Just finished A Farewell to Arms. For what's supposed to be one of The Great Twentieth Century Novels, I wasn't impressed. Either by the story or the telling. Guy gets shit on by life, recovers, there's some cheesy romance, and then life shits on him again. The point of it all? No freaking idea, and I don't need a book to pull that crap on me; real life does it just fine. And Papa Hemingway, contrary to his reputation, apparently never met a run-on sentence he didn't love while writing it. Sheesh.
The only book I've ever chucked across the room on finishing it was 1984 as a teenager. If I'd read this at that life stage, it'd have gotten the same treatment. Except for it being on my iPhone and all.
The only book I've ever chucked across the room on finishing it was 1984 as a teenager. If I'd read this at that life stage, it'd have gotten the same treatment. Except for it being on my iPhone and all.