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Men Without Women
Men Without Women
Men Without Women
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Men Without Women

Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

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Classic short stories from a master of American fiction exploring relationships, war, and sportsmanship.

First published in 1927, Men Without Women represents some of Hemingway’s most important and compelling early writing. In these fourteen stories, Hemingway begins to examine the themes that would occupy his later works: the casualties of war, the often-uneasy relationship between men and women, sports and sportsmanship. “In Another Country” tells of an Italian major recovering from war wounds as he mourns the untimely death of his wife. “The Killers” is the hard-edged story about two Chicago gunmen and their potential victim. Nick Adams makes an appearance in “Ten Indians,” in which he is presumably betrayed by his girlfriend, Prudence. And “Hills Like White Elephants” is a young couple’s subtle, heart-wrenching discussion about the future. Pared down, gritty, and subtly expressive, these stories show the young Hemingway emerging as one of America’s finest short story writers.
LanguageEnglish
PublisherScribner
Release dateJul 25, 2002
ISBN9780743237277
Author

Ernest Hemingway

Ernest Hemingway did more to change the style of English prose than any other writer of his time. Publication of The Sun Also Rises and A Farewell to Arms immediately established Hemingway as one of the greatest literary lights of the twentieth century. His classic novel The Old Man and the Sea won the Pulitzer Prize in 1953. Hemingway was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1954. His life and accomplishments are explored in-depth in the PBS documentary film from Ken Burns and Lynn Novick, Hemingway. Known for his larger-than-life personality and his passions for bullfighting, fishing, and big-game hunting, he died in Ketchum, Idaho on July 2, 1961. 

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Rating: 3.688235308627451 out of 5 stars
3.5/5

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  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Most of this stunning collection was a reread for me. I borrowed the collected Nick Adams stories 20 years ago and never returned it: sorry Dr. Kennedy. The structure of In Our Time is a marvel. The pacing and economy have been canonized elsewhere.

    Having spent most of Friday in the rain, I've been just outside the pale of a cold all weekend. The talons of infirmity appeared so close today. After United's victory at Stamford Bridge I retreated. This collection is a jewel.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    In Our Time by Ernest HemingwayDifferent stories of war times, helping the woman birth the children with the Indians, Stories of bull fights, fishing, skiing in the snow, jockeys and horse racing,I received this book from National Library Service for my BARD (Braille Audio Reading Device).
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Not a bad collection of short stories, but not a great one either. Hemingway is hit or miss for me. Some of his short stories just read as pointless to me while others read as very poignant.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    His first published book. This is a very good collection of shorts by a young man clearly confident in his own style and with an ability to write stories that have a straight and clear voice, and that I think (with one or two cultural exceptions) has aged really well. The book's structure in itself has a modern feel to it - the stories alternate with very short bursts of what would probably now be called micro-fiction. There are tales here covering subject matter that would become especially familiar to followers of his writing: of soldiers returning home from battle; vagrants on the road; young Americans at leisure in Europe; assorted 'butch' pursuits that you'd wear a cosy plaid shirt for: hunting, fishing, skiing, boozing, etc. I enjoyed most of the stories, but the stand-outs for me were: "The Battler"(I wanted more of those characters!), "The Three-Day Blow", "Soldier's Home", and "Big Two-Hearted River" (both parts).Hemingway introduces his character Nick Adams in many of these stories. From boyhood to manhood we see the character grow, passing through the horrors of service in the First World War, returning back home to small town America. The writing is really very good. Hemingway's skill as a nature writer alone is remarkable - his ability to describe with such clarity - yet without verbosity - and so beautifully, precisely what the reader needs to 'see' in their mind's eye, has very few equals. Very hard to believe that this collection is not far off being a hundred years old! Well worth reading.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    If, like me, you'd never read Hemingway and are thinking it might be time, you can't go wrong starting with this collection of early short stories. Setting aside the stories themselves are damned entertaining, it's a wonderful introduction to Hemingway's spare prose style (which he was honing while writing them) and it's also a very short book, containing a number of themes that, should you continue reading him, you'll find he returns to again and again, such as combat on the Italian front and bullfighting.

    The book also contains a number of "Nick Adams" stories, concerning a young man growing up in Michigan, that feel as fresh today as they must have when he wrote them.

    I think the story that stuck with me the most was "The Three-Day Blow," and if you've ever gotten drunk with your best friend, I suspect it might stick with you as well.

    Another cool thing about this book?

