By Ernest Hemingway
The easiest American novel to emerge from international struggle I, A Farewell to Arms is the unforgettable tale of an American ambulance driving force at the Italian entrance and his ardour for a gorgeous English nurse. Hemingway's frank portrayal of the affection among Lieutenant Henry and Catherine Barkley, stuck within the inexorable sweep of battle, glows with an depth unequalled in smooth literature, whereas his description of the German assault on Caporetto -- of traces of fired males marching within the rain, hungry, weary, and demoralized -- is likely one of the maximum moments in literary background. a narrative of affection and soreness, of loyalty and desertion, A Farewell to Arms, written whilst he was once 30 years outdated, represents a brand new romanticism for Hemingway.
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Reprint. initially released: ny ; Braziller, 1959
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Extra resources for A Farewell To Arms
I got to like all Afghan music over there. I still listen to it, it's like a drug. Recently in a bus I met a soldier who'd been in our hospital. He'd lost his right arm. I remembered him well because he was from Leningrad like me. ' he hissed at me. I know he'll come to me and apologise. But who'll apologise to him, and to everyone else who was broken over there? And I'm not just talking about the cripples. Nowadays I don't just hate war. I can't even stand seeing a couple of boys having a scrap in the park.
I'm not ill, but I'm dying. My whole body is dead. I didn't bum myself on Red Square and my husband didn't tear up his party card and throw the bits in their faces. I suppose we're already dead but nobody knows. Even we don't know . . A Military Adviser 'I'll forget it all . . ' That's what I told myself. It's a taboo subject in our family. My wife went grey at forty. My daughter used to have long hair but wears it short now. She used to be such a good sleeper we had to pull her pigtails to wake her up during the night bombardments in Kabul but not any more.
What is the colour of blood? Red in hospital, grey on dry sand and bright blue on stone, in the evening when it's all dried out. Blood spills as quickly from a seriously injured person as liquid from a broken jar . . his life flickers out, only the eyes shine bright and stare past you, stubbornly, until the very end. Everything's been paid for. By us. And in full. You know how if you look up at mountains from below they 33 seem endless and unattainable, but from the air they look like upturned sphinxes lying there?