"Men Without Women" was a milestone in Hemingway's career. "Fiesta" had already established him as a novelist of exceptional power, but with these short stories, his second collection, he showed that it is possible, within the space of a few pages, to recreate a scene with absolute truth, bringing to life details observed only by the eye of a uniquely gifted artist. Hemingway's men are bullfighters and boxers, hired hands and hard drinkers, gangsters and gunmen. Each of their stories deals with masculine toughness unsoftened by woman's hand. Incisive, hard-edged, pared down to the bare minimum, they are classic Hemingway territory.
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Book Description
Editorial Reviews
About the Author
Ernest Miller Hemingway was born in Chicago in 1899 as the son of a doctor and the second of six children. After a stint as an ambulance driver at the Italian front, Hemingway came home to America in 1919, only to return to the battlefield - this time as a reporter on the Greco-Turkish war - in 1922. Resigning from journalism to focus on his writing instead, he moved to Paris where he renewed his earlier friendship with fellow American expatriates such as Ezra Pound and Gertrude Stein. Through the years, Hemingway travelled widely and wrote avidly, becoming an internationally recognized literary master of his craft. He received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1954, following the publication of The Old Man and the Sea. He died in 1961.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
From Men Without Women: The Undefeated
Manuel Garcia climbed the stairs to Don Miguel Retana's office. He set down his suitcase and knocked on the door. There was no answer. Manuel, standing in the hallway, felt there was some one in the room. He felt it through the door.
"Retana," he said, listening.
There was no answer.
He's there, all right, Manuel thought.
"Retana," he said and banged the door.
"Who's there?" said some one in the office.
"Me, Manolo," Manuel said.
"What do you want?" asked the voice.
"I want to work," Manuel said.
Something in the door clicked several times and it swung open. Manuel went in, carrying his suitcase.
A little man sat behind a desk at the far side of the room. Over his head was a bull's head, stuffed by a Madrid taxidermist; on the walls were framed photographs and bull-fight posters.
The little man sat looking at Manuel.
"I thought they'd killed you," he said.
Manuel knocked with his knuckles on the desk. The little man sat looking at him across the desk.
"How many corridas you had this year?" Retana asked.
"One," he answered.
"Just that one?" the little man asked.
"That's all."
"I read about it in the papers," Retana said. He leaned back in the chair and looked at Manuel.
Manuel looked up at the stuffed bull. He had seen it often before. He felt a certain family interest in it. It had killed his brother, the promising one, about nine years ago. Manuel remembered the day. There was a brass plate on the oak shield the bull's head was mounted on. Manuel could not read it, but he imagined it was in memory of his brother. Well, he had been a good kid.
The plate said: "The Bull ?Mariposa' of the Duke of Veragua, which accepted 9 varas for 7 caballos, and caused the death of Antonio Garcia, Novillero, April 27, 1909."
Retana saw him looking at the stuffed bull's head.
"The lot the Duke sent me for Sunday will make a scandal," he said. "They're all bad in the legs. What do they say about them at the Café?"
"I don't know," Manuel said. "I just got in."
"Yes," Retana said. "You still have your bag."
He looked at Manuel, leaning back behind the big desk.
"Sit down," he said. "Take off your cap."
Manuel sat down; his cap off, his face was changed. He looked pale, and his coleta pinned forward on his head, so that it would not show under the cap, gave him a strange look.
"You don't look well," Retana said.
"I just got out of the hospital," Manuel said.
"I heard they'd cut your leg off," Retana said.
"No," said Manuel. "It got all right."
Retana leaned forward across the desk and pushed a wooden box of cigarettes toward Manuel.
"Have a cigarette," he said.
"Thanks."
Manuel lit it.
"Smoke?" he said, offering the match to Retana.
"No," Retana waved his hand, "I never smoke."
Retana watched him smoking.
"Why don't you get a job and go to work?" he said.
"I don't want to work," Manuel said. "I am a bull-fighter."
"There aren't any bull-fighters any more," Retana said.
"I'm a bull-fighter," Manuel said.
"Yes, while you're in there," Retana said.
Manuel laughed.
Retana sat, saying nothing and looking at Manuel.
"I'll put you in a nocturnal if you want," Retana offered.
"When?" Manuel asked.
"Tomorrow night."
"I don't like to substitute for anybody," Manuel said. That was the way they all got killed. That was the way Salvador got killed. He tapped with his knuckles on the table.
"It's all I've got," Retana said.
"Why don't you put me on next week?" Manuel suggested.
"You wouldn't draw," Retana said. "All they want is Litri and Rubito and La Torre. Those kids are good."
"They'd come to see me get it," Manuel said, hopefully.
"No, they wouldn't. They don't know who you are any more."
"I've got a lot of stuff," Manuel said.
