The moonlight was not enough. The nights were made of darkness and fear. A palpable fear, so strong it could have paralyzed the most powerful of men. The moonlight was not enough. The nights were made of darkness and fear. A palpable fear, so strong it could have paralyzed the most powerful of men. His nights were not made to rest, anymore. For they were covered with different shades of black. And that soldier knew that if he shut his eyes in the dark, his soul would go out of his body. He was certain of that. So, if there was not some light around, he was going to stay awake. Thinking. Nothing more dangerous than a human being immersed in terror and left alone, thinking. The past stepped in as a haze of blurred images, forgotten names and one regret or two. Prayers were said over and over. And when he could not remember them, he recited every form of living thing he knew. And then cities and streets.
...and when I could not remember anything at all any more I would just listen. And I do not remember a night on which you could not hear things. If I could have a light I was not afraid to sleep, because I knew my soul would only go out of me if it were dark.
Until he found himself in broad daylight, when it was safe to sleep. If the ground was also safe.
In this short story (my last one), Hemingway openly leads the path towards the character's mind, and we are restless witnesses of his struggle and the way he found to deal with his fear. A fear created by war and that was portrayed as the inability to sleep in the dark. The best way the soldier found to keep his soul within him.
As stated above, this is one of the most psychologically deep stories I have read during these past few days. There is not just one line that barely allows you to understand the characters, but... everything. So you can imagine my surprise. Sure, the story is written with Hemingway's renowned minimalistic style, but Iceberg City does not feel so silently cold anymore. In fact—and concerning most of his stories—emotions often disrupt this seemingly descriptive atmosphere with the strength of a loud storm. Through a word, a line, a paragraph. It takes time. The most precious thing we have. But it is there, beneath all triviality, all ordinary descriptions, actions. Beneath every detail that illustrates the surroundings, the contrast between man and nature. And the complement they represent to each other. A sanctuary, when men and women cannot find their place in the land of humanity.
A walk through a dark forest. A dark forest that needed a little light. A little light came from a fire, that way. That way he chose and over there he wA walk through a dark forest. A dark forest that needed a little light. A little light came from a fire, that way. That way he chose and over there he walked. He walked until he saw a man. A man that gave him some conversation. Some conversation led to a revelation. A revelation about his past and his state of mind. Mind if I talk to you about some tragedy? Tragedy awaits when you face the world alone. Alone because she left you. You, me, can't decide who's talking. Talking about the mind when reason has left me too. Too much for this tough man. Man, it's time for a walk.
"You're all right," he said. "No, I'm not. I'm crazy. Listen, you ever been crazy?" "No," Nick said. "How does it get you?" "I don't know," Ad said. "When you got it you don't know about it.
Three stars. An okay short story. A couple of interesting themes that are open to interpretation because, like we all know now, Hemingway reveals as lThree stars. An okay short story. A couple of interesting themes that are open to interpretation because, like we all know now, Hemingway reveals as little as possible. But still, I wish he would have developed them a bit more. I am asking H. to write more, yes, I know how that sounds. Oh, don't judge, we are not in Salem. But even if we were and some villagers had decided to parade me through town with a crowd recreating the possible last scene of The Stranger, I would be still shouting: three stars!
What did he fear? It was not a fear or dread. It was a nothing that he knew too well. It was all a nothing and man was a nothing too.
An old man dr
What did he fear? It was not a fear or dread. It was a nothing that he knew too well. It was all a nothing and man was a nothing too.
An old man drinking alone. A man that won't leave, a young waiter in a hurry to go home to his wife and another waiter. It is as simple as that. The complexity that left me stunned lies beneath that simple plot that unfolds with the help of Hemingway's characteristic style. And, once more, the economy of words cannot tame the torrent of emotions that can take over even the most distracted of readers. Every mortal must face loneliness. They do it in their unique ways.
Some people try to divert their attention away from the loud silence of introspection, so they focus on work. Or they turn on the TV. Or run to their wives or husbands, pitying those less fortunate, thinking that they will never feel that kind of despair. Forgetting about the fleeting essence of youth.
Some people pour brandy into a shiny glass, feeling the silence of the night in a clean, well-lighted place. For neither money nor youth are enough to banish despair from a too sentimental soul. But everything seems bearable while being at the café.
