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Fathers and Sons
German translation of Ernest Hemingway's "Fathers and Sons Short Stories"
10 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1933
3 people are currently reading
75 people want to read
About the author
Ernest Hemingway
2,257 books32.5k followersErnest Miller Hemingway was an American novelist, short-story writer and journalist. Best known for an economical, understated style that significantly influenced later 20th-century writers, he is often romanticized for his adventurous lifestyle, and outspoken and blunt public image. Most of Hemingway's works were published between the mid-1920s and mid-1950s, including seven novels, six short-story collections and two non-fiction works. His writings have become classics of American literature; he was awarded the 1954 Nobel Prize in Literature, while three of his novels, four short-story collections and three nonfiction works were published posthumously.
Hemingway was raised in Oak Park, Illinois. After high school, he spent six months as a cub reporter for The Kansas City Star before enlisting in the Red Cross. He served as an ambulance driver on the Italian Front in World War I and was seriously wounded in 1918. His wartime experiences formed the basis for his 1929 novel A Farewell to Arms. He married Hadley Richardson in 1921, the first of four wives. They moved to Paris where he worked as a foreign correspondent for the Toronto Star and fell under the influence of the modernist writers and artists of the 1920s' "Lost Generation" expatriate community. His debut novel The Sun Also Rises was published in 1926.
He divorced Richardson in 1927 and married Pauline Pfeiffer. They divorced after he returned from the Spanish Civil War, where he had worked as a journalist and which formed the basis for his 1940 novel For Whom the Bell Tolls. Martha Gellhorn became his third wife in 1940. He and Gellhorn separated after he met Mary Welsh Hemingway in London during World War II. Hemingway was present with Allied troops as a journalist at the Normandy landings and the liberation of Paris. He maintained permanent residences in Key West, Florida, in the 1930s and in Cuba in the 1940s and 1950s. On a 1954 trip to Africa, he was seriously injured in two plane accidents on successive days, leaving him in pain and ill health for much of the rest of his life. In 1959, he bought a house in Ketchum, Idaho, where, on July 2, 1961 (a couple weeks before his 62nd birthday), he killed himself using one of his shotguns.
Hemingway was raised in Oak Park, Illinois. After high school, he spent six months as a cub reporter for The Kansas City Star before enlisting in the Red Cross. He served as an ambulance driver on the Italian Front in World War I and was seriously wounded in 1918. His wartime experiences formed the basis for his 1929 novel A Farewell to Arms. He married Hadley Richardson in 1921, the first of four wives. They moved to Paris where he worked as a foreign correspondent for the Toronto Star and fell under the influence of the modernist writers and artists of the 1920s' "Lost Generation" expatriate community. His debut novel The Sun Also Rises was published in 1926.
He divorced Richardson in 1927 and married Pauline Pfeiffer. They divorced after he returned from the Spanish Civil War, where he had worked as a journalist and which formed the basis for his 1940 novel For Whom the Bell Tolls. Martha Gellhorn became his third wife in 1940. He and Gellhorn separated after he met Mary Welsh Hemingway in London during World War II. Hemingway was present with Allied troops as a journalist at the Normandy landings and the liberation of Paris. He maintained permanent residences in Key West, Florida, in the 1930s and in Cuba in the 1940s and 1950s. On a 1954 trip to Africa, he was seriously injured in two plane accidents on successive days, leaving him in pain and ill health for much of the rest of his life. In 1959, he bought a house in Ketchum, Idaho, where, on July 2, 1961 (a couple weeks before his 62nd birthday), he killed himself using one of his shotguns.
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Displaying 1 - 13 of 13 reviews
January 24, 2018
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.
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.
A breath of fresh air. Some peace for a broken mind. Finally.
Oct 22, 2015
* Also on my blog.
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.
Oct 22, 2015
* Also on my blog.