    Some of the stories are as short as this review.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    In Our Time is a collection of short stories and vignettes written by Ernest Hemingway during his Paris years in the 1920s. (In fact, the book is dedicated to Hadley of The Paris Wife fame.) While the pieces in the volume vary in topic from war scenes to personal relationships between men and women to bullfighting, the connecting theme throughout is the author’s effort to make sense of his experiences in World War I. Deploying his legendarily terse Modernist writing style, Hemingway explores the nature of bravery and fear, love and loss, physical action and introspection. There is a melancholy feel that pervades the entire work as Hemingway comes to grip with the loss of innocence that accompanied the “Great War” in much the same way that Tim O’Brien chronicled his experiences in Viet Nam almost a century later in the equally compelling The Things They Carried. The stories themselves are all very brief—they range in length from just a single page to eight or ten pages—but they are, for the most part, all remarkably powerful. My favorites involved the exploits of Nick Adams, Hemingway’s alter ego, before, during and after the war. The strongest pieces were “Indian Camp,” “The End of Something,” “The Three-Day Blow,” “My Old Man,” and “Big Two-Hearted River, Parts I and II”. I know that Hemingway’s reputation has suffered in recent years as some of the more sordid details of his personal life have emerged, but there is no denying that he was an incredibly talented writer with a deep understanding of human nature. Although better known for his longer works, these short stories stand as great examples of a world-class author finding his voice. Indeed, this is the book that put Hemingway on the literary map and it was an absolute pleasure to read.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This was my first experience with Hemingway. I remember reading of how Hemingway and Faulkner fought over writing styles. I sided with Faulkner, due to word extinction. I was yet shocked at the simplicity of Hemingway's prose; and yet, I could not deny there was something there, some dark force just under the surface that led you along.I think people have fun reading Hemingway and adding their own conclusions about that darkness just under the surface. For instance, in "On the Quai At Smyrna" was it the most humane thing for the Greeks to break the forelegs of all the animals they couldn't take with them and let them drown in shallow water? Was it a pleasant business? It was a way of coping with experience.In "Indian Camp" I found two things of interest: (1. Nick's father, the doctor, said he doesn't hear screams because the aren't important. This is not a doctor I'm not sure I would like to be under the care of. Does empathy play a part in being a good physician? On the other hand, I rather have a cold but sure hand rather than an empathetic one. Both would be nice. Something is lacking in the former. (2. Why did the Indian father kill himself when it was that the doctor was there to deliver his baby? Perhaps his foot-wound was something he felt would not heal properly. Can we be sure it was suicide? How many people kill themselves by cutting their own throats?"The Doctor And The Doctor's Wife" reveals that the doctor isn't keen on fighting, is a thief in denial, and that his wife is a Christian Scientist. The latter reveals the likely catalyst of much of Nick's problems."The End of Something" was the end of Nick's childhood and the beginning of the years of confusion."The Three Day Blow" shows us that Nick turns to alcohol for answers."The Battler" is Nick's initiation into manhood."Cross Country Snow" could be said to be a tale of freedom verses entrapment, which results in resignation."My Old Man" is another man not unlike the doctor—a good man, but dishonest—a paradoxical disappointment."Big Two Hearted River" was Nick, at home, in his own environment. It was, I believe, an attempt to disassociate, withdraw, and become self-sufficient. The swamps will be the undoing of Nick. It will be his greatest time of learning."
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I believe this collection of stories is from Hemingway’s beginnings as a writer. There were a few moments, but overall I’d say it’s probably not his best work. Still, there is no such thing as ‘bad’ Hemingway so it’s well worth the read.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Definitely wouldn't have liked this book as much had I read it outside of an English class. There's so many more emotions and layers and interpretations that could be given beyond what is merely written on the page. Hemingway uses these stories to critique on war, relationships, home, modernity, maturity, family, etc. etc.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    In 1925, a relatively unknown World War I veteran named Ernest Hemingway released a collection of short stories entitled In Our Time. This new author was a treat to the readers, as he wrote with a style very different than what the readers were accustomed to. Instead of long, flowing prose, Hemingway's stories were written in short, declarative sentences, with an oblique style of emotions for the characters. This new minimalist approach to literature would become one of the greatest changes in literary style, influencing the entire literary scene until - and much past - World War II. The book consists of many short stories, separated by short vignettes. Many of the short stories contain the character Nick Adams, initially a young boy learning about death in the company of his father who is a doctor. Then, he begins growing up. He has relationships with young women and great friends. These stories are divided by very short vignettes portraying the violence and emotions suffered in World War I. Very notable is Chapter VII,...he lay very flat and sweated and prayed oh jesus christ get me out of here. Dear jesus please get me out. Christ please please please christ. If you'll only keep me from getting killed I'll do anything you say...Please please dear jesus...The next night back at Mestre he did not tell the girl he went upstairs with at the Villa Rossa about Jesus. And he never told anybody.The Nick Adams stories come to a close at the end of the book with the two part Big Two-Hearted River, which shows an older, more mature Nick Adams, returned from the war and returning to the calming lifestyle of his youth by camping and fly-fishing in an amazingly described river and meadow.In Our Time set the stage for Ernest Hemingway to become one of the most influential writers (some would argue he was the most influential) of the twentieth century. His short, terse, masculine prose would set the literary world on fire and paved the way for Hemingway's other masterpieces, including The Sun Also Rises, A Farewell to Arms, For Whom the Bell Tolls, and The Old Man and the Sea. In Our Time is an excellent introductory work to the writing of Hemingway and is a classic sure to be enjoyed by many.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    These were the first collection of stories from the pen of the late, great, Ernest Miller Hemingway. They are known by Papa afficiandoes as "the Nick Adams stories" and are written in EH's characteristic sparse style. Although published by Scribner in the late 1920s, this title was first used on a limited edition published by Hemingway in Paris circa 1924. The best use of language herein comes with "Big Two-Hearted River, parts I and II," where he uses his verbal paint brush in a pointilistic manner to create the picture of the land Nick travels through. You are there, tasting the beans (at least until he puts ketshup on them), the trout, and the sharp country air. And you feel the ice coldness of the river water as Nick enters it to fly-fish. Of course, many knew there was something "different" about Hemingway's style, but they didn't know then that he was kicking off a whole school of 20th-century writing called "minimalism.," as well as contributing the literary version of the philosophy of existentialism."
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I like using this book in undergraduate creative-writing classes sometimes because he wrote it when he was in his 20s, and the book is uneven in instructive ways.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A literary sorbet for sure. Read this 30 years ago and needed some clean crisp writing to read after the mess that is 100 Years of Solitude. The Broken-Hearted River rings so true. It brings me back to the Maine north woods. Love the Nick Adams but the Italian stories were ok. Will read another EH for sure.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    This is a powerful work - an unconventional grouping of stories that marked Hemingway's first major success as a writer. I believe these are the stories he is writing in A Moveable Feast and this time in his life when he is writing these is well covered in Paula McLain's The Paris Wife. In some ways the success that started here doomed his marriage to Hadley Richardson. One can also see many elements of Hemingway's life so far within these stories and the creation of the post WWI 'Lost Generation'. Stuff like this is why Hemingway is one of my favorite writers.I thought that (roughly) the first half of the book was the strongest with some hard hitting sketches and stories. Towards the middle I felt there was a small slump, a fumble lets call it as well as a story or two where Hemingway lays on that Hemingway style just a little too thick, which on reflection keeps me from rating this higher than 4 stars. The Nick Adams stories in here were my favorites overall, but I like how Hemingway broke things up in a very interesting manner. A few of these stories might bother a sensitive reader for the language, topics and sensibilities of the times (1920's).This was a reread for me - first read sometime in the early to mid 90's.

