The object of Hemingway’s last obsession, and of his last novel; in which he poured out all his passion for her; and which he rewrote and reedited more than any other work ever; and which, he claimed enthusiastically, was his best shot to equal William Shakespeare, yet; well, this said object, then, was not impressed by what she read of the novel, which was, besides, only a little here and there:
“The Colonel and the girl spent too much time at Harry’s Bar and the Gritti, she answered. Besides, a girl like Renata did not exist. “Not in Venice at least. She’s supposed to be attractive, well-mannered and well-born but she drinks like a fish and is continuously climbing into beds in hotels.” Renata was boring, she said. “How can the Colonel love such a boring girl?”
If he had not known till then that he was spent, he knew it now. Or should.
Sadly, too, I have gotten bored myself. At page 260, I don’t think I care any longer what these characters did. Not because the author tells the story badly, but because I just couldn’t care less what these characters do.
But I enjoyed intensely the first half of the book.
Now, where is my copy of Benito Cereno?
Oltre Mare 