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(3.83) | 33 | "The bestselling author of The Paris Wife returns to the subject of Ernest Hemingway in a novel about his passionate, stormy marriage to Martha Gellhorn--a fiercely independent, ambitious young woman who would become one of the greatest war correspondents of the twentieth century In 1937, twenty-eight-year-old Martha Gellhorn travels alone to Madrid to report on the atrocities of the Spanish Civil War and becomes drawn to the stories of ordinary people caught in the devastating conflict. It's the adventure she's been looking for and her chance to prove herself a worthy journalist in a field dominated by men. But she also finds herself unexpectedly--and uncontrollably--falling in love with Hemingway, a man on his way to becoming a legend. In the shadow of the impending Second World War, and set against the turbulent backdrops of Madrid and Cuba, Martha and Ernest's relationship and their professional careers ignite. But when Ernest publishes the biggest literary success of his career, For Whom the Bell Tolls, they are no longer equals, and Martha must make a choice: surrender to the confining demands of being a famous man's wife or risk losing Ernest by forging a path as her own woman and writer. It is a dilemma that could force her to break his heart, and hers. Heralded by Ann Patchett as "the new star of historical fiction," Paula McLain brings Gellhorn's story richly to life and captures her as a heroine for the ages: a woman who will risk absolutely everything to find her own voice"--… (mehr) |
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Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite. Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen. There is nothing else than now. There is neither yesterday, certainly, nor is there any tomorrow. How old must you be before you know that?
-Ernest Hemingway,
For Whom The Bell Tolls  | |
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| Widmung |
Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite. Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen. For Julie Barer | |
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Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite. Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen. Near dawn on July 13, 1936, as three assassins scaled a high garden wall in Tenerife hoping to catch the band of armed guards unaware, I was asleep in a tiny room in Stuttgart, waiting for my life to begin. | |
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Die Informationen stammen von der englischen "Wissenswertes"-Seite. Ändern, um den Eintrag der eigenen Sprache anzupassen. It was all so shocking and so absolutely wrong. And yet you could almost pretend it wasn't happening by going on with your life and thinking it had nothing to do with you. How naive and hopeless the idea of pacifism seemed when the streets were full of brownshirts. It was a beautiful crusade, and though I wasn't immediately sure how I would find a role for myself, later I thought only this: It may be the luckiest and purest thing of all to see time sharpen to a single point. To feel the world rise up and shake you hard, insisting that you rise, too, somehow. Some way. That you come awake and stretch, painfully. That you change, completely and irrevocably—with whatever means are at your disposal—into the person you were always meant to be. For better or worse I was born a traveler, wanting to go everywhere and see everything. It seemed imperative not only to be on the move, and feeling things, but also to be my own person, and to live my own life, and not anyone else's. I felt very small, suddenly, and that there were two of me, the girl I was and the one he wished he could put in her place. And then late in the day, one of the surgeons walked toward us carrying his cloth cap in his hands, and I thought I would rather step out of my own skin than hear what he had to say. "You're collecting people because you need their opinion about you. It's not pretty to watch." On the train pushed, and when we finally arrived at Penn Station, I stepped out into the cold afternoon air that was cleaner and colder than anything in St. Louis, because it allowed for more. Out of the city, Florida's orange-juice-colored sun fattened, and the heat grew wonderfully heavy. A single tired road stretched south through swamp and marsh flats, like an enormous python digesting the slow line of cars and wagons one by one. The twisted mangrove and saw-grass marshes released a salty, earthy living smell, while roadside signs offered pan-ready turtles and bonefish, and ominous biblical quotes. The entire town would have fit in an unwashed teacup, and was hotter than anything and falling apart. The dusty streets were overrun with chickens, ready to riot over breadcrumbs or pebbles, it didn't seem to matter which. Overhead, the blades of the fan clipped round like a slow-breathing animal. Beyond the open door two seagulls harassed each other, wrestling over a black mussel shell. "I was born in the Middle West," he told her. "Near Chicago. It always looks better to me from a distance—the country as well as the people." His eyes cut sideways at me in the mirror, and my pulse quickened. It was something to have his attention, even briefly. Like a bright light passing my way before moving on. But there was also a feeling that he really saw me, and understood how my mind worked. It didn't make any sense, as we'd just met—but he was a brilliant painter of people in his work, and I believed that he probably did see all kinds of things, perhaps without even trying. I wanted to hold the moment still as long as possible, but finally there was nothing to do but say good night one last time. The sky drooped heavily, pushing chimney smoke down until it thickened the air, clinging to the houses and lampposts. "What does one need for a war, anyway?" I asked my mother.