"I'm offering to put you on tomorrow night," Retana said. "You can work with young Hernandez and kill two novillos after the Charlots."
"Whose novillos?" Manuel asked.
"I don't know. Whatever stuff they've got in the corrals. What the veterinaries won't pass in the daytime."
"I don't like to substitute," Manuel said.
"You can take it or leave it," Retana said. He leaned forward over the papers. He was no longer interested. The appeal that Manuel had made to him for a moment when he thought of the old days was gone. He would like to get him to substitute for Larita because he could get him cheaply. He could get others cheaply too. He would like to help him though. Still he had given him the chance. It was up to him.
"How much do I get?" Manuel asked. He was still playing with the idea of refusing. But he knew he could not refuse.
"Two hundred and fifty pesetas," Retana said. He had thought of five hundred, but when he opened his mouth it said two hundred and fifty.
"You pay Villalta seven thousand," Manuel said.
"You're not Villalta," Retana said.
"I know it," Manuel said.
"He draws it, Manolo," Retana said in explanation.
"Sure," said Manuel. He stood up. "Give me three hundred, Retana."
"All right," Retana agreed. He reached in the drawer for a paper.
"Can I have fifty now?" Manuel asked.
"Sure," said Retana. He took a fifty-peseta note out of his pocket-book and laid it, spread out flat, on the table.
Manuel picked it up and put it in his pocket.
"What about a cuadrilla?" he asked.
"There's the boys that always work for me nights," Retana said. "They're all right."
"How about picadors?" Manuel asked.
"They're not much," Retana admitted.
"I've got to have one good pic," Manuel said.
"Get him then," Retana said. "Go and get him."
"Not out of this," Manuel said. "I'm not paying for any cuadrilla out of sixty duros."
Retana said nothing but looked at Manuel across the big desk.
"You know I've got to have one good pic," Manuel said.
Retana said nothing but looked at Manuel from a long way off.
"It isn't right," Manuel said.
Retana was still considering him, leaning back in his chair, considering him from a long way away.
"There're the regular pics," he offered.
"I know," Manuel said. "I know your regular pics."
Retana did not smile. Manuel knew it was over.
"All I want is an even break," Manuel said reasoningly. "When I go out there I want to be able to call my shots on the bull. It only takes one good picador."
He was talking to a man who was no longer listening.
"If you want something extra," Retana said, "go and get it. There will be a regular cuadrilla out there. Bring as many of your own pics as you want. The charlotada is over by 10.30."
"All right," Manuel said. "If that's the way you feel about it."
"That's the way," Retana said.
"I'll see you tomorrow night," Manuel said.
"I'll be out there," Retana said.
Manuel picked up his suitcase and went out.
"Shut the door," Retana called.
Manuel looked back. Retana was sitting forward looking at some papers. Manuel pulled the door tight until it clicked.
He went down the stairs and out of the door into the hot brightness of the street. It was very hot in the street and the light on the white buildings was sudden and hard on his eyes. He walked down the shady side of the steep street toward the Puerta del Sol. The shade felt solid and cool as running water. The heat came suddenly as he crossed the intersecting streets. Manuel saw no one he knew in all the people he passed.
Just before the Puerta del Sol he turned into a café.
It was quiet in the café. There were a few men sitting at tables against the wall. At one table four men played cards. Most of the men sat against the wall smoking, empty coffee-cups and liqueur-glasses before them on the tables. Manuel went through the long room to a small room in back. A man sat at a table in the corner asleep. Manuel sat down at one of the tables.
A waiter came in and stood beside Manuel's table.
"Have you seen Zurito?" Manuel asked him.
"He was in before lunch," the waiter answered. "He won't be back before five o'clock."
"Bring me some coffee and milk and a shot of the ordinary," Manuel said.
The waiter came back into the room carrying a tray with a big coffee-glass and a liqueur-glass on it. In his left hand he held a bottle of brandy. He swung these down to the table and a boy who had followed him poured coffee and milk into the glass from two shiny, spouted pots with long handles.
Manuel took off his cap and the waiter noticed his pigtail pinned forward on his head. He winked at the coffee-boy
as he poured out the brandy into the little glass beside Manuel's coffee. The coffee-boy looked at Manuel's pale face curiously.
"You fighting here?" asked the waiter, corking up the bottle.
"Yes," Manuel said. "Tomorrow."
The waiter stood there, holding the bottle on one hip.
"You in the Charlie Chaplins?" he asked.
The coffee-boy looked away, embarrassed.
"No. In the ordinary."
"I thought they were going to have Chaves and Hernandez," the waiter said.
"No. Me and another."
"Who? Chaves or Hernandez?"
"Hernandez, I think."
"What's the matter with Chaves?"
"He got hurt."
"Where did you hear that?"
"Retana."
"Hey, Looie," the waiter called to the next room, "Chaves got cogida."
