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I remember "For whom the Bell tolls" and "A Farewell to Arms" as both being big books that I had no trouble getting through. Now, Nabokov - I tried to read Ada, but the dude just goes all over the place in a single sentence. I mean a dude cannot just walk into a room and see it and the people in it, the author has to weave in some partially told story about their aunt or where you can see clocks just like the one on the mantel that we so loved by the Napoleon wanna be's of the 1920s, etc., etc., etc. Hemingway I found easy to read, but he just did not know how to end a story. So he usually contrives some unexpected disaster to hit them. "Everybody dies. The End" as it were.
A sample of Nabokov:
"The front door proved to be bolted and chained. He tried the glassed and grilled side door of a blue-garlanded gallery; it too, did not yield. Being still unaware that under the stairs an inconspicuous recess concealed an assortment of spare keys (some very old and anonymous, hanging from brass hooks) and communicated through a toolroom with a secluded part of the garden, Van wandered through several reception rooms in search of an obliging window. In a corner room he found, standing at a tall window, a young chambermaid whom he had glimpsed (and promised himself to investigate) on the preceding evening. She wore what his father termed with a semi-assumed leer 'soubret black and frissonet frill'; a tortoiseshell comb in her chestnut hair caught the amber light; the French window was open, and she was holding one hand, starred with a tiny aquamarine, rather high on the jamb as she looked at a sparrow that was hopping up the paved path toward the bit of baby-toed biscuit she had thrown to him. Her cameo profile, her cute pink nostril, her long, French, lily-white neck, the outline, both full and frail, of her figure (male lust does not go very far for descriptive felicities!), and especially the savage sense of opportune license moved Van so robustly that he could not resist clasping the wrist of her raised tight-sleeved arm. Freeing it, and confirming by the coolness of her demeanor that she had sensed his approach, the girl turned her attractive, though almost eyebrowless, face toward him and asked him if he would like a cup of tea before breakfast. No. What was her name? Blanche - but Mlle Lariviere called her 'Cendrillon' because her stockings got so easily laddered, see, and because she broke and mislaid things, and confused flowers. His loose attire revealed his desire; this could not escape a girl's notice, even if color-blind, and as he drew up still closer, while looking for a suitable couch to take shape in some part of this magical manor - where any place, as in Casanova's remembrances could be dream-changed into a sequestered seraglio nook - she wiggled out of his reach completely and delivered a little soliloquy in her soft Ladoran French: ..."
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