"Courage, I suppose. But I'd throw a cake of soap in there, too. And warm socks." The trees were glazed with ice. Everything seemed to be made of crystal. I could simply look at everything and absorb it, jostled by the great tires shuddering along the road, while sunlight palmed the top of my head, and lightly brushed the tips of my eyelashes. This was a country wracked by war and chaos, but already I knew that it wouldn't take much at all for me to love it. Back in motion we passed buildings smashed and ransacked, storefronts covered with plastic sheeting and also cardboard. We drove slowly to avoid the shell holes and because it was so dark. It was strange to be in a place that was so black and ravaged, as if the city were dead and this place were its ghost. I had never been fearful as a child, but if I had been, this would have been the stuff of my nightmares. Here I was at war, where anything could happen at any moment. Nothing could have felt stranger or sharper or more sobering. "This is war after all," Ernest said when he saw my expression. "If they spared the booze, everything would go to hell quick." I had a bed and a bureau and a radiator and a small bathroom, the kind where you have to fold yourself up into a handkerchief to properly wash. "Freedom has only ever been paid for with lives," Tom said. "It's always the same story. We just happen to have a front-row seat this time." The smoking and the talking and the whiskey were all part of the fabric of the evening, the way time slid forward. We passed a six-story building that was open to the street, its facade ripped cleanly away. There was something almost vulgar in it, how you could look all the way through to the china cabinets and beds and wing chairs and bathtubs, the furniture of any life rattled apart and suspended. Some of the apartments seemed untouched except for the small matter of having no front wall—like some abandoned life-size dollhouse you could reach into and rearrange to suit yourself. The interesting thing about chaos is that it provides perfect privacy. "I can be an awfully good friend to you if you let me."
"If I didn't know better, I'd think I was being ditched." His tone changed to acid. "It's been a while, but I think I remember the feeling."
"Stop it. That's the last thing I want. Aren't you listening?"
"I'm listening." His look was level, skewering. "I've got plenty of friends." Tomorrow he knows he'll hear the number of casualties on both sides, strict accounting being one of the things you do in a war to keep you from thinking about the actual people who have fallen. There was what you meant to do and what you had to do. There was who you thought you were, and who you became on a night like this, in Madrid, in the dark chaos of the street, following your feet where they needed to go. After three weeks I felt I'd been in Madrid for years, and also that I never wanted to leave. I'd never experienced such intensity, ever. It was like living with my heart constantly in my throat. the children who went to school in any building that would have them, walking past sprinkled trails of human blood to get there, and stopping sometimes to dig for souvenir shells to barter with one another, the way children in St. Louis did with marbles and baseball cards. The children scattered, thrown like coins. The lyddite smoke floated past, like lace made of poison. They had just reached the center of the square when the air shredded. The shell whined past and burst into countless fragments, like pieces of the sun. Faster than anyone could see, faster than thought, one pierced the boy's throat. He crumpled, his hand still in hers, while shells kept falling all around, one every few seconds. It was rash, what we were doing. We would both probably regret it, but I didn't want to think of that, or anything else for now. Not guilt, and not Pauline. Not how much time we had left in Spain, or what we would say or feel in the future. Maybe the future didn't even exist. That was more than possible. War made its own rules, after all, and we could only guess at them. And as I let myself tumble to the floor with him, what I felt more than anything was terribly lost. What I wanted more than anything—anything—was to be found. In the distance, a blur of white stucco smoked. It was a farmhouse, burning. High above, in a sky flat as