Hemingway, Hits, and Misses

To start this review off, I must admit that I am an avid Hemingway fan and almost everything he’s done, I feel, is pure gold. Also, while I am familiar with several of his other shorts, this was the first time I read “The Killers,” and I was ready for a literature feast.

It’s more than commendable that this story was written in bed, in a day, and like all Hemingway’s stories, it’s intriguing and has dialogue that flows so effortlessly you could float a boat down it, but I have to say, as a whole, I was kind of let down. It seemed like the piece existed on two planes that could not quite come together: description and dialogue.

I enjoyed the ambiguity of Ole Anderson’s plight, and I liked the low-key, bland way George and Nick handle the ending (“They’ll kill him”/ “I guess they will,”) but I didn’t really feel connected to this story. The descriptions, when present, are glorious and spotless and true-to-form Hemingway, and I love them dearly, but as a whole, I kept finding myself wanting more. Any kind of reaction, any kind of small bone—especially when Max and Al are heckling the other men in the bar—would have not only helped me visualize the characters of Nick and George better, but it would’ve help me blend the dialogue and the imagery into a more accessible soufflé of literary genius, but I just couldn’t get there.

The dialogue is something I could only ever hope to write, but unfortunately, it’s what solely drives the story. By page three, the quotations marks began to feel cumbersome, like I was trudging through a field of mud, and each time it was harder and harder to pull my feet up. When I came across a rare sentence or two that was a description, it was like I’d reached solid land, only to be dragged back down again. Even screenplay and scripts have basic descriptions of action, and while I’m suggesting the piece be inundated with “Nick stood up. George eyed him. Sam ran off,” I would have liked something to help me complete the picture, especially since I am rather far removed from the scene and experience itself.

Hemingway is never bad; let me stress that. This story just seemed to fall on the lower end of his works—something that still has worth and value, but has trouble standing up to his other tales. It was a good experience, and I’m glad I read it, but I am now going to pull out “The Snows of Kilimanjaro” and drown myself in the tragedy of Henry and Helen.