There are some writers whose work is timeless, but Ernest Hemingway’s writing was so contemporary to the first half of the Twentieth Century, that its main relevance is in its depiction of events around World War I and the period between the Wars.

Apart from “The Old Man and the Sea” for which Hemingway was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature, his work seems to be extremely journalistic rather than literary. He was proud of that style and was praised for it, but I find it unimaginative, especially in the dialogue sections.

Perhaps it’s because I can’t relate to Hemingway’s pseudo macho personality which could be the result of his mother insisting on calling him “Ernestine”. Reminds of the Johnny Cash song, “A boy named Sue.” Poor Ernie spent his entire life trying to prove he wasn’t Ernestine.

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Isn’t it intriguing that after reading an entire novel based on the life of Henry James one is left wondering what it was all about. That was my reaction to Colm Toibin’s, “The Master”.

Had it not been for my deep admiration of James’ work and had it not been for the fact that Toibin’s book was to be discussed by our book club, I doubt that I would have persevered with it.

I have purposely not read any reviews of “The Master” so that I can offer my gut reaction.

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