| Works of literature, or workers of literature. Ernest Miller Hemingway (born 21st July 1899, died 2nd July 1961) wasn't 'just' a writer of wonderful fiction: as far as my knowledge stretches, he also wrote an autobiographical account of a few days he spend hunting in Africa (Green Hills of Africa), and the equally factual Death in the Afternoon, his bullfighting handbook, as well as his collections of short stories, and widely loved novels. It's funny, I've read a few of Hemingway's works now, but I still feel like I'm just beginning with them, like I'm only just scratching the surface, and am a long way off getting all the lovely goodness out that he put into his writing. |
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| For there is indeed plenty of goodness in Hemingway's writing. Before I had read anything of him, I had heared that he's a very masculine writer, and I had visions of blood-soaked brutality (for I also knew that he had written a lot about war), a cold lack of emotion, and little fluency in his style. None of those visions came true upon reading him. His subjects, such as | |
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bullfighting, hunting, and warfare may be thought of as very bloody-minded pursuits, but he writes about these subjects with a sensitivity of touch that is almost overpowering. That may sound like a contradiction - the idea of being overpowered by sensitivity - but it is one such idea that I fully subscribe to. This idea is almost the cornerstone to Hemingway's style, in fact. This sensitivity, as well as his compactness, are what make his writing so powerful.
In Death in the Afternoon he naturally describes scenes of dramatic brutality, with horses being gored by the horn, and their innards sagging out below them as they run on before they die (his descriptions are much better than that, of course), but nowhere does |
| anything seem like a set-piece. This can go for many writers, of course - and it is the best who can flow from scene to scene, with dramatic moments interwoven, seamlessly - but his particular sensitivity (contrary to my preconception of his style) lifts him higher than many. He actually alludes to his compact style near the end of the book, saying that works written with a false epic quality (such as the stuff I write on here), with injections of mystery that aren't at all mysterious, that lesser writers must resort to when getting something written, are completely valueless and should be avoided. He doesn't say it pompously, of course. They are just observations that he makes. And he does enjoy making unrelated observations (particularly) in Death in the Afternoon. The book isn't entirely about bullfighting. It is centred around bullfighting, of course, but he makes observations such as this throughout, and even throws in a bit of fiction when the old lady asks him to lighten the tone a little. | |
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I cannot say that I have been converted to bullfighting from reading Death in the Afternoon, like I haven't been converted to hunting through reading his beautiful Green Hills of Africa, but it isn't his intention to convert, and force ideas upon his readers. Only to provide his thoughts and feelings, and let you make your mind up about them, while enjoying his wonderful prose.
As for the idea of him being cold and emotionless, just one read of Green Hills of Africa (not to mention For Whom the Bell Tolls) will prove the idea completely false. The friendships he has in the wild forests of Africa, as well as the elation (understated, of course) at catching a kudu, are far from ice-cold and emotionless. |
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| But it is in his magnum opus (at time of writing, since I am yet to read all of his writing, and cannot be certain), For Whom the Bell Tolls, that this strength of friendship and emotion is fully realised. Very recently read (I finished it last night), it's too fresh in my system for me to | |
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comment on objectively. Although, with this one, I think I can safely say, against my idea that one cannot do so without a certain degree of experience or having read something as much as it can be read, or listened to something until you know all it's nuances and fine points, etc. that I love it.
I needn't pour forth my adoration for the book, but will touch on the third preconception I had of Hemingway's masculine style - that of little fluency - before giving you this week's Word of the Week (already late, at 00:21 now, but I'll edit the timestamp to make it Wednesday again), and then I'll be out of here. |
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It's not so much his fluency in question - since, of course, he writes fluently. I can't make any point about his fluency, but his compactness (as well as incredible emotion) is what is fully encapsulated in this longest of his books, at 490 pages. Hemingway complains about the false epic quality in Death in the Afternoon, and there is no need whatsoever for this master of his craft to resort to mystery (where there is none) or flowery writing to write a book of such length. Indeed, the book takes place in a very concentrated 'three days and three nights' of drinking, eating, planning an explosion, talking, and falling in love, which could almost be a symbol of his compact style.
Much more could be said about Ernest Hemingway, such as the possibile nature of his style being closer to feminine (if qualities such as sensitivity, emotion and concision are really feminine qualities) than his reputation suggests, or the general philosophy regarding the power of sensitivity and subtlety. But such things will have to wait for another time. For now we must see what is this week's... |
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Word of the Week
Author
author n. & v. —n. 1 a writer, esp. of books. 2 the originator of an event, a condition, etc. (the author of all my woes). —v.tr. disp. be the author of (a book, the universe, a child, etc.).
Definition courtesy of the Concise Oxford Dictionary
Thus was Ernest Miller Hemingway, and an extremely, wonderfully good one at that.
