The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway
My rating: 1 of 5 stars
Well, I tried—I really did. This was the fourth time I attempted to read Ernest Hemingway's “The Sun Also Rises.” Twice I tried audio versions, and twice I tried reading it. I told myself on this last effort, I’m going to push through and read this all the way, because Hemingway is supposed to be a great writer and I must be missing something, both as a reader and as an author.
But it was like trying to eat cardboard. The writing is insipid, uninspired, colorless, uninteresting, boring, tedious—in other words, it offered nothing stimulating enough to give any reason for reading the next page. I did manage to get to chapter five, then I flipped several chapters to see if it would get any better; it never did.
How did he become such a big deal, I have to ask? Surely there were hundreds, if not thousands, of lackluster authors in his day, and somehow it was his nothingness that became something to clamor about. Was he randomly chosen in some sort of author’s lottery, and as the winner, his publishers would promote his works as being outstanding? Is this book “The Emperor’s New Clothes” in paper and ink? Or do people have to have more mojitos (said to be one of his favorite drinks) than someone should have before reading it?
I also read “The Old Man and the Sea” in its entirety with the same impression. I chose to try “The Sun Also Rises” because, in the opinion of some, this was his best work. Maybe it is, but I will not waste another second trying to read it.
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did not like it
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really liked it
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