This is one of the first “real” books I’ve
read. I was 14 and I was moving my first tentative steps as a
pseudo-intellectual. I picked it pretty much because I had heard of Hemingway,
felt that if he was good enough to be a myth for my parents’ generation it was
going to be good enough for me.
Fast forward another fourteen years and I now
wonder whether this is one of those few books that I should re-read. I liked it
back then, but I now wonder whether I liked it because I felt like I had to, or
because that’s how I actually felt. I find it hard to believe that I could
really understand, even vaguely, the dynamics between Jake and Brett Ashley let
alone having actually ever felt any of the feelings and desires they were
talking about (despite the fact that, having kissed three girls in
middle-school I felt like I was a great expert in the field of women).
One thing that I surely did appreciate was the travelling
aspects of the novel, and I think that quite a bit of my love for Paris, and
for Spain and its traditions actually come from this book.
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