Some people watch. They watch the rest of humanity facing their loneliness and try to provide a clean place with decent light to those in need. They face their loneliness helping other to face theirs, in the best way possible. Solitude gets intense. It is an uncontrollable force that reduces the world to nothing. A man in the vastness of this universe; nothing. A god in the mind of the desperate who cannot feel his presence; nothing. The human being trying to find meaning in the context of human nature's absurdity; nothing. My first five stars are dedicated to nothingness. To an eternal search. To Hemingway and his detached writing that left me amidst the chaotic silence of my room, contemplating nada.
Once more, like a salmon, swimming against the stream. For this is presented as a fine classic of iceberg theory, and I don't see it that much like inOnce more, like a salmon, swimming against the stream. For this is presented as a fine classic of iceberg theory, and I don't see it that much like in other stories. So don't pay attention to anything I have been saying concerning Ernest Hemingway. Every reading experience is subject to one's personality (my goodness, Florencia, you discovered gunpowder). It is so attached to ourselves, so related to our character, our nature, our psyche, that it is a pointless task to try to decode why we liked a book and why the others did not. I am the one who doesn't dislike a lot of description about the surroundings, but prefers the descriptions about everything that is going on inside the characters' head. Of course, I like knowing where the characters are and what they are doing, but I greatly appreciate when they reveal why they are doing... whatever they chose to do. I mean, I don't need to know why they are grabbing a cup of coffee and walking towards the kitchen; I can read a map. I'm referring to the great choices in their lives. So, when I met this writer, I was confused. I felt inadequate. My perception was non-existent. I could not connect with him. I saw a distant, indifferent man unwilling to give any detail about the people and the universe he created. After reading a bunch of stories, it hit me. It was simply his style. He didn't believe it was necessary to write about everything because you would be able to understand through the art of the implicit. Easier said than done. Some of us have to work a little to reach the profound meaning of his writings.
For me, for this innocent, limited lamb that is writing to you at this moment, this is one of the most transparent short stories I have read so far. It is about the relationship between Nicholas Adams and his father, told through memories while he is driving with his own son. Role models, betrayal, hunting, awkward scents, punishments, nature.
All sentimental people are betrayed so many times.
These little snippets of his childhood are substantially honest. And beautifully written. A beauty that can put a smile on your face. A beauty that will certainly horrify you. An unsettling beauty to which you can relate. This cold, minimalistic style that so well defines Hemingway became a modest bundle of emotions, restrained, yet waiting for me to unfold them. Ready to allow me to see beneath the surface. To see the parallel between a beautiful landscape and memories that took place in there but sometimes you wish you could forget. We can forget about picking up a friend, buying coffee, a distant relative's birthday. We can deceive ourselves and think we forgot about those significant scars of childhood, the grown-ups world. However, they always find a way to come back no matter how hard we push them back. We can find temporary sanctuaries, like getting lost in the warm arms of nature. Like in most Hemingway's stories.
If he wrote it he could get rid of it. He had gotten rid of many things by writing them. But it was still too early for that.
A breath of fresh air. Some peace for a broken mind. Finally.
A couple. A bar. A health condition of some sort. And some modest research done by a reader to understand what was going on exactly. Mere descriptionsA couple. A bar. A health condition of some sort. And some modest research done by a reader to understand what was going on exactly. Mere descriptions of actions and dialogue were not enough. But the reader doesn't blame the author for her lack of perception. A detached author that seems to barely know them. A foreign in their lands.
The economy of the words. Emotions, all over the place. In silence. They have lost their names yet their presence is still felt.
P.S. Given the comments I keep receiving: yes, I know what the story is about, I just didn't want to write a review full of spoilers. But thank you. June 4, 2021...more
A lion, symbol of courage and a significant connection between a man and his wife. I was not too fond of any of the characters of this story but I havA lion, symbol of courage and a significant connection between a man and his wife. I was not too fond of any of the characters of this story but I have to admit something: I don't remember being so repelled by a female character since Cinderella's stepmother. Well, in the name of debatable maturity, I am pretty sure I felt that with other fictional people but I can't remember at the moment. And now I can't stop thinking about it. I need another female character that I really disliked. Great, this is going to bug me. This is taking a weird turn and now I am writing as my mind dictates. Yeah. This is how babbling is created. Ursula, Maleficent, Evil Queen, Cruella de Vil... I have been possessed by Walt Disney now, stop it. Wait. Disney. Ducks. Daisy. Daisy Buchanan. Done.
