To state so seems obvious, but to enjoy fully the packing of this collection one ought to be warm with the singular style of Hemingway. That is not to say that anyone couldn’t admire this book or any number of the stories within it, but actually to say that anyone who is not to be enamoured continuously by the execution of the prose, imagery, dialogue, and culturally astute details, will inevitably admire it less.
Because there are stories in this collection that are forgettable. One or two are even unremarkable.
I found that I enjoyed it from front to back the whole way through, skipping only the ancillary drafts at times, though I owe that to a long-standing personal affinity to the man and his finesse with syntax. Five or six of them were such stories that I will go back and read them again out of sheer pleasure, certainly. Others I was able to indulge, in lack of a better word, for study.
Snows, The Short and Happy..., Indian Camp, A Clean and Well-Lighted Place, and Big Two Hearted River are as good as anything. Many others were very good, if not great (The Killers, Soldier’s Home), though hang by the peripheral; and then two or three unremarkable stories intermixed.
I would say, at large, it’s a splendid collection. I would also say it is especially splendid if you harbour any curios or reverence for the methods of a man who was, no matter your own opinion, well-oiled for and incomprehensibly in-tune with his craft for more than forty years.