The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway. Home · The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway, Ernest - The Nick Adams Stories. Read more. Ernest Hemingway Short Stories Online PDF - Free download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read online for free. Here is a selection of Ernest Hemingway's short stories. I will continue Read “ After the Storm” (PDF Pg ). An Alpine Read “An Alpine Idyll” (PDF Pg ).
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Books by Ernest Hemingway. THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES. THE GARDEN OF EDEN. DATELINE: TORONTO. THE DANGEROUS SUMMER. SELECTED. Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway (). Study Guide Suggested Stories For Further Reading Discussion Questions. Study Guide () for The Short. But after forty days without a fish the boy's parents had told him that the old man was now The Old Man and the Sea A Farewell to Arms, by Ernest Hemingway.
Two young men are passing through town. An American couple is on vacation in Italy. You bastard, thought MaComber, you insolent bastard. I was just mopping up a little. An Inner History of the New America. They were snow-bound a week in the Madlener-haus that time in the blizzard playing cards in the smoke by the lantern light and the stakes were higher all the time as Herr Lent lost more.
The farmhouse is built on a hill that commands an unobstructed view of Havana and the coastal plain to the north. There is nothing African or even continental about this view to the north. It is a Creole island view of the sort made familiar by the tropical watercolors of Winslow Homer, with royal palms, blue sky, and the small, white cumulus clouds that continuously change in shape and size at the top of the shallow northeast trade wind, the brisa.
In the late summer, when the doldrums, following the sun, move north, there are often, as the heat builds in the afternoons, spectacular thunderstorms that relieve for a while the humid heat, chubascos that form inland to the south and move northward out to the sea.
In some summers, a hurricane or two would cut swaths through the shack houses of the poor on the island. During the early years at the finca, Papa did not appear to write any fiction at all. He wrote many letters, of course, and in one of them he says that it is his turn to rest.
Let the world get on with the mess it had gotten itself into. Marty was the one who seemed to write and to have kept her taste for the high excitement of their life together in Madrid during the last period of the Spanish Civil War. Papa and she played a lot of tennis with each other on the clay court down by the swimming pool and there were often tennis parties with their friends among the Basque professional jai alai players from the fronton in Havana.
One of these was what the young girls today would call a hunk, and Marty flirted with him a little and Papa spoke of his rival, whom he would now and again beat at tennis by the lowest form of cunning expressed in spins and chops and lobs against the towering but uncontrolled honest strength of the rival. It was all great fun for us, the deep-sea fishing on the Pilar that Gregorio Fuentes, the mate, kept always ready for use in the little fishing harbor of Cojimar, the live pigeon shooting at the Club de Cazadores del Cerro, the trips into Havana for drinks at the Floridita and to buy The Illustrated London News with its detailed drawings of the war so far away in Europe.
Papa, who was always very good at that sort of thing, suggested a quotation from Turgenev to Marty: At that time he had already completed five stories: But once Hemingway got underway on his novel—later published as For Whom the Bell Tolls —all other writing projects were laid aside. We can only speculate on the two war stories he abandoned, but it is probable that much of what they might have included found its way into the novel.
As for the story of the Cuban fisherman, he did eventually return to it thirteen years later when he developed and transformed it into his famous novella, The Old Man and the Sea. The group of friends he made there, including the Indians who lived nearby, are doubtless represented in various stories, and some of the episodes are probably based at least partly on fact. One special source of material was his life in Key West, where he lived in the twenties and thirties.
His encounters with the sea on his fishing boat Pilar, taken together with his circle of friends, were the inspiration of some of his best writing. Hemingway must have been one of the most perceptive travelers in the history of literature, and his stories taken as a whole present a world of experience. In he signed up for ambulance duty in Italy as a member of an American Field Service unit. It was his first transatlantic journey and he was eighteen at the time.
On the day of his arrival in Milan a munitions factory blew up, and with the other volunteers in his contingent Hemingway was assigned to gather up the remains of the dead. Only three months later he was badly wounded in both legs and hospitalized in the American Red Cross hospital in Milan, with subsequent outpatient treatment.
