Tonight, what I trust to be this blog's only reader, whom I unfortunately only speak to a handful of times a year, asked me why I had not written in months.  To this, unfazed, I replied that I was simply a no-good human being that was taking months to finish this minuscule book.  About an hour after this conversation, my power went out for no explicable reason.  It took me 2.5 hours for my phone battery to finally die out, leaving me to wearily pull out this borrowed copy of The Sun Also Rises, which, as mentioned, I have been working on for 2 whole months.  And folks, I did it.  I finally finished it.  It took the literature gods' cutting off my power to force me into action after very nicely trying to push me that way with a very friendly voice, which I promptly ignored, but it happened.

Anyway, back to Hemingway.  Pre Sun, I was a Hemingway virgin.  The only thing I knew about it was that hipsters love him.  I trusted those hipsters.  I trusted them because I, too, like Herschel and Kanken backpacks and gastropubs and irony.  I believed something beautiful or thoughtful would be there waiting for me.  But sadly, now I'm just confused.  It's not that I hated it.  I didn't.  I just don't get why you'd want to sit there and spend so much time with 5 selfish jerks.  Because this book literally was like you were tailing this terrible group of young people on their entitled vacation.  I wish my biggest problem in life was complaining about being poor while using exorbitant amounts of money, being loved too much, and constantly feeling "tight" - while we're at it, someone please explain to me what that means.

There's still plenty of other books on the list by good old Ernest, so I'll still keep an open mind, but...just...why.