This short story started a bit slow and on top of it all, dealing with the barbaric activity of hunting; to kill for the sake of killing. However, as I kept reading, human nature and its inherent conflicts came to surface. Every piece started to fall into the right place—at least, from my humble point of view—and the twist I was warned about before, was a sudden shake that induced the collapse of this initially dull universe. It confirmed all suspicious. (Hemingway deserves patience; I am still trying to adjust.)
This is a story about many things, but it mostly involves the loss of cowardice and control. Hemingway described fear in the most evocative way possible. His minimal amount of words to portray emotions and such vividness between the lines gradually captivated me. What has started tiresome to me became a pulsating prose that revealed a story infused with fear, contempt and the desire of controlling everything. Everyone. Until the last minute. Accidentally, voluntarily. Will or chance. I wouldn't know.
A story about the act of breaking ties with manipulation and the rage that such happiness precipitates. All elements that, inevitably, pave the way to the core of tragedy.
No, he would not be afraid. Others, yes. Not he. He knew he would not be afraid. Even if he ever was afraid he knew that he could do it anyway. He
No, he would not be afraid. Others, yes. Not he. He knew he would not be afraid. Even if he ever was afraid he knew that he could do it anyway. He had confidence.
Simplicity is the key. I know. A simple plot can become a work of art thanks to great writing. In this ambivalent relationship I am having with Hemingway, the more I read, the more confused I am. So far, I had a similar reaction only towards Cortázar's work. A new contestant has arrived. However, I have nothing but good news, today. In a parallel universe, this is the Hemingway I would sing Christmas carols with. (Inside joke.)
"The Capital of the World" is a short story about a young man named Paco who lived in Madrid. He worked as a waiter in a hotel called Pension Luarca, where bullfighters usually stayed. They are described as second-rate matadors, since they achieved greatness but because of certain circumstances, their careers were reduced to memories. Well, Paco's dream was to become a bullfighter. Even though I can't relate to the romanticism he saw in that heinous activity, I do understand the feeling of having a dream that seems bigger than one's existence. And the reactions it might generate. Paco was surrounded by people leading dull lives without any prospect. On the contrary, he was a cheerful boy full of dreams and ideals, typical of youth. (Typical?) He was waiting for a chance to create the future he was longing for. Unafraid. Overconfident, even. A raw melody tempting tragedy. Something evoking sailors being lured by an irresistible song.
Paco's joy and desires of fulfilling his dreams can't dissipate the melancholic atmosphere of Hemingway's prose. The smothering sense of nostalgia and loss lies in every page of this short story. (Recurring themes I always enjoy in this sometimes futile search for empathy.) The author offered some character development that gives the story the psychological depth I always look for. I saw a boy full of illusions, ready to prove everybody wrong. Eager to accomplish his lifetime goal. Unwilling to stay in the same place, beholding how other people's lives were fading out, in silence. Until they are nothing more than blurred lines in the air moving mechanically, helping others to fulfill their wishes. Paco is not the perfect example, though his eagerness to make his dream come true certainly leaves you pondering about where do you want to go. The defeated bullfighters remembering the greatness of bygone days, leave you thinking about where you are now. Different questions emerge from all the characters of this story. The answers might soothe you. If you are lucky enough.
There was a great TV show once. A brilliant sitcom known as “the show about nothing”. But even though it was perceived as a show about nothing, it wasThere was a great TV show once. A brilliant sitcom known as “the show about nothing”. But even though it was perceived as a show about nothing, it was about nearly everything. Well, “The Killers” is a story about almost nothing. Could I say it is about nearly everything? I don't know, but it is certainly not as entertaining as the aforementioned sitcom. It might be interesting for academics wanting to study words and structures and other fun things. From that hilarious perspective, yes, it caught my attention that, besides the “almost nothing happens” issue, that “almost nothing” is told in the simplest way possible. That is quite coherent, I guess. The writing is simple, straightforward. You are given a bunch of characters that lack all development; you have to settle with only knowing their names. Passivity is this short story's trademark. The somewhat lack of action is something that leaves you wondering about possibilities and limitations, being and nothingness. It is rather unsatisfying. Too many “what ifs” frustrate me.