ironed cotton, a vulture spun one long slow circle that sent a tingling up the back of my neck. All the men we met—or they were boys, really, most of them—seemed to look at me with astonishment, as if a wedding cake had turned up, or a gazelle. Many of the soldiers held rifles at the ready. Others stood beside theirs, or sometimes lay with their guns like sleeping dogs at their sides. He was tall and slender with a shock of blond hair that reminded me of just-shorn fields. When courage failed them, they would find a way to stand their ground anyway and fight on spirit alone. They had grit rather than bravery. There was no moon, and the hillside and the pines were shrouded in heavy blackness, as if curtains had been pulled down from some great height. I kissed him again, not wanting to stop and also wishing futilely that this moment and everything between us could be finished already. The affair begun and ended, the damage done and the repairs under way, my battered heart on the mend. Because he would break my heart. I already knew that if nothing else. We had all the time in the world to make a terrible mistake. My nerves seemed to hover exposed around me like a raw kind of halo. I was being turned inside out, and whether it was the war or Spain or Ernest that was doing it, how did that matter? Maybe there wasn't any difference at all between them anyway. On the narrow streets, shelling had loosed the houses from their stone moorings. They listed and tipped toward one another. In the center of the road, I saw a heavy black sewing machine on its side, as if it had crawled out into the street to die. The night was so still I could hear the blood tunneling through my body, the stopping and starting of each breath. Time would have its way with everything, because that's what had always happened and always would, out into infinity. Lecturing was the loneliest sort of business, I soon discovered. I couldn't stop feeling desperate and hysterical, but my audiences only nodded at everything, tucking my warnings into their handbags. "It's always hard to lose anything," I said. There was a coarse beauty in the disintegrating seawall of the Malecon and the weathered strings of trawling nets, and in the crumbling old buildings along the bay in shades of melting ice cream. I couldn't say why exactly, but I had an instinct that something wonderful lay just under the surface, only lightly sleeping, like a kingdom cursed by a witch and waiting not for a prince but for me. Time was different. Each day seemed charged and priceless now. Who knew how many years or even months anyone had left to live simply, just as they chose, with all this violence and struggle, whole countries crumbling under hate. Once the interior of the house had been tackled, the plaster walls repaired and painted, the windows replaced, the curtains mended, I scrubbed floors with manic energy, fixing new paper to the kitchen shelves and drawers, attacking cobwebs with a stiff Cuban straw broom, while some part of me stood to one side, dizzy with fear and doubt and uncertainty—the vertigo of extreme transformation. I tossed and turned, and woke at dawn feeling thick and morose, a dark mood loitering like storm clouds. I snapped a blank page into the roller, sending a sharp report echoing through the house. The page was snowy white. It still held all of its secrets. Real writing, I was beginning to realize, was more like laying bricks than waiting for lightning to strike. Loss happened the way the tide did, again and again, washing the white sand flat. I pushed my feet deeply into the cool sand and watched the water moving over the breakers, each one like a seam of pearly blue that turned over and over before it spilled open. It was dim in the room, with the light from the lamps only stretching so far. I found my shoes somehow and stumbled down the flights of stairs and outside onto the cold street where everyone was staring up into the heavy gray sky. The humming was like the noise of a wasp growing louder and louder until I could feel it under my feet. In the hotel, we couldn't hear anything for the roaring. I lunged under a marble table in the restaurant, hugging my knees as the floor shook convulsively. Everything rocked and shuddered with the explosions. The windows concussed. I felt my teeth jarring and clacking as the bombs fell.