Book preview

Men Without Women - Ernest Hemingway

THE UNDEFEATED

Manuel Garcia climbed the stairs to Don Miguel Retana’s office. He set down his suitcase and knocked on the door. There was no answer. Manuel, standing in the hallway, felt there was some one in the room. He felt it through the door.

Retana, he said, listening.

There was no answer.

He’s there, all right, Manuel thought.

Retana, he said and banged the door.

Who’s there? said some one in the office.

Me, Manolo, Manuel said.

What do you want? asked the voice.

I want to work, Manuel said.

Something in the door clicked several times and it swung open. Manuel went in, carrying his suitcase.

A little man sat behind a desk at the far side of the room. Over his head was a bull’s head, stuffed by a Madrid taxi-dermist; on the walls were framed photographs and bull-fight posters.

The little man sat looking at Manuel.

I thought they’d killed you, he said.

Manuel knocked with his knuckles on the desk. The little man sat looking at him across the desk.

How many corridas you had this year? Retana asked.

One, he answered.

Just that one? the little man asked.

That’s all.

I read about it in the papers, Retana said. He leaned back in the chair and looked at Manuel.

Manuel looked up at the stuffed bull. He had seen it often before. He felt a certain family interest in it. It had killed his brother, the promising one, about nine years ago. Manuel remembered the day. There was a brass plate on the oak shield the bull’s head was mounted on. Manuel could not read it, but he imagined it was in memory of his brother. Well, he had been a good kid.

