For Whom the Bell Tolls – Ernest Hemingway

When I was 16 I thought that Hemingway was the greatest writer to have ever lived. I had read most of his seminal books, but I hadn’t read For Whom the Bell Tolls until earlier this year.

Now I no longer think that he is the greatest writer in history. At times I even ask myself whether he was just a man who cared about his drinks and his guns and, ultimately, not much about his women. Probably the truth is somewhere in the middle: one of the best writers of his generation despite his many personal flaws.

For Whom the Bell Tolls is a great read, but the self-censorship and the literary translation of Spanish expressions butchers that beautiful language. And the figure of the hero with no fear seems a bit excessive in the era of The Dark Knight.

Also, every time I read something by Hemingway or Orwell about the Spanish Civil War, I think of the old general of the International Brigades who, when asked about the contributions of the two writers to the war effort, simply answered “Fucking tourists”.