/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.19037547]

>plain prose
>forgettable plots
Why is he famous?

[Anonymous No.19037566]

>>19037547
He was the first to do it.

[Anonymous No.19037573]

>>19037566
To do what

[Anonymous No.19037574]

Ok, so your other thread got btfo'd and you made another one. How about you just fuck off.
And to that lil cocksucker from the last tgread I'm still waiting for the proof that he himself, in his later years, that is after childhood, was a crossdresser. I'm waiting you dishonest prick

[Anonymous No.19037576]

>>19037547
It is a mixture of his public image and enough of the population not being plot fags.

>>19037566
No he wasn't.

[N0TJY No.19037830]

>>19037576
Sorry anon, but Hemingway is the first person in the history of literacy to scrawl bland to-the-point prose. That's the 100 percent facts.

[Anonymous No.19037892]

His prose is incredible, his characters realistic and memorable and his stories heartbreaking and original. You're probably 15 years old anon, stop embarrassing yourself.

[Anonymous No.19037896]

>>19037574
>proof that he himself, in his later years, that is after childhood, was a crossdresser. I'm waiting you dishonest prick
PBS documentary

[Anonymous No.19037931]

>>19037547
Because his writing is actually fucking beautiful.

>Beyond the mule train the road was empty and we climbed through the hills and then went down over the shoulder of a long hill into a river-valley. There were trees along both sides of the road and through the right line of trees I saw the river, the water clear, fast and shallow. The river was low and there were stretches of sand and pebbles with a narrow channel of water and sometimes the water spread like a sheen over the pebbly bed. Close to the bank I saw deep pools, the water blue like the sky. I saw arched stone bridges over the river where tracks turned off from the road and we passed stone farmhouses with pear trees candelabraed against their south walls and low stone walls in the fields. The road went up the valley a long way and then we turned off and commenced to climb into the hills again. The road climbed steeply going up and back and forth through chestnut woods to level finally along a ridge. I could look down through the woods and see, far below, with the sun on it, the line of the river that separated the two armies. We went along the rough new military road that followed the crest of the ridge and I looked to the north at the two ranges of mountains, green and dark to the snow-line and then white and lovely in the sun. Then, as the road mounted along the ridge, I saw a third range of mountains, higher snow mountains, that looked chalky white and furrowed, with strange planes, and then there were mountains far off beyond all these that you could hardly tell if you really saw. Those were all the Austrians’ mountains and we had nothing like them. Ahead there was a rounded turn-off in the road to the right and looking down I could see the road dropping through the trees. There were troops on this road and motor trucks and mules with mountain guns and as we went down, keeping to the side, I could see the river far down below, the line of ties and rails running along it, the old bridge where the railway crossed to the other side and across, under a hill beyond the river, the broken houses of the little town that was to be taken.

>I was always embarrassed by the words sacred, glorious, and sacrifice and the expression in vain. We had heard them, on proclamations that were slapped up by billposters over other proclamations, now for a long time, and I had seen nothing sacred, and the things that were glorious had no glory and the sacrifices were like the stockyards at Chicago if nothing was done with the meat except to bury it. There were many words that you could not stand to hear and finally only the names of places had dignity. Certain numbers were the same way and certain dates and these with the names of the places were all you could say and have them mean anything. Abstract words such as glory, honor, courage, or hallow were obscene beside the concrete names of villages, the numbers of roads, the names of rivers, the numbers of regiments and the dates.

[Anonymous No.19037941]

>>19037931
>That night at the hotel, in our room with the long empty hall outside and our shoes outside the door, a thick carpet on the floor of the room, outside the windows the rain falling and in the room light and pleasant and cheerful, then the light out and it exciting with smooth sheets and the bed comfortable, feeling that we had come home, feeling no longer alone, waking in the night to find the other one there, and not gone away; all other things were unreal. We slept when we were tired and if we woke the other one woke too so one was not alone. Often a man wishes to be alone and a girl wishes to be alone too and if they love each other they are jealous of that in each other, but I can truly say we never felt that. We could feel alone when we were together, alone against the others. It has only happened to me like that once. I have been alone while I was with many girls and that is the way that you can be most lonely. But we were never lonely and never afraid when we were together. I know that the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started. But with Catherine there was almost no difference in the night except that it was an even better time. If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.

>Then there was the smell of heather crushed and the roughness of the bent stalks under her head and the sun bright on her closed eyes and all his life he would remember the curve of her throat with her head pushed back into the heather roots and her lips that moved smally and by themselves and the fluttering of the lashes on the eyes tight closed against the sun and against everything, and for her everything was red, orange gold-red from the sun on the closed eyes, and it all was that color, all of it, the filling, the possessing, the having, all of that color, all in a blindness of that color. For him it was a dark passage which led to nowhere, then to nowhere, then again to nowhere, once again to nowhere, always and forever to nowhere, heavy on the elbows in the earth to nowhere, dark, never any end to nowhere, hung on all time always to unknowing nowhere, this time and again for always to nowhere, now not to be borne once again always and to nowhere, now beyond all bearing up, up, up and into nowhere, suddenly, scaldingly, holdingly all nowhere gone and time absolutely still and they were both there, time having stopped and he felt the earth move out and away from under them.

