Having Just Finished For Whom The Bell Tolls, and Having Read A Farwell To Arms a Year Ago

Hemingway’s love scenes are always absurd. Characters fall instantly and irrecoverably in love. Their love has no basis in reality or experience, but that doesn’t make them stupid. It’s just becomes another existential to the story. But isn’t that how love always is? Indescribable by anecdotes or exchanges, but just a thing that one must deal with, whether during the Spanish Civil War or WWI, or now?