February 10, 2017
A simple story about Nick Adams reminiscing about his dad after he himself has a son. "Fathers and Sons" serves as a good representation of how we can come to really understand the loved ones in our lives, even if this interpersonal awareness occurs after some time has passed. On an unrelated note, I would like to challenge this "iceberg theory" so often associated with Hemingway's work, this notion that he intentionally shows only the surface events of a story so readers can pull out the rest. I argue the use of this theory just excuses the lack of depth in Hemingway's writing. I perceive his style more as a sometimes nice, most times not nice ice cube floating atop the vast literary ocean, as opposed to an iceberg with layers. Not to mention that his stories are all so similar. Anyway, I would not really recommend this story - check out "The Sea Change" or "Soldier's Home" instead.
November 13, 2020
I can't deny the writing was good. But the way the narrator describes and interacts with the native American characters was gross to the point I couldn't enjoy the story.
April 5, 2025
no todos los padres pero SIEMPRE es un padre
September 16, 2022
Hemingway's "Fathers and Sons" is a short story about Nick Adams and his memories of his father as well as a glimpse of his relationship with his young son. Hemingway shows how this relationship is an important one and long lasting even if it is far from perfect.
Story in short -Nick Adams remembers his dead father while driving around with his young son.
➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖
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Like all men with a faculty that surpasses human requirements, his father was very nervous. Then, too, he was sentimental, and, like most sentimental people, he was both cruel and abused. Also, he had much bad luck, and it was not all of it his own. He had died in a trap that he had helped only a little to set, and they had all betrayed him in
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 370
their various ways before he died. All sentimental people are betrayed so many times. Nick could not write about him yet, although he would, later, but the quail country made him remember him as he was when Nick was a boy and he was very grateful to him for two things: fishing and shooting. His father was as sound on those two things as he was unsound on sex, for instance, and Nick was glad that it had been that way; for some one has to give you your first gun or the opportunity to get it and use it, and you have to live
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where there is game or fish if you are to learn about them, and now, at thirty-eight, he loved to fish and to shoot exactly as much as when he first had gone with his father. It was a passion that had never slackened and he was very grateful to his father for bringing him to know it.
❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌spoiler alert
From all the Nick Adams stories, I barely understand his father and son relationship. It seems there was a break for a time and why, it is unclear. The father's wisdom seems quite bizarre at times, though Nick is not always wise. His father had met his son before he died and the child is not yet 12. Who Nick married is unclear but it seems he had several girlfriends and he also traveled abroad. I think the Nick Adams concept interesting and I wonder how much of Nick and his father is Hemingway?
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There was nothing to do about his father and he had thought it all through many times. The handsome job the undertaker had done on his father’s face had not blurred in his mind and all the rest of it was quite clear, including the responsibilities. He had
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 371
complimented the undertaker. The undertaker had been both proud and smugly pleased. But it was not the undertaker that had given him that last face. The undertaker had only made certain dashingly executed repairs of doubtful artistic merit. The face had been making itself and being made for a long time. It had modelled fast in the last three years. It was a good story but there were still too many people alive for him to write it.
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They sat against the tree and were quiet. Nick was feeling hollow and happy. “Eddie says he going to come some night sleep in bed with you sister Dorothy.” “What?” “He said.”
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Trudy nodded. “That’s all he want do,” she said. Eddie was their older half-brother. He was seventeen. “If Eddie Gilby ever comes at night and even speaks to Dorothy you know what I’d do to him? I’d kill him like this.” Nick cocked the gun and hardly taking aim pulled the trigger, blowing a hole as big as your hand in the head or belly of that half-breed bastard Eddie Gilby. “Like that. I’d kill him like that.”
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“He better not come then,” Trudy said. She put her hand in Nick’s pocket. “He better watch out plenty,” said Billy. “He’s big bluff,” Trudy was exploring with her hand in Nick’s pocket. “But don’t you kill him. You get plenty trouble.” “I’d kill him like that,” Nick said. Eddie Gilby lay on the ground with all his chest shot away. Nick put his foot on him proudly. “I’d scalp him,” he said happily. “No,” said Trudy. “That’s dirty.”