[Anonymous No.19037946]

>>19037941
>>19037931

>I had gone to no place where the roads were frozen and hard as iron, where it was clear cold and dry and the snow was dry and powdery and hare-tracks in the snow and the peasants took off their hats and called you Lord and there was good hunting. I had gone to no such place but to the smoke of cafés and nights when the room whirled and you needed to look at the wall to make it stop, nights in bed, drunk, when you knew that that was all there was, and the strange excitement of waking and not knowing who it was with you, and the world all unreal in the dark and so exciting that you must resume again unknowing and not caring in the night, sure that this was all and all and all and not caring. Suddenly to care very much and to sleep to wake with it sometimes morning and all that had been there gone and everything sharp and hard and clear and sometimes a dispute about the cost. Sometimes still pleasant and fond and warm and breakfast and lunch. Sometimes all niceness gone and glad to get out on the street but always another day starting and then another night. I tried to tell about the night and the difference between the night and the day and how the night was better unless the day was very clean and cold and I could not tell it; as I cannot tell it now.

[Anonymous No.19037961]

>>19037892
This

[Anonymous No.19037963]

>>19037547
You're underestimating him. There are better writers of course, Tolstoy, Joyce, maybe even among his contemporaries, Faulkner probably. He's still really good though.

[Anonymous No.19037966]

>>19037931
>>19037941
>>19037946
Fine btfo

[Anonymous No.19037975]

>>19037963
As far as the short story is concerned his only rival is Chekhov, and I love both Carver and Cheever (among others).

[Anonymous No.19037990]

>>19037547
>>19037576
Filtered. You don't need big words and complex stories for emotional power. His writing is beautiful and his stories are moving.

Some things are ineffable.

“You are all her dear boys,” Catherine said. “She prefers the dear boys. Listen to it rain.”

“It’s raining hard.”

“And you’ll always love me, won’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And the rain won’t make any difference?”

“No.”

“That’s good. Because I’m afraid of the rain.”

“Why?” I was sleepy. Outside the rain was falling steadily.

“I don’t know, darling. I’ve always been afraid of the rain.”

“I like it.”

“I like to walk in it. But it’s very hard on loving.”

“I’ll love you always.”

“I’ll love you in the rain and in the snow and in the hail and—what else is there?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m sleepy.”

“Go to sleep, darling, and I’ll love you no matter how it is.”

“You’re not really afraid of the rain are you?”

“Not when I’m with you.”

“Why are you afraid of it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me.”

“Don’t make me.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“All right. I’m afraid of the rain because sometimes I see me dead in it.”

“No.”

“And sometimes I see you dead in it.”

“That’s more likely.”

“No it’s not, darling. Because I can keep you safe. I know I can. But nobody can help themselves.”

“Please stop it. I don’t want you to get Scotch and crazy to-night. We won’t be together much longer.”

“No, but I am Scotch and crazy. But I’ll stop it. It’s all nonsense.”

“Yes it’s all nonsense.”

“It’s all nonsense. It’s only nonsense. I’m not afraid of the rain. I’m not afraid of the rain. Oh, oh, God, I wish I wasn’t.” She was crying. I comforted her and she stopped crying. But outside it kept on raining.

[Anonymous No.19038000]

>>19037547
Dann you look stupid. See you on reddit ;)

[Anonymous No.19038012]

>>19037990
You have poor reading comprehension.

[Anonymous No.19038016]

>>19037990
Almost embarrassing to read, but what intimacy actually is. A+

[Anonymous No.19038022]

>>19038012
Anon..

[Anonymous No.19038033]

>>19038022
If you actually comprehended my post you would see I did not say anything against Hemingway.

[Anonymous No.19038053]

>>19037931
second quote is kino, I remember the first time I read it. Something about the progression in "I had seen nothing sacred, and the things that were glorious had no glory..."

A Farewell to Arms, for a short book, is so damn good

[Anonymous No.19038064]

>>19038033
Kek. If you had actually comprehended my one word post, you would have understood that it wasn't possible for me to say anything negative about anyone at all.. ... ....

[Anonymous No.19038103]

>>19037990
They both know they're whispering sweet falsehoods to each other. They know that they cannot anymore protect each other from death than they can order and command the movements of the earth. They know their love is a desperate clinging to something transcendent, they are two people who have already lost everything, two husks, desperate for love in each other. Why? Because love bears all things, hopes all things, believes all things, endures all things (1 Corinthians 13:7).

>"The rain won't make any difference."

>"Not when I'm with you."

Hemingway doesn't have to write it, to say it. That's something that makes him special to me. I don't care about who's number one, who's the greatest. I just like him. He's worth it to me.

[Anonymous No.19038139]

>>19038064
>let me explain away my poor reading comprehension
OK.

[Anonymous No.19038216]

>>19037990
are you being serious.....

[Anonymous No.19038239]

>>19037896
((PBS))

[Anonymous No.19038297]

>>19037896
Jewish subversion, all they proved was that he liked tomboys, and in my opinion, that’s based

[Anonymous No.19038303]

>>19037990
>“All right. I’m afraid of the rain because sometimes I see me dead in it.”
>“No.”

[Anonymous No.19038309]

>>19038139
Try harder. The secret word is 'implication'

[Anonymous No.19039660]

>>19037547
It's good because it's to the point and doesn't try to sound smartass with ten page long sentences with footnotes.

[Anonymous No.19039696]

Most of the good things said in this thread do apply but also
>Ernest Hemingway
is a kino name. He got lucky with that one. Imagine he was called John Smith. Doubt any of us would know about him.

[Anonymous No.19039715]

Every "famous" author is a psyop. Only writers from the /lit/ underground are any good.

[Anonymous No.19039722]

he killed himself

[Anonymous No.19040114]

>>19038303
On the page this looks kind of dumb but I could totally see this making sense if it was being performed on stage with actors. For that reason I feel like this kind of proves that Hemingway’s style of dialogue‘s actually quite naturalistic and thus appropriate.

He’s just saying, “ don’t even think about those things,” in fewer words.