The attack lasted one minute, the longest single minute of my life. The avenue was an ocean of bright glass. Four large apartment buildings had collapsed as if made only of paper-mache, or of air. A bus had been forced over onto its side like a downed bull elephant. The people didn't seem frightened to me. They had a frozen resolve that seemed as much a part of Finland as the snow and the dark. We were both playing at optimism, at resilience. At hope. But how else could anyone get through such a thing? The guide's name was Viskey, a young lieutenant so sharply and cleanly turned out he could have been carved from a bar of soap. "No one will win," he said simply. "This is war, after all." Time began to swing like a hammock as the boys settled into their vacation. The world was in the hands of madmen, and Roosevelt still wouldn't act. There was acid in his voice. I felt a warning sensation, a prickling at the back of my neck, and swallowed the words I should have said. I felt them for a long time after, like small burning stones. Would I be as thrilled by the idea of going off to war if I didn't have Ernest and the Finca waiting for me? And would I be truly content here if I couldn't also go away sometimes and do my work? The British Lancasters, which were among the heaviest bombers in the war, flew in and out of the airfield a dozen at a time, the air so full of vibration when they did you'd think you were going to shake apart or go a little mad. Then they suited up, climbing into those great hulking terrible birds to bring death on the wing. | |
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▾Literaturhinweise Literaturhinweise zu diesem Werk aus externen Quellen.  Wikipedia auf Englisch
Keine ▾Buchbeschreibungen "The bestselling author of The Paris Wife returns to the subject of Ernest Hemingway in a novel about his passionate, stormy marriage to Martha Gellhorn--a fiercely independent, ambitious young woman who would become one of the greatest war correspondents of the twentieth century In 1937, twenty-eight-year-old Martha Gellhorn travels alone to Madrid to report on the atrocities of the Spanish Civil War and becomes drawn to the stories of ordinary people caught in the devastating conflict. It's the adventure she's been looking for and her chance to prove herself a worthy journalist in a field dominated by men. But she also finds herself unexpectedly--and uncontrollably--falling in love with Hemingway, a man on his way to becoming a legend. In the shadow of the impending Second World War, and set against the turbulent backdrops of Madrid and Cuba, Martha and Ernest's relationship and their professional careers ignite. But when Ernest publishes the biggest literary success of his career, For Whom the Bell Tolls, they are no longer equals, and Martha must make a choice: surrender to the confining demands of being a famous man's wife or risk losing Ernest by forging a path as her own woman and writer. It is a dilemma that could force her to break his heart, and hers. Heralded by Ann Patchett as "the new star of historical fiction," Paula McLain brings Gellhorn's story richly to life and captures her as a heroine for the ages: a woman who will risk absolutely everything to find her own voice"-- ▾Bibliotheksbeschreibungen Keine Bibliotheksbeschreibungen gefunden. ▾Beschreibung von LibraryThing-Mitgliedern
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Dieser Roman beschreibt aus der Ich-Perspektive die Lebensgeschichte von Martha Gellhorn.
Hemingway hat mir immer als Schriftsteller imponiert, als Person weniger, denn er ging egoistisch seinen Weg und hatte eine Menge Fehler. Die wesentlich jüngere Martha ist von diesem Mann fasziniert, aber mit der Zeit musss sie feststellen, dass sie neben ihm keine berufliche Zukunft haben kann. Sie will sich nicht einengen lassen, aber die damalige Zeit macht es Frauen nicht einfach, sich selbst zu verwirklichen. Es kommt zu ständigen Streitereien und Machtkämpfen. Beide sind starke und ehrgeizige, wenn auch nicht unbedingt sympathische, Personen, die ihren Weg gehen wollen, ohne Rücksicht und ohen Kompromisse zu schließen. Obwohl Martha Ernest eine Zeitlangentgegenkam, machte er es ihr nicht leicht mit seiner fordernden Art. Es konnte auf Dauer nicht gutgehen und so scheitert die Ehe auch nach einigen Jahren.
Martha Gellhorn ist eine mutige Frau, die sich als Kriegsreporterin einen Namen gemacht hat, aber ich glaube, dass sie den Kick der Gefahr auch brauchte, denn sie geht viele Risiken ein.
Die Autorin verbindet in diesem Roman geschickt Fakten und Fiktion. Der Schreibstil ist lebendig und gut zu lesen.
Mir hat das Buch über eine ungewöhnliche Liebesbeziehung gut gefallen. (