Those who say Hemingway’s prose is sparse and hard are right. I’m not sure how I feel about this book, but the book did make me feel for the characters.
Overall, it felt empty, but not for lack of depth. It felt empty in the way that depression feels empty. Not so much lack of substance, but a certain numbness and apathy that leaves a place empty, even as it fills it.
I don’t know that I liked it, exactly. I didn’t dislike it. I feel a bit as though I couldn’t quite grasp it. As if I have just enough melancholy in me to recognize silent tragedy, but that there are still too many rainbows in my life for me to see past the veil and understand it.
I don’t know.
I can see why it made such a splash, though. And the bullfighting scenes? Gripping. As sparse as his prose may be, the stadium was vivid before my mind’s eye.
I liked it. I really liked it.