Well, I've got my first Hemingway under my belt and it was, as Rory Gilmore warned us way back in 2002, painful. And I don't mean that in a good way.
A Farewell to Arms was Hemingway's second novel and first bestseller. Published in 1929, it is considered by many to be the premier American war novel of World War I, and it cemented Hemingway's status as one of the great American writers of the 20th century.
A first person narrative set during the Italian campaign of World War I, A Farewell to Arms tells the story of American Frederic Henry's time serving as a lieutenant in the ambulance corps of the Italian army and his passionate affair with an English nurse called Catherine Barkley. The novel is divided into five different "books" and, in my opinion, it was a complete slog up until almost the very end of the third book, but then the last hundred pages or so were completely unputdownable. But like in a I-can't-look-away-from-this-absolute-trainwreck kind of way. Much of Hemingway's work was autobiographical in nature, and he drew on his own experiences living as an expat and serving in the Italian campaigns of World War I to write A Farewell to Arms. The inspiration for Catherine Barkley was drawn from his first love, Agnes von Kurowsky, who ultimately spurned him in real life. And apparently ruined him forever. Her literary counterpart meets a pretty bleak end.
I don't know, you guys. I can see the value in A Farewell to Arms for its true-to-life portrayal of the First World War and the Italian campaigns. There were glimmers of brilliance in there. I mean, who am I to poo-poo one of the "great American writers of the 20th century" and the 1954 winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature? But Hemingway's sparse style just wasn't my bag. While A Farewell to Arms wasn't sexually explicit, it felt crass to me, and Hemingway's dialogue is the thing of my nightmares. If more than two people were having a conversation, Heaven help you figure out who was saying what. His ending—which he famously rewrote some forty-odd times before landing on the one he chose—left me cold. Ultimately: not a book I'd read again and also not one I'd recommend.
However, I have struck a bargain with my friend Jon—a literary exchange, if you will—wherein for every Hemingway I read, he will read a novel by Jane Austen. Jon has Mark Twain levels of hatred for Austen based on reading like one chapter of Persuasion over ten years ago. Given my recent discovery of my distaste for Hemingway's writing, this seems like a fair deal, and given that Jon has yet to even start one of my homegirl's most excellent works, I think I'm safe from Hemingway for a couple of years at least.
What's your take on Ernest Hemingway or any of the "great" 20th century American writers in general?
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