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Yesterday I spent the day with Tati, first at the beauty salon, then shopping. She bought a gift for her sister's wedding, I bought a travel size nebulizer. I can't believe they even make those! I'm never leaving the house without. There was a lot of ecstatic jumping up and down in the store. It's so little I can carry it in my bag! If I only had had one when I went to Japan. The long journey by plane, and the stupid air conditioning in the airports, triggered a nasty cold that I had to endure for ten days. With one of these, it would have been gone in 48 hours.
This morning I finally finished another book I had on my reading list. I carried it in my bag for the past three weeks, and read a few chapters here and there while I was in waiting rooms or waiting for the bus.
For the "A Book Based On A True Story" square, I went for Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell To Arms, his 1929 book based on his own personal experiences as an ambulance driver in World War I. It wasn't exactly the smartest choice to carry around in my bag, as I ended up reading it in hospital waiting rooms, with the smell of antiseptic and nurses running up and down the hallway with carts, and me sitting there reading about how he got shot in the leg, and the very realistic description of the surgery and everything that followed. It was quite unsettling.
I read everything by Hemingway when I was a kid, but it was in translation, and lately I've been feeling like re-reading the classics, while being able to appreciate the nuances in the original language, the word choices, the style. The style was actually my favourite part this time around. Very simple, direct, and at the same time unique. I finally understand what they mean when they say that no one was ever able to truly imitate Hemingway's writing style. I also loved to read about Italy from a stranger's point of view. The places, the odd sentence here and there, that are meant to sound distant and exotic, and while they shouldn't be to me, they still sound quite distorted to be read through a second lens. The weirdest part was how detached Henry felt towards this war by the end of the book: he's American, he's military but he isn't technically a soldier, there is nothing that truly matters about this war to him. I was born seventy years later, and yet the battles and places he mentions feel a lot more personal to me, thanks to living in the same places where most of the book is set, and thanks to my elementary teachers, who cared a lot about the two World Wars. In many ways, reading this book was a very weird experience.
I also feel like I didn't truly get the character of Catherine. Most reviews online just write her off as a poor example of Hemingway's sexism, but I think she's just a very peculiar character. I could be wrong, obviously.
I have another few books that are sitting there on my nightstand with bookmarks just a few pages from the end. These past couple of months I just couldn't concentrate on one story at the time. I'm taking this week to finish everything I've started, so there'll be another few reviews in the next days. ^^
Off-topic note, Metallica's Nothing Else Matters on the ukulele is the best thing I've ever attempted to learn. The chords are quite simple, so after learning them I tried a quirky swing strumming pattern and laughed so hard I almost fell from the couch. I'm a very serious person.
This morning I finally finished another book I had on my reading list. I carried it in my bag for the past three weeks, and read a few chapters here and there while I was in waiting rooms or waiting for the bus.
For the "A Book Based On A True Story" square, I went for Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell To Arms, his 1929 book based on his own personal experiences as an ambulance driver in World War I. It wasn't exactly the smartest choice to carry around in my bag, as I ended up reading it in hospital waiting rooms, with the smell of antiseptic and nurses running up and down the hallway with carts, and me sitting there reading about how he got shot in the leg, and the very realistic description of the surgery and everything that followed. It was quite unsettling.I read everything by Hemingway when I was a kid, but it was in translation, and lately I've been feeling like re-reading the classics, while being able to appreciate the nuances in the original language, the word choices, the style. The style was actually my favourite part this time around. Very simple, direct, and at the same time unique. I finally understand what they mean when they say that no one was ever able to truly imitate Hemingway's writing style. I also loved to read about Italy from a stranger's point of view. The places, the odd sentence here and there, that are meant to sound distant and exotic, and while they shouldn't be to me, they still sound quite distorted to be read through a second lens. The weirdest part was how detached Henry felt towards this war by the end of the book: he's American, he's military but he isn't technically a soldier, there is nothing that truly matters about this war to him. I was born seventy years later, and yet the battles and places he mentions feel a lot more personal to me, thanks to living in the same places where most of the book is set, and thanks to my elementary teachers, who cared a lot about the two World Wars. In many ways, reading this book was a very weird experience.
I also feel like I didn't truly get the character of Catherine. Most reviews online just write her off as a poor example of Hemingway's sexism, but I think she's just a very peculiar character. I could be wrong, obviously.
I have another few books that are sitting there on my nightstand with bookmarks just a few pages from the end. These past couple of months I just couldn't concentrate on one story at the time. I'm taking this week to finish everything I've started, so there'll be another few reviews in the next days. ^^
Off-topic note, Metallica's Nothing Else Matters on the ukulele is the best thing I've ever attempted to learn. The chords are quite simple, so after learning them I tried a quirky swing strumming pattern and laughed so hard I almost fell from the couch. I'm a very serious person.
