On Hemingway

Thursday, November 29th., Cadogan Square, London.

Ernest Hemingway is a youngish American whose work, in short stories, began to impress me first about a couple of years ago. He has now published a novel of the war "A Farewell to Arms" which is first rate. It deals with the Italian front. Its detail is as marvellous as any yet given. The description of the wounding of the hero in a bombardment is as tremendously effective as anything current. In fact I seriously question whether this description has been equalled. Its dialogue is masterly in reproductive realism, and its detachment is perfect. No flush and no fever in this novel; but the sane calmness of a spectator who combines deep sympathy with a breadth and impartiality of vision.

The book is hard, almost metallic, glittering, blinding by the reflections of its bright surface, utterly free of any sentimentality. A strange and original book. Whatever it may not do to you, it will convince you of its honesty and veracity. It is a superb performance. For me, Hemingway's greatest gift is to put you, his reader, completely 'inside' his central character. His bullfighting stories, for example, have brought me as near to a bull-ring as I ever wish to be, and I still recall a story about trout fishing (I have never fished) which was so effective that I could 'feel' the cold water swirl around my legs, and the surge as the trout took the bait

Incidentally, Hemingway, while often tactful in his omissions, permits himself a freedom of expression hitherto unexampled in Anglo-Saxon fiction printed for general sale. Some readers will object to it. I don't. I should think we have reached that stage in our cultural development when it is perfectly reasonable for a writer to put into his chacters' mouths words which everyone knows but publishers have dared not print, fearing a backlash from the entrenched and narrow-minded.

This afternoon I awoke from my regular nap, saw that the sun was shining (it had rained all morning), glanced at my watch, and immediately got ready to walk out. Only when I had been out for about twenty minutes did I start to think something was amiss. I looked at my watch again and saw that it was in fact an hour earlier than I thought - I must have slept for only about ten minutes. Still, I felt rested and enjoyed the walk - felt as if I had somehow stolen an hour.