Short Fiction by Ernest Hemingway (best free ebook reader for android .txt) ๐
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Ernest Hemingway is perhaps the most influential American writer of the twentieth century. Though known mostly for his longer works, he began his writing career with the publication of short stories which helped develop his often-imitated concise, simple, and straightforward style, which stood in stark contrast to the more elaborate prose of many of his contemporaries.
In 1947, during a University of Mississippi creative writing class, William Faulkner remarked that Hemingway โhas never been known to use a word that might cause the reader to check with a dictionary to see if it is properly used.โ Hemingway famously responded: โPoor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words? He thinks I donโt know the ten-dollar words. I know them all right. But there are older and simpler and better words, and those are the ones I use.โ
Besides his writing style, Hemingwayโs most well-known contribution to the literary landscape was the iceberg theory of writing, developed while composing the short story โOut of Season.โ Hemingway later said of the story: โI had omitted the real end of it which was that the old man hanged himself. This was omitted on my new theory that you could omit anything if you knew that you omitted and the omitted part would strengthen the story and make people feel something more than they understood.โ
This collection comprises all of the public domain stories published in Hemingwayโs short story collections, some miscellaneous stories published in various magazines, and his novellas. With the exception of stories within collections with a thematic link, such as In Our Time, they are arranged in publication order.
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- Author: Ernest Hemingway
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Yogi was not haunted by men he had killed. He knew he had killed five men. Probably he had killed more. He didnโt believe men you killed haunted you. Not if you had been two years at the front. Most of the men he had known had been excited as hell when they had first killed. The trouble was to keep them from killing too much. It was hard to get prisoners back to the people that wanted them for identification. You sent a man back with two prisoners; maybe you sent two men back with four prisoners. What happened? The men came back and said the prisoners were knocked out by the barrage. They would give the prisoner a poke in the seat of the pants with a bayonet, and when the prisoner jumped they would say, โYou would run, you son of a bitch,โ and let their gun off in the back of his head. They wanted to be sure they had killed. Also they didnโt want to go back through any damn barrage. No, sir. They learned those kind of manners from the Australians. After all, what were those Jerries? A bunch of goddam Huns. โHunsโ sounded like a funny word now. All this sweetness and truth. Not if you were in there two years. In the end they would have softened. Got sorry for excesses and begun to store up good deeds against getting killed themselves. But that was the fourth phase of soldiering, the gentling down.
In a good soldier in the war it went like this: First, you were brave because you didnโt think anything could hit you, because you yourself were something special, and you knew that you could never die. Then you found out different. You were really scared then, but if you were a good soldier you functioned the same as before. Then after you were wounded and not killed, with new men coming on, and going through your old processes, you hardened and became a good hard-boiled soldier. Then came the second crack, which is much worse than the first, and then you began doing good deeds, and being the boy Sir Philip Sidney, and storing up treasures in heaven. At the same time, of course, functioning always the same as before. As if it were a football game.
Nobody had any damn business to write about it, though, that didnโt at least know about it from hearsay. Literature has too strong an effect on peopleโs minds. Like this American writer Willa Cather, who wrote a book about the war where all the last part of it was taken from the action in the Birth of a Nation, and ex-servicemen wrote to her from all over America to tell her how much they liked it.
One of the Indians was asleep. He had been chewing tobacco, and his mouth was pursed up in sleep. He was leaning on the other Indianโs shoulder. The Indian who was awake pointed at the other Indian, who was asleep, and shook his head.
โWell, how did you like the speech?โ Yogi asked the Indian who was awake.
โWhite chief have heap much sound ideas,โ the Indian said. โWhite chief educated like hell.โ
โThank you,โ Yogi said. He felt touched. Here among the simple aborigines, the only real Americans, he had found that true communion. The Indian looked at him, holding the sleeping Indian carefully that his head might not fall back upon the snow-covered logs.
โWas white chief in the war?โ the Indian asked.
โI landed in France in May, 1917,โ Yogi began.
โI thought maybe white chief was in the war from the way he talked,โ the Indian said. โHim,โ he raised the head of his sleeping companion up so the last rays of the sunset shone on the sleeping Indianโs face, โhe got V.C. Me I got D.S.O. and M.C. with bar. I was major in the Fourth C.M.R.โs.โ
โIโm glad to meet you,โ Yogi said. He felt strangely humiliated. It was growing dark. There was a single line of sunset where the sky and the water met โway out on Lake Michigan. Yogi watched the narrow line of the sunset grow darker red, thin to a mere slit, and then fade. The sun was down behind the lake. Yogi stood up from the pile of logs. The Indian stood up too. He awakened his companion, and the Indian who had been sleeping stood up and looked at Yogi Johnson.
โWe go to Petoskey to join Salvation Army,โ the larger and more wakeful Indian said.
โWhite chief come too,โ said the smaller Indian, who had been asleep.
โIโll walk in with you,โ Yogi replied. Who were these Indians? What did they mean to him?
With the sun down, the slushy road was stiffening. It was freezing again. After all, maybe spring was not coming. Maybe it did not make a difference that he did not want a woman. Now that the spring was perhaps not coming there was a question about that. He would walk into town with the Indians and look for a beautiful woman and try and want her. He turned down the now frozen road. The two Indians walked by his side. They were all bound in the same direction.
XIIThrough the night down the frozen road the three walked into Petoskey. They had been silent walking along the frozen road. Their shoes broke the new-formed crusts of ice. Sometimes Yogi Johnson stepped through a thin film of ice into a pool of water. The Indians avoided the pools of water.
They came down the hill past the feed store, crossed the bridge over the Bear River,
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