The plate said: The Bull ‘Mariposa’ of the Duke of Veragua, which accepted 9 varas for 7 caballos, and caused the death of Antonio Garcia, Novillero, April 27, 1909.

Retana saw him looking at the stuffed bull’s head.

The lot the Duke sent me for Sunday will make a scandal, he said. They’re all bad in the legs. What do they say about them at the Café?

I don’t know, Manuel said. I just got in.

Yes, Retana said. You still have your bag.

He looked at Manuel, leaning back behind the big desk.

Sit down, he said. Take off your cap.

Manuel sat down; his cap off, his face was changed. He looked pale, and his coleta pinned forward on his head, so that it would not show under the cap, gave him a strange look.

You don’t look well, Retana said.

I just got out of the hospital, Manuel said.

I heard they’d cut your leg off, Retana said.

No, said Manuel. It got all right.

Retana leaned forward across the desk and pushed a wooden box of cigarettes toward Manuel.

Have a cigarette, he said.

Thanks.

Manuel lit it.

Smoke? he said, offering the match to Retana.

No, Retana waved his hand, I never smoke.

Retana watched him smoking.

Why don’t you get a job and go to work? he said.

I don’t want to work, Manuel said. I am a bull-fighter.

There aren’t any bull-fighters any more, Retana said.

I’m a bull-fighter, Manuel said.

Yes, while you’re in there, Retana said.

Manuel laughed.

Retana sat, saying nothing and looking at Manuel.

I’ll put you in a nocturnal if you want, Retana offered.

When? Manuel asked.

Tomorrow night.

I don’t like to substitute for anybody, Manuel said. That was the way they all got killed. That was the way Salvador got killed. He tapped with his knuckles on the table.

It’s all I’ve got, Retana said.

Why don’t you put me on next week? Manuel suggested.

You wouldn’t draw, Retana said. All they want is Litri and Rubito and La Torre. Those kids are good.

They’d come to see me get it, Manuel said, hopefully.

No, they wouldn’t. They don’t know who you are any more.

I’ve got a lot of stuff, Manuel said.

I’m offering to put you on tomorrow night, Retana said. You can work with young Hernandez and kill two novillos after the Charlots.

Whose novillos? Manuel asked.

I don’t know. Whatever stuff they’ve got in the corrals. What the veterinaries won’t pass in the daytime.

I don’t like to substitute, Manuel said.

You can take it or leave it, Retana said. He leaned forward over the papers. He was no longer interested. The appeal that Manuel had made to him for a moment when he thought of the old days was gone. He would like to get him to substitute for Larita because he could get him cheaply. He could get others cheaply too. He would like to help him though. Still he had given him the chance. It was up to him.

How much do I get? Manuel asked. He was still playing with the idea of refusing. But he knew he could not refuse.

Two hundred and fifty pesetas, Retana said. He had thought of five hundred, but when he opened his mouth it said two hundred and fifty.

You pay Villalta seven thousand, Manuel said.

You’re not Villalta, Retana said.

I know it, Manuel said.

He draws it, Manolo, Retana said in explanation.

Sure, said Manuel. He stood up. Give me three hundred, Retana.

All right, Retana agreed. He reached in the drawer for a paper.

Can I have fifty now? Manuel asked.

Sure, said Retana. He took a fifty-peseta note out of his pocket-book and laid it, spread out flat, on the table.

Manuel picked it up and put it in his pocket.

What about a cuadrilla? he asked.

There’s the boys that always work for me nights, Retana said. They’re all right.

How about picadors? Manuel asked.

They’re not much, Retana admitted.

I’ve got to have one good pic, Manuel said.

Get him then, Retana said. Go and get him.

Not out of this, Manuel said. I’m not paying for any cuadrilla out of sixty duros.

Retana said nothing but looked at Manuel across the big desk.

You know I’ve got to have one good pic, Manuel said.

Retana said nothing but looked at Manuel from a long way off.

It isn’t right, Manuel said.

Retana was still considering him, leaning back in his chair, considering him from a long way away.

There’re the regular pics, he offered.

I know, Manuel said. I know your regular pics.

Retana did not smile. Manuel knew it was over.

All I want is an even break, Manuel said reasoningly. When I go out there I want to be able to call my shots on the bull. It only takes one good picador.

He was talking to a man who was no longer listening.

If you want something extra, Retana said, go and get it. There will be a regular cuadrilla out there. Bring as many of your own pics as you want. The charlotada is over by 10.30.