Manuel had taken the wrapper off the lumps of sugar and dropped them into his coffee. He stirred it and drank it down, sweet, hot, and warming in his empty stomach. He drank off the brandy.
"Give me another shot of that," he said to the waiter.
The waiter uncorked the bottle and poured the glass full, slopping another drink into the saucer. Another waiter had come up in front of the table. The coffee-boy was gone.
"Is Chaves hurt bad?" the second waiter asked Manuel.
"I don't know," Manuel said, "Retana didn't say."
"A hell of a lot he cares," the tall waiter said. Manuel had not seen him before. He must have just come up.
"If you stand in with Retana in this town, you're a made man," the tall waiter said. "If you aren't in with him, you might just as well go out and shoot yourself."
"You said it," the other waiter who had come in said. "You said it then."
"You're right I said it," said the tall waiter. "I know what I'm talking about when I talk about that ... --This text refers to the Unbound edition.
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More About the Author
Ernest Hemingway ranks as the most famous of twentieth-century American writers; like Mark Twain, Hemingway is one of those rare authors most people know about, whether they have read him or not. The difference is that Twain, with his white suit, ubiquitous cigar, and easy wit, survives in the public imagination as a basically, lovable figure, while the deeply imprinted image of Hemingway as rugged and macho has been much less universally admired, for all his fame. Hemingway has been regarded less as a writer dedicated to his craft than as a man of action who happened to be afflicted with genius. When he won the Nobel Prize in 1954, Time magazine reported the news under Heroes rather than Books and went on to describe the author as "a globe-trotting expert on bullfights, booze, women, wars, big game hunting, deep sea fishing, and courage." Hemingway did in fact address all those subjects in his books, and he acquired his expertise through well-reported acts of participation as well as of observation; by going to all the wars of his time, hunting and fishing for great beasts, marrying four times, occasionally getting into fistfights, drinking too much, and becoming, in the end, a worldwide celebrity recognizable for his signature beard and challenging physical pursuits.
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
16 of 17 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
...and to top it off, there are BOXERS on the cover!,
By Patrick Koucheravy (Fairfax, VA United States) - See all my reviews
This review is from: Men Without Women (Paperback)
These are some the best stories I have ever read. When I was in high school, my class was asked to read In Another Country for discussion. It was my first Hemingway short story, and an introduction to the novels we would be reading. I almost cried. His writing is just so gut-wrenchingly honest and raw. No overwrought explanations of emotion. You know how these characters are feeling simply because of how the speak and act. Hemingway is the master of context. The Killers is almost like a mystery story that never gets solved. Why doesn't he run out of town? What's going to happen to the big guy? I love this stuff and can't get enough of it.
10 of 11 people found the following review helpful:
4.0 out of 5 stars
Early Hemingway stories,
By D. Roberts "Hadrian12" (Battle Creek, Michigan United States) - See all my reviews (TOP 1000 REVIEWER) (VINE VOICE) (REAL NAME)
Amazon Verified Purchase(What's this?)
This review is from: Men Without Women (Paperback)
Hemingway's short stories have always been hit & miss with me. Some of them don't really do anything for me, none are among my very favorite short stories, but most of them are well-written and thought provoking. Such is the case with this set.Hemingway offers us an assortment of masculine characters, mostly picked from his favorite types of male personas: soldiers, bullfighters, mobsters and prizefighters. Despite the title of the book, there are a smattering of female characters in some of the tales. They rank with the standard fare of impetuous women that Hemingway likes to write about. The scope of the stories is quite broad, featuring painful topics such as abortion, breakup, heartbreak and being past ones prime. The latter theme is taken up in THE UNDEFEATED, THE KILLERS and FIFTY GRAND and later on re-appears in Hemingway's THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA. FIFTY GRAND, which details the demise of a washed-up boxer, is my favorite short story in this collection. Stories such as IN ANOTHER COUNTRY, and NOW I LAY ME introduce motifs that are echoed in A FAREWELL TO ARMS, which was published just a few years after MWW. Tho I've never been enamoured with the short story genre, Hemingway does rank as one of the best in the business - particularly in the American literary canon. Hence, followers of Hemingway as well as people who greatly enjoy short stories would likely appreciate this book.
8 of 10 people found the following review helpful:
4.0 out of 5 stars
Great weekend reading.,
By A Customer
This review is from: Men Without Women (Paperback)
"Men Without Women" by Ernest Hemingway features a glimpse into the genius that is Hemingway. I found it to be a great read during a summer weekend. I especially enjoyed the Nick Adams stories and the story about the matador fighting one last glorious bullfight (one of Hemingway's favoright subjects). "Men Without Women" deals with subjects both everyday and serious such as love and abortion. This short read by Hemingway makes a great introduction for anyone wanting to begin reading Hemingway. I highly recomend it.
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