Review: As soon as you learn even a little about "Papa" Hemingway , you know he's going to write well. His life story oozes with adventure- every corner of it seems to be crammed with entertaining anecdotes that make you think that if you'd ever met him in a bar, there's a strong possibility that you'd never ever leave that bar (as long as you could keep up with his drinking pace, that is!). An 18 year-old volunteer injured during WW1 in Italy, cutting his teeth in inter-war Paris with only Pablo Picasso, Scott Fitzgerald and Gertrude Stein for drinking buddies, countless (mainly bullfighting, but also Civil war reporting) adventures is Spain and hunting in Africa, being a war-correspondent actually AT the D-day landings in 1944 (where he was labelled "precious cargo"), and retiring to write in post-revolution Cuba- just the tip of an incredibly well-travelled, war-wounded, bull-fighting, lion-shooting, bi-plane-flying (probably- it fits), yacht-sailing book-selling iceberg. His life itself is almost the stuff of fiction. And it's with little amazement that he's considered one of the most important American writers ever.
Ernest Hemingway, from "Midnight in Paris"
So, "A Farewell To Arms" is off to a good start... much like Frederic Henry and the Italian army! All's going well on the campaign to defend the newly recognized Kingdom of Italy against the remnants of the Austro-Hungarian empire. Austria, a country which to many in the 19th century appeared to have been invented with the sole purpose of giving Napoleon a place to swing his sabre and fire off any spare cannon balls he had lying around, was at somewhat of a loose end. Hemingway himself says:
"The Austrian army was created to give Napoleon victories; any Napoleon".
And with that epic burn, they decided that the 20th century was going to be different. And what better way to celebrate the new century than with a bit of imperialistic expansion? It turns out that this empire building lark isn't like moving your fence a foot into your neighbour's garden when he's on holiday, though, as the Italians decide that being forced to wear pointy hats and grow outrageously overgrown mustaches isn't for them. Hence, the Austrians call on their younger, harder, German brother.
"It's the Germans that are attacking," one of the medical officers said. The word Germans was something to be frightened of. We did not want to have anything to do with the Germans".
Hemingway describes the chaos that ensued as a result of the Italian defeat at Caporetto so well, that many real-life survivors of the retreat swore that the only way he could have written such accurate details correctly is by actually having been there (he wasn't). It's no wonder he made himself a successful career as a war reporter- he lavishes the reader with a real sense of the disorder, disarray and general lawlessness of an army on the back-foot... Now, if only Frederic's countrymen would jump in and get involved in some politically motivated mass-murder for a change, then maybe we could enjoy the world as one, peaceful humanity. However, as he realises that he's more likely to die by being executed by a handful of rebellious Italian subordinates than by Kaisers Bill and Charles (of Germany and Austria respectively), he jumps headfirst into a river to avoid execution, and the wishful idea of some good ol' American intervention must seem like a very long way away for him... Still, after his well-timed and supremely executed "Sod this!", Frederic gets back to Catherine, leaving the Italian army to scratch their heads over a missing ambulance driver while simultaneously face the fact that they're at the pointy end of a German bayonet...
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| "We've been sitting here since Christmas 1914, during which time millions of men have died, and we've moved no further than an asthmatic ant with heavy shopping"- Captain Blackadder critiques the war |
If you haven't read Hemingway before, then the first lesson you will learn from the master is that by eliminating almost all punctuation, you can turn something as mundane as hooking up and getting pissed in a hotel room into mini-novella, such as the following:
"Maybe she would pretend that I was her boy that was killed and we would go in the front door and the porter would take of his cap and I would stop at the concierge's desk and ask for the key and she would stand by the elevator and then we would get in the elevator and it would go up very slowly clicking at all the floors and then our floor and the boy would open the door and stand there and she would step out and I would step out and we would walk down the hall and I would put the key in the door and open it and go in and then take down the telephone and ask them to send a bottle of capri bianca in a silver bucket full of ice and you would hear the ice against the pail coming down the corridor and the boy would knock and I would say leave it outside the door please."
Try it out. On the downside, you'll give your English Writing teacher a seizure, but... well, actually maybe there are only plus points to it! XD
It's a fantastic book... but it's not a 10/10... and here's why. Read this passage, and tell me what's missing:
"I order you to come back to the car and cut brush," I said. The one sergeant turned. "We have to go on. In a little while you will be cut off. You can't order us. You're not our officer."
"I order you to cut brush," I said. They turned and started down the road.
"Halt", I said. They kept on down the muddy road, the hedge on either side. "I order you to halt," I called. They went a little faster. I opened up my holster, took the pistol, aimed at the one who had talked the most, and fired. I missed and they both started to run. I shot three times and dropped one"...
All without a flicker of emotion, apparently! It's difficult to believe that even a war-weary veteran such as Frederic/Ernest could kill a man (let alone a man on his own side) without feeling something. A little low on the human-feeling front, I must admit (and just wait till you read the last page!!!)...
This week, retired war criminal and got-away-with-it mass murderer Tony Blair has said his next project will be to support the Bremain camp, to channel deep into the psyche of the British public and remind them that a little red-tape in Brussels is a small price to pay for booze runs to Calais and £15 mini-breaks to Barcelona. However, having Tony Blair in your camp for ANY kind of contentious issue is a bit like Charles Manson supporting your demonstration to raise the minimum wage. The way you react to the news of both of them backing your cause is the same, namely:
"Oh... well, thanks... but no... no no no....no...
THANKS, though!
But, most importantly, no... a hundred thousand times, no...
no, no no..."
I mention this because, as we head towards an almost inevitable Brexit, and possibly afterwards a "Byegium", a "Departugal", a "Czechout", an "Italeave", a "Nethermind", a "Latervia", a "Fruckoff", a "Splitzerland", an "Austria La Vista", and a "Germany thanks it's been a blast", what is really only left are the following pertinent questions: have we really learned anything since 1918? Are we the more enlightened and tolerant generation that we simply assume we must be? And, if so, then can we reasonably claim a warm hearted sympathy for Frederic Henry and Catherine Barkley, two fictional refugees from a war which ended 100 years ago, whilst concurrently showing the cold shoulder to refugees who are taking strikingly similar journeys across Europe today?
Food for thought.
Score: 8/10
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