue that in certain cases, he takes a rather lackluster story and presents it in a rather uninteresting manner. For example, there are works where the plot seems to lack excitement and vitality. Instead of captivating the reader from the very beginning, it meanders along in a rather dull fashion. Hemingway's writing style, which is often lauded for its simplicity and directness, can sometimes work against him in these instances. The story fails to build up the necessary tension and momentum, leaving the reader feeling somewhat disengaged. Ernest Hemingway may be a literary giant, but even he is not immune to having some works that fall short in terms of engaging the reader with a truly exciting and dynamic narrative.

The old joke proves itself upon reading.

It is a classic one that has been passed down and shared for ages.

The question is simple yet curious: Why did the chicken cross the road?

And then comes the unexpected answer by Hemingway.

He says: To die. In the rain.

This answer gives the joke a whole new depth and a touch of Hemingway's unique style.

It makes us think beyond the obvious and imagine a rather tragic and atmospheric scene.

The chicken, for some unknown reason, is determined to cross the road, perhaps facing its inevitable fate in the midst of the rain.

It shows how a simple joke can be transformed into something more profound and thought-provoking with a creative and unexpected twist.

Once again, during my high school days, I was compelled to read Hemingway. It was sheer torture. I firmly believe that he and I would have loathed each other upon first sight. This is rather strange because I am a pacifist. I firmly believe in the principle of attempting to get along with everyone. I always give everyone the benefit of the doubt first before passing judgment. However, I'm not entirely sure anymore what it was specifically about him that rubbed me the wrong way. But one thing I'm certain of is that his female characters were nothing more than pathetic caricatures. They seemed to lack depth and authenticity, reduced to mere stereotypes. It was truly disappointing to see such one-dimensional portrayals of women in his works.

I have postponed reviewing this book as I wasn't precisely sure what to express. Glancing over my "Year in Books" on Goodreads, I observed that although I gave this book 4 stars, Mason & Dixon only received 3. Was this book truly a whole star superior to Pynchon's quintessential American novel?

No, I don't think so. However, I do believe that this book is deserving of 4 stars, and M&D only earned 3 in my reading.

They are distinct, and perhaps this star system is flawed as it treats every book identically. There is no standard dictating that 3 stars mean this and 4 mean that. Would I reread this book? Most probably not. Would I reread M&D? I most definitely would.

So, with all that out of the way, let's discuss this book.

When approaching it, I was afflicted by two types of blindness.

1. I knew next to nothing about World War 1. Granted, I studied it in school over 20 years ago, but since then, I haven't delved into any research on it. After reading this book, the war remains somewhat hazy. I have no inclination to research it further. I think this is a good thing, though, as Hemingway's war could have been any war, and the matters he discusses are easily transferable.

2. I suffered from, and still partially do, Hemingway Blindness. This is the kind of blindness that pervades all of his work. It's Hemingway, so it has to be good. More than any other writer of his generation, Hemingway has constructed a legend around both him and his work that is difficult to overcome. He wrote about a different era, a time when men were men and tough guys who fought were the true heroes. Hemingway didn't mince words or use flowery language; he told it as it was.

I don't think this perception of Hemingway will ever change for me. Although, I did notice a few flaws in his writing. There was some sloppy prose here. There were also some views that contradicted the definition of what a "real man" is.

Perhaps Hemingway wasn't what the world has made him out to be?

I'll have to read more of his works to make a final judgment on that. But not this book again.

I understand that I haven't really talked about the plot or the characters of this book yet, but what can I say? There is a war. Some people die. Others live. The narrator (Henry) doesn't really pause to contemplate death too much until he does.