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“I’d scalp him and send it to his mother.” “His mother dead,” Trudy said. “Don’t you kill him, Nickie. Don’t you kill him for me.” “After I scalped him I’d throw him to the dogs.” Billy was very depressed. “He better watch out,” he said gloomily. “They’d tear him to pieces,” Nick said, pleased with the picture. Then, having scalped that half-breed renegade and standing, watching the dogs tear him, his face unchanging, he fell backward against the tree,
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held tight around the neck, Trudy holding, choking him, and crying, “No kill him! No kill him! No kill him! No. No. No. Nickie. Nickie. Nickie!” “What’s the matter with you?” “No kill him.” “I got to kill him.” “He just a big bluff.” “All right,” Nickie said. “I won’t kill him unless he comes around the house. Let go of me.” “That’s good,” Trudy said. “You want to do anything now? I feel good now.”
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“If Billy goes away.” Nick had killed Eddie Gilby, then pardoned him his life, and he was a man now. “You go, Billy. You hang around all the time. Go on.” “Son a bitch,” Billy said. “I get tired this. What we come? Hunt or what?” “You can take the gun. There’s one shell.” “All right. I get a big black one all right.” “I’ll holler,” Nick said.
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Then, later, it was a long time after and Billy was still away. “You think we make a baby?” Trudy folded her brown legs together happily and rubbed against him. Something inside Nick had gone a long way away. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Make plenty baby what the hell.” They heard Billy shoot. “I wonder if he got one.” “Don’t care,” said Trudy. Billy came through the trees. He had the gun over his shoulder and
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 374
he held a black squirrel by the front paws.
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Now, as he rode along the highway in the car and it was getting dark, Nick was all through thinking about his father. The end of the day never made him think of him. The end of the day had always belonged to Nick alone and he never felt right unless he was alone at it. His father came back to him in the fall of the
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 374
year, or in the early spring when there had been jacksnipe on the prairie, or when he saw shocks of corn, or when he saw a lake, or if he ever saw a horse and buggy, or when he saw, or heard, wild geese, or in a duck blind; remembering the time an eagle dropped through the whirling snow to strike a canvas-covered decoy, rising, his wings beating, the talons caught in the canvas. His father was with him, suddenly, in deserted orchards and in new-plowed fields, in thickets, on small hills, or when going through dead
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 375
grass, whenever splitting wood or hauling water, by grist mills, cider mills and dams and always with open fires. The towns he lived in were not towns his father knew. After he was fifteen he had shared nothing with him.
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“What was it like, Papa, when you were a little boy and used to hunt with the Indians?” “I don’t know,” Nick was startled. He had not even noticed the boy was awake. He looked at him sitting beside him on the seat. He had felt quite alone but this boy had been with him. He wondered for how
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long. “We used to go all day to hunt black squirrels,” he said. “My father only gave me three shells a day because he said that would teach me to hunt and it wasn’t good for a boy to go banging around. I went with a boy named Billy Gilby and his sister Trudy. We used to go out nearly every day all one summer.” “Those are funny names for Indians.” “Yes, aren’t they,” Nick said. “But tell me what they were like.” “They were Ojibways,” Nick said. “And they were very nice.”
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“Oh, yes he was. He shot very quickly and beautifully. I’d rather see him shoot than any man I ever knew. He was always very disappointed in the way I shot.” “Why do we never go to pray at the tomb of my grandfather?” “We live in a different part of the country. It’s a long way from here.” “In France that wouldn’t make any difference. In France we’d go. I think I ought to go to pray at the tomb of my grandfather.” “Sometime we’ll go.”
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“I hope we won’t live somewhere so that I can never go to pray at your tomb when you are dead.” “We’ll have to arrange it.” “Don’t you think we might all be buried at a convenient place? We could all be buried in France. That would be fine.” “I don’t want to be buried in France,” Nick said. “Well, then, we’ll have to get some convenient place in America. Couldn’t we all be buried out at the ranch?” “That’s an idea.”
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“Then I could stop and pray at the tomb of my grandfather on the way to the ranch.” “You’re awfully practical.” “Well, I don’t feel good never to have even visited the tomb of my grandfather.” “We’ll have to go,” Nick said. “I can see we’ll have to go.”
