A Rant on Hemingway Short stories written by Ernest Hemingway make multiple appearances in our school’s curriculum. Apparently, Hemingway was a great author, one of the classics, a macho man who walked the walk of being a certifiable tough-guy dudebro. Not only was his personality the human equivalent of a flaming pile of dog shit, but I also didn’t enjoy his writing at all. I know this is a highly controversial opinion. Still, Hemingway’s stories are mind-numbingly tedious, and their level of quality does not override the fact that he never did manage to dislodge his head from his rectum. First of all, Hemingway had a bad habit of cheating on his wives and marrying his mistresses. Isn’t that just the height of class? Be better, Ernest, be better. Not only did he not treat women well, but he was also cruel to animals. He liked to go on hunting trips to Africa to go kill innocent creatures for fun. Bloodlust much? Proof that karma exists: on various African murder expeditions, he got dysentery and was in two different plane crashes on the same day. The funniest thing ever is that he once tried to shoot a shark but instead hit himself in the leg. Oops. And let’s not forget that he was charged with violating the Geneva Convention or that he used to work for the freaking KGB. This shit is real. Clearly, I can’t be impartial when discussing Ernest Hemingway. I have too much resentment at being forced to read his works. I am honestly unable to comprehend how people enjoy them. First of all, his subject matter is dull and quotidian. No, please, Ernest, tell me more about the old man and the sea! And even in “Hills Like White Elephants,” when he’s discussing abortion, a fascinating and controversial topic, he manages to make it bland and uninteresting, with monotonous dialogue that’s vague to the point of not recognizing the underlying issue at all. And his iconic writing style fails to enliven his mundane principal objects or engage the reader. Actually, it’s not that he attempts and doesn’t succeed in grabbing the reader’s attention; he refuses to even try. His short, choppy sentences are incapable of enthralling or even entertaining readers. His whole thing is that he says what he has to say, then stops writing. He doesn’t bother with flowery language or any beautification of his prose. No, he’s above all those petty tricks. His rejection of pretension is inherently pretentious, as are the unsubtle flexes about how well-traveled he is littering his works. He doesn’t employ any adornment of language, but his lack of gimmicks is, in and of itself, a gimmick. And his blandness being a purposeful, stylistic choice doesn’t make his writing enjoyable. It’s the literary equivalent of going to watch someone get up on stage and read the dictionary as a commentary on the deterioration of the quality of modern theatre. Sure, the point may be valid, but that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t rather watch a Broadway musical. This is everything I always wanted to put in an English paper. I genuinely despise reading Hemingway’s stories and don’t understand their supposed essentiality in my education. Does the curriculum have a shortage of dead white male authors? I will say this for the guy; his stories have one thing going for them: their length. — Becca Miller
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