Hemingway may be a great writer, but this isn’t a great book; much of it reads like the self-indulgent fantasy of a man who should have known better than to write a trivial story with little real narrative drive, packed with instances of sexual wish-fulfilment. The characters are unsympathetic and one doesn’t much care what happens to them. It seems this was carved by Hemingway’s publisher out of a much longer manuscript after the author’s death, and the publisher didn’t do a very good job with it. There were reasons why Hemingway didn’t finish it, and he was right not to try and publish it.
Perhaps when it was published it was viewed as edgy, but there is little to recommend this book to the modern reader. My litmus test of a book is whether after a year I can remember much about it, and to be honest very little remains lodged in my grey cells apart from how irritating the main protagonists were.
Hemingway may be a great writer, but this isn’t a great book; much of it reads like the self-indulgent fantasy of a man who should have known better than to write a trivial story with little real narrative drive, packed with instances of sexual wish-fulfilment. The characters are unsympathetic and one doesn’t much care what happens to them. It seems this was carved by Hemingway’s publisher out of a much longer manuscript after the author’s death, and the publisher didn’t do a very good job with it. There were reasons why Hemingway didn’t finish it, and he was right not to try and publish it.
Perhaps when it was published it was viewed as edgy, but there is little to recommend this book to the modern reader. My litmus test of a book is whether after a year I can remember much about it, and to be honest very little remains lodged in my grey cells apart from how irritating the main protagonists were.