Story in short -Nick Adams remembers his dead father while driving around with his young son.
➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 370
Like all men with a faculty that surpasses human requirements, his father was very nervous. Then, too, he was sentimental, and, like most sentimental people, he was both cruel and abused. Also, he had much bad luck, and it was not all of it his own. He had died in a trap that he had helped only a little to set, and they had all betrayed him in
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 370
their various ways before he died. All sentimental people are betrayed so many times. Nick could not write about him yet, although he would, later, but the quail country made him remember him as he was when Nick was a boy and he was very grateful to him for two things: fishing and shooting. His father was as sound on those two things as he was unsound on sex, for instance, and Nick was glad that it had been that way; for some one has to give you your first gun or the opportunity to get it and use it, and you have to live
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 370
where there is game or fish if you are to learn about them, and now, at thirty-eight, he loved to fish and to shoot exactly as much as when he first had gone with his father. It was a passion that had never slackened and he was very grateful to his father for bringing him to know it.
❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌spoiler alert
From all the Nick Adams stories, I barely understand his father and son relationship. It seems there was a break for a time and why, it is unclear. The father's wisdom seems quite bizarre at times, though Nick is not always wise. His father had met his son before he died and the child is not yet 12. Who Nick married is unclear but it seems he had several girlfriends and he also traveled abroad. I think the Nick Adams concept interesting and I wonder how much of Nick and his father is Hemingway?
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 371
There was nothing to do about his father and he had thought it all through many times. The handsome job the undertaker had done on his father’s face had not blurred in his mind and all the rest of it was quite clear, including the responsibilities. He had
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 371
complimented the undertaker. The undertaker had been both proud and smugly pleased. But it was not the undertaker that had given him that last face. The undertaker had only made certain dashingly executed repairs of doubtful artistic merit. The face had been making itself and being made for a long time. It had modelled fast in the last three years. It was a good story but there were still too many people alive for him to write it.
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 373
They sat against the tree and were quiet. Nick was feeling hollow and happy. “Eddie says he going to come some night sleep in bed with you sister Dorothy.” “What?” “He said.”
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 373
Trudy nodded. “That’s all he want do,” she said. Eddie was their older half-brother. He was seventeen. “If Eddie Gilby ever comes at night and even speaks to Dorothy you know what I’d do to him? I’d kill him like this.” Nick cocked the gun and hardly taking aim pulled the trigger, blowing a hole as big as your hand in the head or belly of that half-breed bastard Eddie Gilby. “Like that. I’d kill him like that.”
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 373
“He better not come then,” Trudy said. She put her hand in Nick’s pocket. “He better watch out plenty,” said Billy. “He’s big bluff,” Trudy was exploring with her hand in Nick’s pocket. “But don’t you kill him. You get plenty trouble.” “I’d kill him like that,” Nick said. Eddie Gilby lay on the ground with all his chest shot away. Nick put his foot on him proudly. “I’d scalp him,” he said happily. “No,” said Trudy. “That’s dirty.”
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 373
“I’d scalp him and send it to his mother.” “His mother dead,” Trudy said. “Don’t you kill him, Nickie. Don’t you kill him for me.” “After I scalped him I’d throw him to the dogs.” Billy was very depressed. “He better watch out,” he said gloomily. “They’d tear him to pieces,” Nick said, pleased with the picture. Then, having scalped that half-breed renegade and standing, watching the dogs tear him, his face unchanging, he fell backward against the tree,
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 373
held tight around the neck, Trudy holding, choking him, and crying, “No kill him! No kill him! No kill him! No. No. No. Nickie. Nickie. Nickie!” “What’s the matter with you?” “No kill him.” “I got to kill him.” “He just a big bluff.” “All right,” Nickie said. “I won’t kill him unless he comes around the house. Let go of me.” “That’s good,” Trudy said. “You want to do anything now? I feel good now.”
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 373
“If Billy goes away.” Nick had killed Eddie Gilby, then pardoned him his life, and he was a man now. “You go, Billy. You hang around all the time. Go on.” “Son a bitch,” Billy said. “I get tired this. What we come? Hunt or what?” “You can take the gun. There’s one shell.” “All right. I get a big black one all right.” “I’ll holler,” Nick said.