These wartime experiences, including the people he met, provided many details for his novel of World War I, A Farewell to Arms. They also inspired five short story masterpieces. In the s he revisited Italy several times; sometimes as a professional journalist and sometimes for pleasure. Between and Hemingway made several trips to Switzerland to gather material for The Toronto Star.
His subjects included economic conditions and other practical subjects, but also accounts of Swiss winter sports: As in other fields. Hemingway was ahead of his compatriots in discovering places and pleasures that would become tourist attractions. At the same time, he was storing up ideas for a number of his short stories, with themes ranging from the comic to the serious and the macabre.
Hemingway attended his first bullfight, in the company of American friends, in , when he made an excursion to Madrid from Paris, where he was living at the time. From the moment the first bull burst into the ring he was overwhelmed by the experience and left the scene a lifelong fan. For him the spectacle of a man pitted against a wild bull was a tragedy rather than a sport.
He was fascinated by its techniques and conventions, the skill and courage required by the toreros, and the sheer violence of the bulls.
He soon became an acknowledged expert on bullfighting and wrote a famous treatise on the subject. Death in the Afternoon. A number of his stories also have bullfighting themes. In time, Hemingway came to love all of Spain—its customs, its landscapes, its art treasures, and its people.
When the Spanish Civil War broke out in the last week of July , he was a staunch supporter of the Loyalists, helping to provide support for their cause and covering the war from Madrid as a correspondent for the North American Newspaper Alliance. Out of the entirety of his experiences in Spain during the war he produced seven short stories in addition to his novel, For Whom the Bell Tolls , and his play. The Fifth Column.
It was one of the most prolific and inspired periods of his writing career. The safari itself lasted about ten weeks, but everything he saw seems to have made an indelible impression on his mind.
Perhaps he regained, as the result of his enthusiasm and interest, a childlike capacity to record details almost photographically. It was his first meeting with the famous white hunter Phillip Percival, whom he admired at once for his cool and sometimes cunning professionalism.
At the end of the safari, Hemingway had filled his mind with images, incidents, and character studies of unique value for his writings. As the harvest of the trip he wrote the nonfiction novel Green Hills of Africa, and some of his finest stories. He was aware of that fact and in his preface to A Moveable Feast wistfully mentions subjects that he might have written about, some of which might have become short stories. It seems that he also assembled a group of extramilitary scouts keeping pace with the retreating Germans.
We have grouped seven previously unpublished works of fiction at the back of the book. Four of these represent completed short stories; the other three comprise extended scenes from unpublished, uncompleted novels. The finca was dear to his heart and it seems appropriate now that it should contain a major portion of his life work, which was even more dear.
The others follow in the order in which they were originally published. It was always a good place for working. Some other places were not so good but maybe we were not so good when we were in them. There are many kinds of stories in this book. I hope that you will find some that you like. There are some others too. Because if you did not like them you would not publish them. In going where you have to go, and doing what you have to do, and seeing what you have to see, you dull and blunt the instrument you write with.
But I would rather have it bent and dull and know I had to put it on the grindstone again and hammer it into shape and put a whetstone to it, and know that I had something to write about, than to have it bright and shining and nothing to say, or smooth and well-oiled in the closet, but unused.
Now it is necessary to get to the grindstone again. I would like to live long enough to write three more novels and twenty-five more stories. I know some pretty good ones.
The gun-bearers had taken no part in the demonstration. When the native boys put him down at the door of his tent, he had shaken all their hands, received their congratulations, and then gone into the tent and sat on the bed until his wife came in. She did not speak to him when she came in and he left the tent at once to wash his face and hands in the portable wash basin outside and go over to the dining tent to sit in a comfortable canvas chair in the breeze and the shade.
Macomber looked at Wilson quickly. She was an extremely handsome and well-kept woman of the beauty and social position which had, five years before, commanded five thousand dollars as the price of endorsing, with photographs, a beauty product which she had never used.
She had been married to Francis Macomber for eleven years. His wife looked at him now. She looked at both these men as though she had never seen them before. One, Wilson, the white hunter, she knew she had never truly seen before. He was about middle height with sandy hair, a stubby mustache, a very red face and extremely cold blue eyes with faint white wrinkles at the corners that grooved merrily when he smiled. He smiled at her now and she looked away from his face at the way his shoulders sloped in the loose tunic he wore with the four big cartridges held in loops where the left breast pocket should have been, at his big brown hands, his old slacks, his very dirty boots and back to his red face again.
