The Sun Also Rises made me a writer.
It also showed me another way to live.
I read it one summer when I was home from college. My job was irrigating corn and sugar beets, and, during the day, I would set tubes and count the rows, and at night I would read Ernest Hemingway and want his life. I wanted to live abroad and know people from all over the world, the writers and artists and drunks and bankrupts and bullfighters — all of them.
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