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 374
Then, later, it was a long time after and Billy was still away. “You think we make a baby?” Trudy folded her brown legs together happily and rubbed against him. Something inside Nick had gone a long way away. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Make plenty baby what the hell.” They heard Billy shoot. “I wonder if he got one.” “Don’t care,” said Trudy. Billy came through the trees. He had the gun over his shoulder and
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 374
he held a black squirrel by the front paws.
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 374
Now, as he rode along the highway in the car and it was getting dark, Nick was all through thinking about his father. The end of the day never made him think of him. The end of the day had always belonged to Nick alone and he never felt right unless he was alone at it. His father came back to him in the fall of the
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 374
year, or in the early spring when there had been jacksnipe on the prairie, or when he saw shocks of corn, or when he saw a lake, or if he ever saw a horse and buggy, or when he saw, or heard, wild geese, or in a duck blind; remembering the time an eagle dropped through the whirling snow to strike a canvas-covered decoy, rising, his wings beating, the talons caught in the canvas. His father was with him, suddenly, in deserted orchards and in new-plowed fields, in thickets, on small hills, or when going through dead
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 375
grass, whenever splitting wood or hauling water, by grist mills, cider mills and dams and always with open fires. The towns he lived in were not towns his father knew. After he was fifteen he had shared nothing with him.
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 375
“What was it like, Papa, when you were a little boy and used to hunt with the Indians?” “I don’t know,” Nick was startled. He had not even noticed the boy was awake. He looked at him sitting beside him on the seat. He had felt quite alone but this boy had been with him. He wondered for how
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 375
long. “We used to go all day to hunt black squirrels,” he said. “My father only gave me three shells a day because he said that would teach me to hunt and it wasn’t good for a boy to go banging around. I went with a boy named Billy Gilby and his sister Trudy. We used to go out nearly every day all one summer.” “Those are funny names for Indians.” “Yes, aren’t they,” Nick said. “But tell me what they were like.” “They were Ojibways,” Nick said. “And they were very nice.”
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 376
“Oh, yes he was. He shot very quickly and beautifully. I’d rather see him shoot than any man I ever knew. He was always very disappointed in the way I shot.” “Why do we never go to pray at the tomb of my grandfather?” “We live in a different part of the country. It’s a long way from here.” “In France that wouldn’t make any difference. In France we’d go. I think I ought to go to pray at the tomb of my grandfather.” “Sometime we’ll go.”
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 376
“I hope we won’t live somewhere so that I can never go to pray at your tomb when you are dead.” “We’ll have to arrange it.” “Don’t you think we might all be buried at a convenient place? We could all be buried in France. That would be fine.” “I don’t want to be buried in France,” Nick said. “Well, then, we’ll have to get some convenient place in America. Couldn’t we all be buried out at the ranch?” “That’s an idea.”
Highlight (Yellow) | Page 378
“Then I could stop and pray at the tomb of my grandfather on the way to the ranch.” “You’re awfully practical.” “Well, I don’t feel good never to have even visited the tomb of my grandfather.” “We’ll have to go,” Nick said. “I can see we’ll have to go.”
March 11, 2016
I would rather read the Nick Adams stories
September 3, 2025
Like father, like son.
Nicholas Adams is returning back home after a hunting trip. As he drives back, with his son, he recalls his father and how he taught him how to hunt, and the time spent with his native friends Billy and Trudy, who also shared his passion for shooting.
Ugh. Country people. The bad kind I mean, I don't put everyone in the same bag, but some people just perpetuates the vicious cycle
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PERSONAL NOTE :
[1933] [12p] [Fiction] [1.5] [Not Recommendable]
-----------------------------------------------
★★☆☆☆ The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories <--
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De tal palo, tal astilla.
Nicholas Adams regresa a casa después de un viaje de caza. Mientras conduce de regreso, con su hijo, recuerda a su padre y cómo le enseñó a cazar, y el tiempo que pasó con sus amigos nativos Billy y Trudy, quienes también compartían su pasión por disparar.
