First, when I read this book, I once had an illusion that I was reading Catcher in the Rye because I was bombarded with some words like lousy, swell. When I read a few pages, I gradually appreciated Hemingway's ability in writing: sentences are short, but powerful. The long vivid depiction of Spain also verified his writing skills but it was so long that stultified me.
I can sense a kind of "lost" in this book, which is infused between the lines. This feeling is not written directly but through a twisted way. The more Hemingway weakened it, the more you sensed it was there. However, I want to be lost , too, to some extent. The leading characters are lost in wine, parties, pubs, and fiesta. I really envy them for they have plenty of time and money to squander time and indulge themselves in unspeakable sorrow.
How I wish I could be lost in Spain, in Paris, in the endless pubs and parties, and in love struggles.