So one day I left for work early. Normally, I bring a novel along, but that day, for some reason or another, I didn't. I hadn't eaten and was going to stop at some like cafe type place to eat before taking a walk. I don't mind eating by myself. In fact, at those type of establishments I almost prefer it. Save the big restaurants for companionship. Still, I like to have something to occupy myself. After all, I don't want anyone to talk to me or anything as horrible as that (!). Right... so I went into this cool little used book store and decided that I'd buy myself a book or two to read. I ended up choosing two books by Jane Austen. Firstly, because I always enjoy the movies that are made based upon her novels. And secondly, because I've been meaning to read them for a long time. I picked up Sense and Sensibility and Emma. From all of the Jane Austen movies, those two were my favourite. I imagine I'll pick up the rest of them eventually. But let's wait a couple days for that.

I haven't quite finished Emma, but I finished Sense and Sensibility in a couple of days. I must admit I really enjoy her writing style. Of classic novels, Jane Austen actually has a writing style that isn't unbearable. Like I tried reading Ernest Hemingway a few weeks back, oh gawd... get ready for a rant. Now, he's supposed to be this terrific author and I found him terrifyingly bad. I mean he can write in full sentences, and his grammar is good, and the premises of his novels don't seem that bad -- but he lacks. I admit while I'm not a buff, history has always been my favourite subject. And of all the areas covered, the world wars were the most interesting and stimulating for me. Hemingway, being a war man himself, often wrote on those time periods, so the potential of my appreciating his novels were great. I really wanted to enjoy these novels. His style, though, had this brevity to it. In some authors I admire that. For him though, it left me feeling like he could only give this half-assed attempt at writing.

I also couldn't help hating his protagonists. Okay, so I've only read 1 and 1/4 books by Hemingway. But in that 1 and 1/4 books, I really hated the main characters. I read A Farewell to Arms and began For Whom the Bell Tolls. Or maybe it was the other way around, I'm not sure. Whatever, in either novel the main character seemed overly pompous, and one of those 'perfect' characters that are given little vices to make them seem not so perfect. So this isn't really a fault with his style... but his characterization, I guess.

Here comes the worst part. In the second novel I attempted, if I was correct before - that's For Whom the Bell Tolls, what annoyed me the most is how the love interest, Maria, came across as such a floozie. Okay, so there was love at first sight. I know this because the main character's voice kept on getting thick whenever she was around and Maria kept on blushing (That's love if I ever saw it, ha). But that night she comes traipsing out of the cave to make herself... um... useful to him. What a man!! I couldn't believe it. I've NEVER heard of this happening in reality before. Maybe I'm just horribly naive... but really! Come on!

--excerpt from For Whom the Bell Tolls
(*some artistic liberties may have been taken by blog administrator)

Maria looked around cautiously as she stepped outside of the cave. Dressed only her red lace negligee, she crept slowly to where she saw Mr. Robert Jordan, the rogue professor from America sleeping. Maria slipped soundlessly into his sleeping bag. Once inside, she tried to rouse him gently.


Robert Jordan's eyes fluttered open with sensational manliness.
"I love you!," Maria gasped. "Take me now, please... I can't wait a moment longer." Robert Jordan was startled, yet pleased. He had taken great notice of Maria during supper. Though he had suspected that she had felt much the same way he did, he had never imagined it to be so openly proclaimed, so quickly.. "Please," she whispered. "Let me give you the clap so that you may discharge pus and have painful or difficult urination. Anything... to be useful to you... my love, my master," Maria said in a sultry voice. She felt her heart beating, and her lips quivered as she looked lustfully upon Robert Jordan. There was no question in Robert Jordan's heart, as to how he should act. At once he drew her towards him and kissed her ruby lips passionately yet gently....


Can you believe what trash! Truly a novel worth being read by middle-aged women starved for sexual attention from their narcissistic husbands. In all seriousness though, I guess what I hated the most was that his female characters seemed so fabricated. These weren't real women. Maybe it was a matter of the times, and how women were viewed then. These women, despite their supposed strength, came across as weak to me. Maybe it's because I've never been in love before and therefore don't understand the motivations they might have had. Maybe it's because I live in a time where women are more equals to men. Or maybe I've just gained a more feminist approach to literature after gaining an appreciation for authors such as Margaret Atwood in Mrs. Den Ouden's english course. Perhaps even all the english teachers and professors across the world are idiots and Ernest Hemingway is just pure shite. Whatever the case, I couldn't relate to the characters. So be it.

I imagine I will finish that novel in the future. Maybe even another Hemingway book. I might even learn to appreciate him. For the moment though, I'll stick with my Jane Austen, my Margaret Atwood, my Carol Shields, my Doug Coupland and my Kurt Vonnegut. That is some fiction I can truly appreciate.

I like your sleeves, they're real big.