Ugh. Gente de campo. Del tipo malo digo, no meto a todos en la misma bolsa, pero cierta gente sólo perpetua el círculo vicioso.
-----------------------------------------------
NOTA PERSONAL :
[1933] [12p] [Ficción] [1.5] [No Recomendable]
-----------------------------------------------
Nicholas Adams is returning back home after a hunting trip. As he drives back, with his son, he recalls his father and how he taught him how to hunt, and the time spent with his native friends Billy and Trudy, who also shared his passion for shooting.
Ugh. Country people. The bad kind I mean, I don't put everyone in the same bag, but some people just perpetuates the vicious cycle
-----------------------------------------------
PERSONAL NOTE :
[1933] [12p] [Fiction] [1.5] [Not Recommendable]
-----------------------------------------------
★★☆☆☆ The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories <--
-----------------------------------------------
De tal palo, tal astilla.
Nicholas Adams regresa a casa después de un viaje de caza. Mientras conduce de regreso, con su hijo, recuerda a su padre y cómo le enseñó a cazar, y el tiempo que pasó con sus amigos nativos Billy y Trudy, quienes también compartían su pasión por disparar.
Ugh. Gente de campo. Del tipo malo digo, no meto a todos en la misma bolsa, pero cierta gente sólo perpetua el círculo vicioso.
-----------------------------------------------
NOTA PERSONAL :
[1933] [12p] [Ficción] [1.5] [No Recomendable]
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June 24, 2023
Nick is driving with his young son, who is asleep, and he starts to think about his own father.
I liked the part where Nick's initial first thoughts were described. His exact 1st thoughts of his Dad and how they were described.
I am going to be more present when I am thinking about someone I don't see regularly or who isn't the same person anymore like my own father and pinpoint their features, characteristics, their essence more thoughtfully. It's a tricky one mixing memories with nostalgia.
Nick acknowledges the things he has learnt from his father and how grateful he is. His love for the outdoors and his passion to pass it on to his son.
There is this addition of sex and relationships with his Dad mentioning only the taboo in sex but then there is the, what I assume is the virgin encounter in the woods with the Indian girl Trudy, and what joy Nick finds in that situationship.
A lot packed into a short story. Made me want to go walk in the woods and think of people. ❤️
I liked the part where Nick's initial first thoughts were described. His exact 1st thoughts of his Dad and how they were described.
I am going to be more present when I am thinking about someone I don't see regularly or who isn't the same person anymore like my own father and pinpoint their features, characteristics, their essence more thoughtfully. It's a tricky one mixing memories with nostalgia.
Nick acknowledges the things he has learnt from his father and how grateful he is. His love for the outdoors and his passion to pass it on to his son.
There is this addition of sex and relationships with his Dad mentioning only the taboo in sex but then there is the, what I assume is the virgin encounter in the woods with the Indian girl Trudy, and what joy Nick finds in that situationship.
A lot packed into a short story. Made me want to go walk in the woods and think of people. ❤️
November 8, 2017
Read in The Snows of Kilimanjaro, and Other Stories.
Synopsis: Nick Adams is driving with his son when he recalls memories of his father.
A simple story about understanding loved ones.
Synopsis: Nick Adams is driving with his son when he recalls memories of his father.
A simple story about understanding loved ones.
September 6, 2021
One of the better stories by Hemingway. Was a bit confused on the transitions but still worth while
July 29, 2022
One of the Nick Adams short stories and one of the best ones at that. Dark and optimistic. Captures the naivety of youth.
April 15, 2023
"Then, too, he was sentimental, and, like most sentimental people, he was both cruel and abused."
February 26, 2023
This is a great tale about a group of young men and their fathers on a hunting trip. When I was younger I lived in West Virginia and I know about hunting squirrels. Now I live in Utah and the residents cannot imagine the large squirrels that live back East. The squirrel hunting trip is entertaining. The interactions between the young man (and a certain young woman) make the drama that has made this story into a classic.
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