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The Dangerous Summer, by Ernest Hemingway
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The Dangerous Summer is Hemingway's firsthand chronicle of a brutal season of bullfights. In this vivid account, Hemingway captures the exhausting pace and pressure of the season, the camaraderie and pride of the matadors, and the mortal drama as in fight after fight the rival matadors try to outdo each other with ever more daring performances. At the same time Hemingway offers an often complex and deeply personal self-portrait that reveals much about one of the twentieth century's preeminent writers.
- Sales Rank: #409080 in eBooks
- Published on: 2002-07-25
- Released on: 2002-07-25
- Format: Kindle eBook
From the Publisher
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About the Author
Ernest Hemingway did more to influence the style of English prose than any other writer of his time. Publication of The Sun Also Rises and A Farewell to Arms immediately established him as one of the greatest literary lights of the 20th century. His classic novella The Old Man and the Sea won the Pulitzer Prize in 1953. Hemingway was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1954. He died in 1961.
Excerpt. � Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
From the Introduction
This is a book about death written by a lusty sixty-year-old man who had reason to fear that his own death was imminent. It is also a loving account of his return to those heroic days when he was young and learning about life in the bull rings of Spain.
In the summer of 1952 Life magazine headquarters in Tokyo dispatched a courier to the front lines in Korea with an intoxicating message. After prowling the mountainous terrain along which desultory action was taking place, he found me at a forward post with a small detachment of Marines.
"Life is engaged in a tremendous venture," he told me in conspiratorial whispers. "We're going to devote an entire issue to one manuscript. And what makes the attempt so daring, it's fiction."
"By who?"
"Ernest Hemingway."
The name exploded in the cavelike foxhole with such force, such imagery, that I was instantly hooked. I had always admired Hemingway, considered him our best writer and certainly the man who had set free the English sentence and the crisp vocabulary. As I wandered about the world I constantly met foreign writers who went out of their way to assure me that whereas they considered themselves as good as Hemingway, they did not want to mimic him. They had their own style and were satisfied with it. And I began to wonder why they never said: "I don't want to write like Faulkner..." -- or Fitzgerald, or Wolfe, or Sartre, or Camus. It was always Hemingway they didn't want to copy, which made me suspect that that's precisely what the lot of them were doing.
If you had asked me the day before that meeting with the Life man I'd have said: "I admire Hemingway immensely. He gave us all a new challenge. But of course I don't want to write like him."
The emissary continued: "With so much riding on this experiment Life can't afford to take chances."
"On Hemingway? How could you lose?"
"Apparently you haven't been following the scoreboard. The critics murdered his last offering."
"Across the River and Into the Trees? It wasn't too hot. But you don't condemn an artist for one..."
"That's not the point. They not only blasted the novel, which was pathetic, but they called into question his legitimacy, his right to publish any further."
"I can't believe that."
"Didn't you read that savage burlesque of him and his novel? That hurt."
"I missed it, being over here. But you can't burlesque a man unless he's very good to begin with...unless readers are so familiar with his work that they catch the jokes. You don't waste your time teasing a nothing."
"This wasn't teasing. This was a thrust at the jugular."
"Hemingway probably told them to go to hell."
"Maybe, but he was deeply hurt. And Life is painfully aware that the attacks cast a shadow over whatever he publishes next." The man paused to study the battlefield in front of our dugout, then came to the point: "We have one hell of a bundle -- money, prestige -- riding on this one-shot issue."
"Why come to see me?"
"We want to present the story in the best possible light."
"What can I do? I don't know Hemingway."
"Do you respect him?"
"He's one of my idols."
"That's what the editors hoped." He looked me in the eye, then said: "They want you to read the galleys...make up your own mind...no pressure from us. And if you like what you see, give us a statement we can use in nationwide publicity."
"To what purpose?"
"To kill any lingering reminders of those savage reviews. Knock in the head suspicions that the old man might be through."
"Tell me the truth. Have you asked other writers better known than me? Have they refused?"
"I really don't know. But I do know the editors think that your approach to war and the role of men makes you eligible. Also, they think readers will listen."
"Is Hemingway in on this?"
"He would be mortified if he knew we thought he needed help. He'll know about it when he sees the copy."