All right, Manuel said. If that’s the way you feel about it.

That’s the way, Retana said.

I’ll see you tomorrow night, Manuel said.

I’ll be out there, Retana said.

Manuel picked up his suitcase and went out.

Shut the door, Retana called.

Manuel looked back. Retana was sitting forward looking at some papers. Manuel pulled the door tight until it clicked.

He went down the stairs and out of the door into the hot brightness of the street. It was very hot in the street and the light on the white buildings was sudden and hard on his eyes. He walked down the shady side of the steep street toward the Puerta del Sol. The shade felt solid and cool as running water. The heat came suddenly as he crossed the intersecting streets. Manuel saw no one he knew in all the people he passed.

Just before the Puerta del Sol he turned into a café.

It was quiet in the café. There were a few men sitting at tables against the wall. At one table four men played cards. Most of the men sat against the wall smoking, empty coffee-cups and liqueur-glasses before them on the tables. Manuel went through the long room to a small room in back. A man sat at a table in the corner asleep. Manuel sat down at one of the tables.

A waiter came in and stood beside Manuel’s table.

Have you seen Zurito? Manuel asked him.

He was in before lunch, the waiter answered. He won’t be back before five o’clock.

Bring me some coffee and milk and a shot of the ordinary, Manuel said.

The waiter came back into the room carrying a tray with a big coffee-glass and a liqueur-glass on it. In his left hand he held a bottle of brandy. He swung these down to the table and a boy who had followed him poured coffee and milk into the glass from two shiny, spouted pots with long handles.

Manuel took off his cap and the waiter noticed his pigtail pinned forward on his head. He winked at the coffee-boy as he poured out the brandy into the little glass beside Manuel’s coffee. The coffee-boy looked at Manuel’s pale face curiously.

You fighting here? asked the waiter, corking up the bottle.

Yes, Manuel said. Tomorrow.

The waiter stood there, holding the bottle on one hip.

You in the Charlie Chaplins? he asked.

The coffee-boy looked away, embarrassed.

No. In the ordinary.

I thought they were going to have Chaves and Hernandez, the waiter said.

No. Me and another.

Who? Chaves or Hernandez?

Hernandez, I think.

What’s the matter with Chaves?

He got hurt.

Where did you hear that?

Retana.

Hey, Looie, the waiter called to the next room, Chaves got cogida.

Manuel had taken the wrapper off the lumps of sugar and dropped them into his coffee. He stirred it and drank it down, sweet, hot, and warming in his empty stomach. He drank off the brandy.

Give me another shot of that, he said to the waiter.

The waiter uncorked the bottle and poured the glass full, slopping another drink into the saucer. Another waiter had come up in front of the table. The coffee-boy was gone.

Is Chaves hurt bad? the second waiter asked Manuel.

I don’t know, Manuel said, Retana didn’t say.

A hell of a lot he cares, the tall waiter said. Manuel had not seen him before. He must have just come up.

If you stand in with Retana in this town, you’re a made man, the tall waiter said. If you aren’t in with him, you might just as well go out and shoot yourself.

You said it, the other waiter who had come in said. You said it then.

You’re right I said it, said the tall waiter. I know what I’m talking about when I talk about that bird.

Look what he’s done for Villalta, the first waiter said.

And that ain’t all, the tall waiter said. Look what he’s done for Marcial Lalanda. Look what he’s done for Nacional.

You said it, kid, agreed the short waiter.

Manuel looked at them, standing talking in front of his table. He had drunk his second brandy. They had forgotten about him. They were not interested in him.

Look at that bunch of camels, the tall waiter went on. Did you ever see this Nacional II?

I seen him last Sunday didn’t I? the original waiter said.

He’s a giraffe, the short waiter said.

What did I tell you? the tall waiter said. Those are Retana’s boys.

Say, give me another shot of that, Manuel said. He had poured the brandy the waiter had slopped over in the saucer into his glass and drank it while they were talking.

The original waiter poured his glass full mechanically, and the three of them went out of the room talking.

In the far corner the man was still asleep, snoring slightly on the intaking breath, his head back against the wall.

Manuel drank his brandy. He felt sleepy himself. It was too hot to go out into the town. Besides there was nothing to do. He wanted to see Zurito. He would go to sleep while he waited. He kicked his suitcase under the table to be sure it was there. Perhaps it would be better to put it back under the seat, against the wall. He leaned down and shoved it under. Then he leaned forward on the table and went to sleep.

When he woke there was some one sitting across the table from him. It was

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