Ernest Hemingway - For Whom the Bell Tolls

'Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.'

John Donne

Ernest Hemingway’s brevity has never been imitated or matched. His prose is fast, laconic, at times brutal and often breathtaking. He won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1954, shortly after his celebrated novella, The Old Man and the Sea. Hemingway was awarded the prize ‘for his mastery in the art of narrative’ and modestly claimed the award was undeserving, due to the aptitude of his competition, but stated that the prize money was still welcome.

Hemingway lived a tumultuous life, riddled with violence, depression and war. A life filled with wonderful romances and woeful separations. He frequently claimed to be lonely and desolate and believed this was the perfect psychological state for all good writers. He said in his Nobel acceptance speech that ‘writing, at its best, is a lonely life’.

All these troubles, his failed romances, his experience of war and his sustained injuries arguably culminated in his suicide in 1961. However, it was later found that he had a rare genetic disease; hemochromatosis, which was passed down from his father, who tragically reached his own suicidal demise. The disease doesn’t allow the body to properly metabolize iron, which can result in mental and physical deterioration.

One can hardly speculate as to whether he was depressed because of the horrors he had witnessed in war-torn Europe, or whether his 4 failed marriages were to be held somewhat culpable, or whether his depression was solely attributed to this rare disease; one thing we do know is the hardships, the atrocities and those painful, woeful moments are immortalized in his terse, yet wonderfully explicit, semi-autobiographical prose throughout every page his wonderful oeuvre.

Hemingway writes with astonishing verisimilitude, and while his life was noticeably painful, he never neglects moments of spontaneity and always presents his audience with extraordinary romances and friendships. His novels are inextricably fluctuating, expounding the extremes of all emotions in his most idiosyncratic and distinctive prose.

For Whom the Bell Tolls is no different. In fact, it is probably the best example of this erratic prose. The story follows protagonist, Robert Jordan, empathetically know as ‘English’, through the violence and terrors of the Spanish Civil War. He is sent to a camp of republican guerrillas, who are fighting against Franco’s Fascists, in a conflict that tore Spain apart and eventually saw Franco in power. Jordan, a dynamiter, is sent there to blow up a bridge in order to aid the republicans.

As the narrative progresses, the protagonist is seen falling in love with a young girl living at the camp named Maria. Maria is a victim of the Fascists, who executed her parents and proceeded to sexually abuse and rape her. Jordan and Maria's attraction is instant, and provides gentler tones to a book that is quite sanguineous and horrific by its very nature.

Throughout the novel, Jordan argues with the old camp leader Pablo, a drunk, who was once a brave and ruthless soldier, over his conspicuous ineffectuality and his perpetual inebriation. Other than this, Jordan for the most part becomes friends with those in the camp and listens to their copious stories, anecdotes and tales of war, none more frightful than those from when Pablo was in charge.

One sequence in particular sticks with the reader, a sequence as merciless as any to be found in modern literature. Pillar, Pablo’s wife and current leader of the camp, tells Jordan of Pablo’s cold-hearted brutality in the days when he drank less and fought more. This particular story is somehow picturesque despite its palpably vicious inclinations. It displays how Pablo led men of a cliff after threatening their lives. How a group of guerrillas lined up and killed Fascists, one by one, in regimented yet horrific fashion.

If you have, or even hope to read For Whom the Bell Tolls, you will know of this scene. It is quite brilliant. The way Hemingway describes, in his distinctive brevity, the action of each man who is led to their deaths, down the tunnel of guerrillas towards the cliff. The ones who try to escape, who are then beaten continuously until they either die from such beatings or try their luck of the cliff. The ones who accept their fate, who walk proudly off the cliff as if straight into heaven. The ones, who scream for forgiveness, ask for exoneration and beg for mercy.

In these frightful scenes, Hemingway describes how Pablo is cold and fearless, which lends the reader a degree of admiration for the drunk who has fallen from glory, who once fought valiantly and boldly against a Fascist regime. And at the same time you sympathize with the devil, these Fascists, some hard-line, some nascent non-believers, all seemingly on a journey through perdition.

Much like Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia, Hemingway volunteered for the Spanish Civil war, lending the novel its inevitable biographical content and its veiled realism. The book can be exceptionally cold and at times perhaps a little too masochistic, but for me, it remains permanently entertaining.

The book is neither for the fainthearted, nor for those who enjoy drawn out, leisurely, Proustian prose. This novel is almost 500 pages of pure, unadulterated emotion, always extreme and always enjoyable. It has action, love, friendship and brutality almost in repetition, all embroidered and implemented with Hemmingway’s incomparable brevity and distinguished style.

Hemingway is often praised, and rightly so, for the Old Man and the Sea and A Farewell to Arms, but it is here where his disparate style, his laconic prose and his truly desolate literature is best displayed. Out of all of Hemmingway’s work, this is the book that encapsulates Hemingway, this is the book that shows how truly astonishing a writer he really is.

Nikolai Gogol - The Nose

For a few weeks I read solely short stories, this concluded with what I now consider to be one of my favourite books, Nikolai Gogol's The Nose 

It wasn’t until I read David Foster Wallace’s collection Oblivion that I realized how wonderful short stories can be. His most celebrated, and best, The Depressed Person, showed that shorter stories can be as enjoyable as many longer novels. Upon finishing this I read Lorrie Moore and Miranda July’s attempts, and while they didn’t quite match Foster Wallace’s effort, they were still fascinating.

