For Whom the Bell Tolls
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
In 1937 Ernest Hemingway traveled to Spain to cover the civil war there for the North American Newspaper Alliance. Three years later he completed the greatest novel to emerge from "the good fight," For Whom the Bell Tolls.
The story of Robert Jordan, a young American in the International Brigades attached to an antifascist guerilla unit in the mountains of Spain, it tells of loyalty and courage, love and defeat, and the tragic death of an ideal. In his portrayal of Jordan's love for the beautiful Maria and his superb account of El Sordo's last stand, in his brilliant travesty of La Pasionaria and his unwillingness to believe in blind faith, Hemingway surpasses his achievement in The Sun Also Rises and A Farewell to Arms to create a work at once rare and beautiful, strong and brutal, compassionate, moving, and wise. "If the function of a writer is to reveal reality," Maxwell Perkins wrote Hemingway after reading the manuscript, "no one ever so completely performed it." Greater in power, broader in scope, and more intensely emotional than any of the author's previous works, it stands as one of the best war novels of all time.
of the trees against the iron railings that they will perform all that a man wishes; from the simplest requests at a remuneration of ten centimos up to a peseta for that great act that we are born to and there, on a dead flower bed that has not yet been plucked out and replanted, and so serves to soften the earth that is so much softer than the sidewalk, thou wilt find an abandoned gunny sack with the odor of the wet earth, the dead flowers, and the doings of that night. In this sack will be
the same body beneath his hide, because he drinks beer, because he enjoys music and because he likes to dance.” “So also believe the Indians.” “Are the Indians then gypsies?” “No. But they believe alike about the bear.” “Clearly. The gypsies also believe he is a brother because he steals for pleasure.” “Have you gypsy blood?” “No. But I have seen much of them and clearly, since the movement, more. There are many in the hills. To them it is not a sin to kill outside the tribe. They deny this
against him now. “I can love thee more.” “I will try to kiss thee very well.” “Kiss me a little.” “I do not know how.” “Just kiss me.” She kissed him on the cheek. “No.” “Where do the noses go? I always wondered where the noses would go.” “Look, turn thy head,” and then their mouths were tight together and she lay close pressed against him and her mouth opened a little gradually and then, suddenly, holding her against him, he was happier than he had ever been, lightly, lovingly,
night before last. What a business. You go along your whole life and they seem as though they mean something and they always end up not meaning anything. There was never any of what this is. You think that is one thing that you will never have. And then, on a lousy show like this, co-ordinating two chicken-crut guerilla bands to help you blow a bridge under impossible conditions, to abort a counteroffensive that will probably already be started, you run into a girl like this Maria. Sure. That is
nothing. “Listen, Pilar,” he said to the woman. Pilar looked at him and smiled. “What is it?” she asked. “Don’t be so mysterious,” Robert Jordan said. “These mysteries tire me very much.” “So?” Pilar said. “I do not believe in ogres, soothsayers, fortune tellers, or chicken-crut gypsy witchcraft.” “Oh,” said Pilar. “No. And you can leave the girl alone.” “I will leave the girl alone.” “And leave the mysteries,” Robert Jordan said. “We have enough work and enough things that will be done