For Whom the Bell Tolls
Ernest Hemingway, 1940
Ιστορικά μυθιστορήματα Λογοτεχνική πεζογραφίαΣύγχρονη πεζογραφία
Ατμόσφαιρα: τρυφερότητα και φόβος. Μιλά για τον πόλεμο, την αγάπη και τη μνήμη.
Μια σελίδα από το βιβλίο
Dying was nothing and he had no picture of it nor fear of it in his mind. But living was a field of grain blowing in the wind on the side of a hill. Living was a hawk in the sky. Living was an earthen jar of water in the dust of the threshing with the grain flailed out and the chaff blowing. Living was a horse between your legs and a carbine under one leg and a hill and a valley and a stream with trees along it and the far side of the valley and the hills beyond. Βιβλία με παρόμοια αίσθηση
Περισσότερα βιβλία — Ernest Hemingway
The Old Man and the Sea
Ernest Hemingway, 1952
A Moveable Feast
Ernest Hemingway, 1964
Τα απομνημονεύματα του Χέμινγουεϊ από το Παρίσι της δεκαετίας του 1920: φτηνά στρείδια, κρύο κρασί, Σεζάν στο Λουξεμβούργο και η διαμόρφωση ενός συγγραφέα.
Πού θα το βρεις
Από κάποιους από αυτούς τους συνδέσμους παίρνουμε μια μικρή προμήθεια, χωρίς επιπλέον κόστος για σένα. Έτσι το BookFeed μένει δωρεάν.
Ερωτήσεις αναγνωστών
- Πώς είναι το «For Whom the Bell Tolls»;
- Ατμόσφαιρα: τρυφερότητα και φόβος. Μιλά για τον πόλεμο, την αγάπη και τη μνήμη.
- Τι να διαβάσω μετά το «For Whom the Bell Tolls»;
- Αν σου άρεσε το «For Whom the Bell Tolls», δοκίμασε «The Things They Carried» (Tim O'Brien), «Yol» (Cormac McCarthy) και «The Song of Achilles» (Madeline Miller).
Μια γεύση από τη ροή
What it means for a story to be true when it never happened.
A thing may happen and be a total lie; another thing may not happen and be truer than the truth. For example: Four guys go down a trail. A grenade sails out. One guy jumps on it and takes the blast, but it’s a killer grenade and everybody dies anyway. Before they die, though, one of the dead guys says, “The fuck you do that for?” and the jumper says, “Story of my life, man” and other guys start to smile but he’s dead. That’s a true story that never happened.
The Things They Carried · Tim O'Brien
What it feels like to describe something you know is already gone.
Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.
Yol · Cormac McCarthy
To know someone so well that sight becomes optional.
I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.
The Song of Achilles · Madeline Miller
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