She noticed where the baked red of his face stopped in a white line that marked the circle left by his Stetson hat that hung now from one of the pegs of the tent pole. He smiled at her again and, not smiling, she looked curiously at her husband. Francis Macomber was very tall, very well built if you did not mind that length of bone, dark, his hair cropped like an oarsman, rather thin-lipped, and was considered handsome.
He was dressed in the same sort of safari clothes that Wilson wore except that his were new, he was thirty-five years old, kept himself very fit, was good at court games, had a number of big-game fishing records, and had just shown himself, very publicly, to be a coward. Wilson looked over at her without smiling and now she smiled at him. You told me that, you know.
But Mr. Wilson had seen it coming for a long time and he dreaded it. Macomber was past dreading it. She made no noise of crying but they could see that her shoulders were shaking under the rose-colored, sun-proofed shirt she wore. Nothing to it anyway. The boy turned away with his face blank. They could raise a row if they chose to complain. They prefer it to the fines. Take a good birching or lose your pay?
I mean no one will hear about it, will they? He had not expected this. I rather liked him too until today. But how is one to know about an American? We never talk about our clients. You can be quite easy on that. He would eat, then, by himself and could read a book with his meals. They would eat by themselves. He would see them through the safari on a very formal basis—what was it the French called it?
Distinguished consideration—and it would be a damn sight easier than having to go through this emotional trash. That was the phrase for it when a safari went bad. He was all ready to break it off quickly and neatly and here the beggar was apologizing after he had just insulted him. He made one more attempt. Now what in hell were you going to do about a man who talked like that, Wilson wondered.
He had a pleasant smile if you did not notice how his eyes showed when he was hurt. Perhaps he had been wrong. This was certainly the way to take it. You most certainly could not tell a damned thing about an American. He was all for Macomber again. If you could forget the morning. The morning had been about as bad as they come. She was walking over from her tent looking refreshed and cheerful and quite lovely. She had a very perfect oval face, so perfect that you expected her to be stupid.
Are you feeling better, Francis, my pearl? Wilson is really very impressive killing anything. Or is it that they pick men they can handle? He was grateful that he had gone through his education on American women before now because this was a very attractive one. She seemed to understand, to realize, to be hurt for him and for herself and to know how things really stood. She is away for twenty minutes and now she is back, simply enamelled in that American female cruelty.
They are the damnedest women. Really the damnedest. You were lovely this morning.
He could see the boulders in the river and the high bank beyond with the trees and he remembered the morning. And tomorrow. How should a woman act when she discovers her husband is a bloody coward? They govern, of course, and to govern one has to be cruel sometimes. That afternoon, late, Wilson and Macomber went out in the motor car with the native driver and the two gun-bearers.
Macomber stayed in the camp. It was too hot to go out, she said, and she was going with them in the early morning. As they drove off Wilson saw her standing under the big tree, looking pretty rather than beautiful in her faintly rosy khaki, her dark hair drawn back off her forehead and gathered in a knot low on her neck, her face as fresh, he thought, as though she were in England.
She waved to them as the car went off through the swale of high grass and curved around through the trees into the small hills of orchard bush.
They feed out early in the morning and with luck we may catch them in the open. Any one could be upset by his first lion. It was neither all over nor was it beginning. It was there exactly as it happened with some parts of it indelibly emphasized and he was miserably ashamed at it. But more than shame he felt cold, hollow fear in him. The fear was still there like a cold slimy hollow in all the emptiness where once his confidence had been and it made him feel sick.
It was still there with him now. It had started the night before when he had wakened and heard the lion roaring somewhere up along the river. It was a deep sound and at the end there were sort of coughing grunts that made him seem just outside the tent, and when Francis Macomber woke in the night to hear it he was afraid. He could hear his wife breathing quietly, asleep. There was no one to tell he was afraid, nor to be afraid with him, and, lying alone, he did not know the Somali proverb that says a brave man is always frightened three times by a lion; when he first sees his track, when he first hears him roar and when he first confronts him.
