"The men's list was all angst and Orwell. Sort of puberty reading."

Here's an enlightening article from The Guardian about the differing roles that novels play in the lives of men versus women.

I'm in the middle of The Sun Also Rises right now, written by that most uber-masculine of masculine men, Ernest Hemingway. I don't feel the same vitriol for it that I held for A Farewell to Arms, which to be fair was part of my high school summer reading, meaning I was predestined to hate it. The second time around, I find Hemingway simply dull. I like the themes of the book; hell, I even associate with some of them - lost generation of twentysomethings, expatriates in Europe, the complex relationship of an expat with America - but the plot so far is just so, so boring. If you're going to moan and groan about the greediness and emptiness of the post-WWI kids, give me F. Scott Fitzgerald. That guy knew his way with a metaphor and a plot.

I do have to give Hemingway props for having a house in Key West populated with scores of 6-toed cats. Aside from that, I've yet to be convinced of his greatness.