The decision was easy and automatic. I assured the emissary that I would read the manuscript, praying that it would be good, and if it was I would not hesitate to say so boldly. Because a writer just getting into his career asI then was rarely has an opportunity to pay tribute to one of the masters.
"Guard this with your life," the emissary said. "This is the only copy outside New York. And if you decide to make a statement, get it to us in a hurry." Placing the rather frail parcel in my hands, he nodded, warned me not to leave it where others might spy, and left to catch the Tokyo plane.
The next hours were magic. In a poorly lighted corner of a Marine hut in a remote corner of the South Korea mountains I tore open the package and began reading that inspired account of an old fisherman battling with his great fish and striving to fight off the sharks which were determined to steal it from him. From Hemingway's opening words through the quiet climaxes to the organlike coda I was enthralled, but I was so bedazzled by the pyrotechnics that I did not trust myself to write my report immediately after finishing.
I knew that Hemingway was a necromancer who adopted every superior Balzacian trick in the book, each technical device that Flaubert and Tolstoy and Dickens had found useful, so that quite often his work seemed better than it really was. I loved his writing, but he had proved in Across the River and Into the Trees that he could be banal, and I did not want to go out on a limb if he had done so again.
But as I sat alone in that corner, the galleys pushed far from me as if I wished to be shed of their sorcery, it became overwhelmingly clear that I had been in the presence of a masterpiece. No other word would do. The Old Man and the Sea was one of those incandescent miracles that gifted writers can sometimes produce. (I would learn that Hemingway had dashed it off in complete form in eight weeks without any rewriting.) And as I reflected on its perfection of form and style I found myself comparing it with those other gemlike novellas that had meant so much to me: Edith Wharton's Ethan Frome, Joseph Conrad's Youth, Henry James's The Aspern Papers, and Faulkner's The Bear.
When I had properly positioned Hemingway's tale among its peers I hid the galleys beneath my bedroll and walked out into the Korean night, agitated by this close contact with great writing, and as I picked my way across the difficult terrain I made up my mind that regardless of what critics sager than I had said about Hemingway's previous fumbles, I would have to flaunt my opinion that The Old Man was a masterpiece, and to hell with caution.
I am embarrassed to state that I have no record of what I actually reported. My judgment appeared in full-page ads across the country, and I think I said something about how happy writers like me were that the champ had regained the title. No one reading my words could doubt that here was a book worth immediate reading.
At any rate, Life used my statement enthusiastically and paid me, but what I didn't know was that while their Tokyo agent was handing me my top-secret copy of the galleys -- "the only set outside New York" -- Life was distributing another six hundred sets to opinionmakers across the United States and Europe, each one top secret and unique. When the issue containing Hemingway's novella appeared during the first week of September 1952, it was already an international sensation. One of the cleverest promotions ever orchestrated had resulted in immediate sales of 5,318,650 copies of the magazine, the swift rise of the book version to head the best-seller list, and a Nobel Prize.
Hemingway had won back the championship with a stupendous ninth-round knockout.
The success of this daring publishing venture had a surprising aftermath. Life was so pleased with its coup that the editors decided to try their luck a second time, and when they cast about for some writer who might do another compact one-shot, they remembered the man who had stuck his neck out when they needed a launching statement for their Hemingway.
Another emissary, this time from New York with lots of corporate braid, came to see me, in Tokyo I believe, with a dazzling proposal: "We had such an unprecedented success with The Old Man that we'd like to go back to the well again. And we think you're the man to do it."
"There aren't many Hemingways around."
"On your own level you might do it. You understand men in action. You have any stories in the back of your mind?"
I have always tried to answer such questions forthrightly. I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions. Of course I had a dozen ideas, most of them worthless when inspected closely, but a couple of them seemed to have real staying power.
"I've been doing some combat flying over Korea..."
"At your age?"
"And a lot of patrol work on the ground. I see certain big outlines."
"Like what?"
"Like it's perilous for a democracy to engage in war without declaring war. Like it's morally wrong to send young men into action while old men stay home and earn a bundle without any war taxes or deprivations. And it is especially wrong to call a few men arbitrarily into action while allowing others just as eligible to stay home free."
"Would your story be beating those drums?"
"I don't beat drums."
"Write it. I think we might have something."