I just read about the Iceberg Theory. I am certainly not a fan of an extreme minimalist style but I think I can take it on small doses. I do not ask for meaningless details, daily minutiae that no one cares about; but I want something that allows me to connect with the characters. Use your words and give me emotions. Give me thoughts, feelings, doubts, melancholy, some joy. I do not seek obvious revelations nor redundant thoughts. I would reread The Alchemist, in that case. But again, give me something more... If Hemingway used this style on an entire novel, I can see why the whole reading experience can be tiresome. Even Rory G. described him as painful. So, reader, Hemingway fan, let me know what novel I should try first.
Back to the short story. Some characters deal with a situation that in any world would be considered as stressful, and yet, nothing happens. They stay still, unable to move because of some strange force. You cannot think of something else rather than they are already surrendered, they feel doomed and think that any action is futile having in mind the inevitability of life. It is probable that you do not see all this. Maybe this is me trying to find something meaningful. Maybe there is. Okay, I am sure there is; I simply cannot see it... that well. I guess.
Verdict. Hemingway, regarding short stories, I think we can be friends. However, concerning novels... you are that estranged acquaintance I would send a Christmas card to, but I'm not sure if we are ready to meet and sing Christmas carols together across town. We need time. And more small doses.
Oct 17, 15 * This review was written on April 3, 2015; I just found it today. I don't remember the story. I don't know why I wrote what I wrote but... there it is.
It was never what he had done, but always what he could do. (6)
Air. Fresh air. Clarity for the mind. A pause. Another view. Many things. Many things c
It was never what he had done, but always what he could do. (6)
Air. Fresh air. Clarity for the mind. A pause. Another view. Many things. Many things can be found in a white landscape. The snow hides many secrets. The beginning and the end of everything, there, on the top of Kilimanjaro. Harry knows it now. A little too late. Wait, it is never too late, you say? Nonsense. Sometimes it is too damn late.
A couple, Harry and Helen. They are in Africa. He is dying of gangrene; she is by his side, taking care of him. This is my first Hemingway and I really enjoyed it. His writing—at least in this short story—has the ability of conveying the inner process of one conflicted soul. He described feelings and memories with such beauty and acuity that I felt completely captivated. I do not care so much about the plot if you let me see what is inside somebody's mind by following the inextricably fascinating rhythm of your prose. Hemingway wrote. I followed. I got hurt, then healed while staring at the ceiling with that dreadful book next to me.
I did not know what to expect, to be honest. I do not know if this was the best short story to start my journey with this writer (whose work has also been described as... “painful”; I am officially afraid of his novels now). But I saw it. I felt it. During the whole time I was reading this story, I felt the air getting heavier. It was filled with nostalgia and regret: powerful things that can choke you to death. Death. It does not sound so scary when you start thinking about regret. The story you could have written. The call you should have made. The kiss you should have given. The confession you could have shared. The vulnerability you should not have hidden. The words you could have said; the words you should have swallowed. The life you should have lived. To the fullest. Whatever that is. Death cannot be avoided. But regret... that unbearable weight upon your chest. That stubborn attitude of waiting for tomorrow knowing there are limits. Unforgivable. I have no excuse to justify mine. No good excuse, at least. “Never look back.” “I don't regret anything”. Is that possible? Is that even human? We are swinging between the avoidable and our humanity. Some riddles cannot be answered.
You kept from thinking and it was all marvellous. You were equipped with good insides so that you did not go to pieces that way, the way most of them had, and you made an attitude that you cared nothing for the work you used to do, now that you could no longer do it. But, in yourself, you said that you would write about these people... But he would never do it, because each day of not writing, of comfort, of being that which he despised, dulled his ability and softened his will to work so that, finally, he did no work at all. (5)
You cannot stop death. He kindly stops for you, a poet once wrote. He awaits by your side, resting his head on the foot of your bed while contemplating the setting sun. A bicycle policeman. A bird. A hyena. But regret chokes. Slowly. Inexorably. Taking away all trace of existence while you are still breathing. The hunger for living. The desire of doing. Stillness. A bundle of miserable contradictions. There are few things so human as regret.
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