Then while they were eating breakfast by lantern light out in the dining tent, before the sun was up, the lion roared again and Francis thought he was just at the edge of camp. It sounds as though he were right in camp. The boys said there was a very big one about here. Shoot for bone. Break him down. Make sure of him. The first one in is the one that counts. Lion has something to say about that. Wilson looked at him quickly.
Might have to take him a bit under. You can hit him wherever you want at that. Here comes the Memsahib. As he left the lion roared again. Hearing the thing roar gets on my nerves.
Have you solids? Macomber said. The Memsahib can sit back here with me. Macomber opened the breech of his rifle and saw he had metal-cased bullets, shut the bolt and put the rifle on safety.
He saw his hand was trembling. He felt in his pocket for more cartridges and moved his fingers over the cartridges in the loops of his tunic front. Means the old boy has left his kill. Keep an eye out. Macomber was watching the opposite bank when he felt Wilson take hold of his arm. The car stopped. Get out and take him. He was standing almost broadside, his great head up and turned toward them. The early morning breeze that blew toward them was just stirring his dark mane, and the lion looked huge, silhouetted on the rise of bank in the gray morning light, his shoulders heavy, his barrel of a body bulking smoothly.
The lion still stood looking majestically and coolly toward this object that his eyes only showed in silhouette, bulking like some super-rhino. There was no man smell carried toward him and he watched the object, moving his great head a little from side to side. Then watching the object, not afraid, but hesitating before going down the bank to drink with such a thing opposite him, he saw a man figure detach itself from it and he turned his heavy head and swung away toward the cover of the trees as he heard a cracking crash and felt the slam of a.
He trotted, heavy, bigfooted, swinging wounded full-bellied, through the trees toward the tall grass and cover, and the crash came again to go past him ripping the air apart.
Then it crashed again and he felt the blow as it hit his lower ribs and ripped on through, blood sudden hot and frothy in his mouth, and he galloped toward the high grass where he could crouch and not be seen and make them bring the crashing thing close enough so he could make a rush and get the man that held it. Macomber had not thought how the lion felt as he got out of the car.
He only knew his hands were shaking and as he walked away from the car it was almost impossible for him to make his legs move. They were stiff in the thighs, but he could feel the muscles fluttering. Nothing happened though he pulled until he thought his finger would break.
Then he knew he had the safety on and as he lowered the rifle to move the safety over he moved another frozen pace forward, and the lion seeing his silhouette flow clear of the silhouette of the car, turned and started off at a trot, and, as Macomber fired, he heard a whunk that meant that the bullet was home; but the lion kept on going. Macomber shot again and every one saw the bullet throw a spout of dirt beyond the trotting lion. He shot again, remembering to lower his aim, and they all heard the bullet hit, and the lion went into a gallop and was in the tall grass before he had the bolt pushed forward.
Macomber stood there feeling sick at his stomach, his hands that held the Springfield still cocked, shaking, and his wife and Robert Wilson were standing by him. Beside him too were the two gun-bearers chattering in Wakamba. The gun-bearers looked very grave. They were silent now. His mouth was very dry and it was hard for him to talk. You can see even better from here. There was dark blood on the short grass that the gun-bearers pointed out with grass stems, and that ran away behind the river bank trees.
Somebody bound to get mauled. You see, they signed on for it. Why not leave him there? Just drop it. For another, some one else might run onto him. You keep behind me and a little to one side. It might be much better. This is my shauri now, you know. They sat under a tree and smoked. The narrator, a young man, is getting physical rehabilitation for a leg wound received at the front in WW I. Four other young men are also getting therapy. Two hit men, Max and Al, enter a diner to get some food and to wait for their target to arrive.
Two young men are passing through town. They stop at a bar for a drink and then encounter a motley group at a train station. Two of the women there, prostitutes, argue about a boxer they once knew. The narrator tells the story of being with his father in Italy and France when he worked as a jockey. His father had an argument with some people after winning a race in Italy.
In France he eventually buys his own horse to train and ride. During the Spanish Civil War, an old man sits on the roadside, exhausted and discouraged.
Everyone is fleeing from the advancing fascist army. The Reading Life: The Doctor's Wife by Sawako Ariyoshi. Maybe he's compensating for something: The Unwinding: An Inner History of the New America. Elon Musk: Dispatches from Pluto: Lost and Found in the Mississippi Delta.
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