Driven by a fire I had rarely known, and excited by the prospect of following in the shoes of Ernest Hemingway, I put aside all other work. On 6 July 1953 Life offered its second complete-in-one-issue novella, The Bridges at Toko-ri. This was less than a year after the great success of The Old Man and, as before, the editors protected themselves by asking another writer to authenticate the legitimacy of their offering. This time they chose Herman Wouk to say good things, and although I cannot remember what I said about Hemingway, I recall quite clearly what Wouk said about me: "His eyes have seen the glory." That became the sales pitch this time, but a friend of mine writing a r...
Most helpful customer reviews
58 of 60 people found the following review helpful.
Bullfighting through the eyes of Hemingway
By Linda Linguvic
Considered literary non-fiction, this is the account of the 1959
season of bullfighting in Spain and the intense competition between
two competing matadors for the glory of that season. It is his last
major work at age 60; he killed himself the following year.
In an
introduction by James Mitchner, it is explained that this piece was
commissioned by Life Magazine. The assignment was for Hemmingway to
revisit the bullfights he had written about in his classic novel
"Death in the Afternoon" published in 1940. Hemingway was
supposed to write 10,000 words for the article. Instead, he submitted
120,000 words. It was edited down to 70,000 words and ran in three
installments.
This book I read, however, was only about 45,000 words
and focuses specifically on the particular contests between two
competing matadors who happened to be brothers in law. Hemingway had
a personal relationship with both of them and brings the reader to the
dinners and the parties as well as to the infirmary after a goring,
the painful healing process in Spanish hospitals that do not
administer painkillers, the long rides on bad roads between bullfights
and the dirt and heat and fatigue and glory.
I have not read much of
Hemingway and knew nothing at all about bullfighting when I started
reading. Yet, by the end of the book a portrait of the author emerges
as well as an understanding of the history, tradition choreographed
performance of skill that occurs in the bull ring. Somehow, I was
able to move beyond my personal feelings about the slaughter of the
bull, and get into the mindset of Hemingway and the people of Spain,
where bullfighting is a national passion.
It has to do with courage.
And it has to do with facing death.
Hemmingway said it all it better
than I ever could:
"This was Antonio's regular appointment with
death that we had to face every day. Any man can face death but to be
committed to bring it as close as possible while performing certain
classic movements and do this again and again and again and then deal
it out yourself with a sword to an animal weighing half a ton which
you love is more complicated than facing death."
17 of 17 people found the following review helpful.
Last Hurrah for Papa
By Diego Izurieta
Fortunately I had read Death in the Afternoon before absorbing this last encore. By the end, I was attached at the soul to both matadors, (Cain and Abel!?). I wish I could read the other 50,000 words edited from this work. Papa described everything that was behind the fragile curtain of honor, bravado, showmanship, and the pageantry of bullfighting. Like many musicians or athletes of our time, we cannot observe from behind the scenes all the work, travel and lack of sleep that these people go through, therefore we cannot fully appreciate the bullfighters of the "Lost Generation". I recommend this book to anyone who wants to experience this true American literary icon and Spanish culture and History. It is interesting to see the way Spain has changed over the years. This book is full of magic and it describes the drive and mild competitiveness that all men and women should have inside in order to suceed in today's harsh world. The introduction of James A. Michener is beautifully written by someone who knew Spain. The terms are helpful to any who is not familiar with basic bullfighting. This is one of Papa's most under-appreciated least-recognized works, but that's ok with me.
19 of 21 people found the following review helpful.
Don't ever go to a bullfight without reading this book first
By A Customer
I should have read this chronicle of bullfighting before my college semester spent in Madrid. I did not read it and instead, I sat in the bleachers of the arena completely disgusted, wishing for the first time in my life that I was at an American football game instead. I was so ignorant that I almost felt tempted to run down and let the pathetic black creature loose, like some rebel animal rights person in a research lab. Back then, I did not understand the history, tradition, glory and sentimentality that belongs to bullfighting. I was ignorant and should not have gone to the bullfight without reading this chronicle by Hemingway first. Now, I some day plan to return and to watch another bullfight. I know now I will see a completely different sport; and not really a sport but a performance. I once thought bullfighting was a battle between man and beast. After reading The Dangerous Summer I know it is a choreographed performance of skill, wisdom, experience and bravery. I urge anyone who plans to go to a bullfight, to read this first. Do not judge this Spanish tradition until you first understand what it is about.
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