I would advise reading Miranda July above Moore, if only because I was attracted to the use of experimental perversities that seems to play such a large role in her work. After reading these I came to the realization that I hadn’t read any classic short stories, of which many authors are famous for.

So I read Dubliners, and was instantaneously in awe with James Joyce’s seemingly abundant talents. Honestly, James Joyce might just be literatures monotheistic saviour. I went on to read a collection of Hemingway’s short stories, which included, The Old Man and the Sea, which is arguably a novella rather than a short story, either way it was magnificent.

Then there’s other novella’s that fall under this distorted category (that I would personally term short stories). Some notable examples are Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis and John Steinbeck’s The Pearl.

After Reading these brilliant works, I came across a collection of Nikolai Gogol’s short stories, entitled Diary of a Madman, the Government Inspector, & Selected Stories (Left). Amidst a somewhat disappointing start (I thought that Diary of a Madman, the esteemed titular short story, wasn’t very good) I stumbled across a story called The Nose.

The Nose is brilliant, it is as surreal as it is funny, really mindboggling stuff. It follows a respectable man who wakes up one morning and in horror is missing his nose. The man is understandably bemused and apoplectic, and wonders how to escape his predicament. Amidst his wonderings, he sees his nose, in the street, fully formed and of human size. The story follows this man, his thoughts and feelings while he tries to restore his face to its previous nasal normality.

It is a wonderful journey and unexpectedly humorous. Gogol, who was Dostoyevsky’s foremost influence, is an exceptional writer. Dead Souls, his magnum opus, is brilliantly written, however the overwhelmingly sombre undertones does mean, that while it is certainly a magnificent novel, it is quite difficult. The Nose is Dead Soul’s polar opposite, absolutely hysterical and whimsical yet retaining that brilliant Gogolian dialect that makes all his works so fascinating.

It seems that I have been primarily reviewing well know books that I have enjoyed, often without criticising them. And while I would love to break that trend, by being critical, it is perhaps not the time. The Nose is beyond criticism; it is so enjoyable and memorable that it would be a sin against literature not to advise it. It really is superb. 

Top 100 Books

With the craze that surrounded Harry Potter and all things magical, the BBC decided to publish a 'Top 100' list as part of their 'Big Read'. The book was supposed to indicate books that everyone should read, however I found the list quite erroneous (how can all 7 Harry Potter books make the fold). Judge for yourself:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/bigread/top100.shtml

Anyway, I found this list on the Guardian and deem it far more comprehensive and, in my personal taste, correct:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2002/may/08/books.booksnews

Here's a few notes, please disagree:

Firstly, the list is less suffocating as it hasn't numbered the entries, this allows the reader slightly more freedom in discerning for themselves where each entry should lie.

It dates well, whereas the BBC version was slightly compact and overly modern, the Guardian is far more ubiquitous and rounded.

A problem with the Guardians version, is that it has 'complete works', which feels obvious and contrived. After all, Kafka's best book is not his 'complete works'. Quite stupid really.

That's about all, as a side-note, Crime and Punishment shouldn't be in either. It's overrated. (Sorry)

5 iconic covers for parts of Remembrance of Things Past through various Publishers

Marcel Proust – Swann’s Way (Part One of Remembrance of Things Past)

Marcel Proust’s masterpiece Remembrance of Things Past, or In Search of Lost Time, is renowned for both its size (3500 pages) and it’s seemingly effortless prose. I began part one, entitled Swann’s Way, this week with very little information about the author, and indeed the novel itself, and was pleasantly surprised from the first page. The vocabulary is exquisite and the prose itself is perhaps the most diligent and fastidious I have ever encountered, in the sense that it is difficult but ever-so rewarding.

Within the first one hundred pages the reader is encapsulated and in awe with the novel. The ‘episode of the Madeleine’, a sequence that I read unaware of its salient notoriety, was quite frankly astonishing. So astonishing in fact, that upon reading these two or three pages, I had made several notes, destroyed the page with ink, and quickly told one or two interested literary partisans about this rather brief passage.

This may seem slightly hyperbolic, but it really is marvellous. And while I am evidently drawing particular attention to these few pages, I certainly have no criticisms of the rest of the book, as it follows, more or less, in the same fashion.

What is so wonderful about the book is that the plot is noticeably ordinary. There is little action, very few likeable characters and the technique of ‘involuntary memory’ which is employed, doesn’t offer the reader intense emotion or collective tragedy, but this in itself is irrelevant. In fact, all this stands as a testament to the beauty of Proust’s work. From an outside perspective, to describe what the book is about, all 500 pages of this first part, would surely defer readers, as very little actually happens, but this certainly should not be the case. Proust is a superb author, and the mildness and vapidity of the text actually complements the brilliant writing.  It is slow, and at times difficult, but all this serves to highlight the sheer virtuosity of Proust’s work.It is exceptionally colourful and descriptive, and for such a seemingly ordinary storyline it has a way of truly encapsulating its readership.

This book is quite distinctive. If anything, it reminds me slightly of Nikolai Gogol’s Dead Souls, the comparison being that Gogol’s plot was seemingly ordinary yet still truly captivating, only Proust’s work is missing the element of intrigue that was so evident in Gogol’s magnum opus. These comparisons are small, Proust's work is undoubtedly unique.

After 500 pretty laborious pages, I have bought the second part of this 7 part classic, and quite look forward to reading it in due course. I would advise anyone to read this book; it is, quite simply, remarkable.