Once more, like a salmon, swimming against the stream. For this is presented as a fine classic of iceberg theory, and I don't see it that much like in other stories. So don't pay attention to anything I have been saying concerning Ernest Hemingway. Every reading experience is subject to one's personality (my goodness, Florencia, you discovered gunpowder). It is so attached to ourselves, so related to our character, our nature, our psyche, that it is a pointless task to try to decode why we liked a book and why the others did not. I am the one who doesn't dislike a lot of description about the surroundings, but prefers the descriptions about everything that is going on inside the characters' head. Of course, I like knowing where the characters are and what they are doing, but I greatly appreciate when they reveal why they are doing... whatever they chose to do. I mean, I don't need to know why they are grabbing a cup of coffee and walking towards the kitchen; I can read a map. I'm referring to the great choices in their lives.
So, when I met this writer, I was confused. I felt inadequate. My perception was non-existent. I could not connect with him. I saw a distant, indifferent man unwilling to give any detail about the people and the universe he created. After reading a bunch of stories, it hit me. It was simply his style. He didn't believe it was necessary to write about everything because you would be able to understand through the art of the implicit. Easier said than done. Some of us have to work a little to reach the profound meaning of his writings.
For me, for this innocent, limited lamb that is writing to you at this moment, this is one of the most transparent short stories I have read so far. It is about the relationship between Nicholas Adams and his father, told through memories while he is driving with his own son. Role models, betrayal, hunting, awkward scents, punishments, nature.
All sentimental people are betrayed so many times.
These little snippets of his childhood are substantially honest. And beautifully written. A beauty that can put a smile on your face. A beauty that will certainly horrify you. An unsettling beauty to which you can relate. This cold, minimalistic style that so well defines Hemingway became a modest bundle of emotions, restrained, yet waiting for me to unfold them. Ready to allow me to see beneath the surface. To see the parallel between a beautiful landscape and memories that took place in there but sometimes you wish you could forget. We can forget about picking up a friend, buying coffee, a distant relative's birthday. We can deceive ourselves and think we forgot about those significant scars of childhood, the grown-ups world. However, they always find a way to come back no matter how hard we push them back. We can find temporary sanctuaries, like getting lost in the warm arms of nature. Like in most Hemingway's stories.
If he wrote it he could get rid of it. He had gotten rid of many things by writing them. But it was still too early for that.
A breath of fresh air. Some peace for a broken mind. Finally.