It had started the night before when he had heard the lion roaring somewhere up along the river. It was a deep sound and at the end there were sort of coughing grunts that made him seem just outside the tent, and when Francis Macomber woke in the night to hear it he was afraid. He could hear his wife breathing quietly, asleep.  There was no one to tell he was afraid, nor to be afraid with him, and , lying alone, he did not know the Somali  proverb that says that a brave man is always frightened three times by a lion; when he sees his track, when he hears him roar and when he first confronts him.

From “The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber,” by Ernest Hemingway

Don’t you love Hemingway’s style? It looks simple yet elegant, sturdy, and thrifty.  It has such a terrific rhythm, pure brilliant prose without any sugar-coating.  It flows like the Mississippi Estuary through the Louisiana coastline or gallops like a horse in the Wild West. His repetitions appear in the right place at the right time. Hemingway wrote with the same decisiveness that Michael Jordan dunked for the Chicago Bulls, with the same tread that John Wayne walked in  “The Quiet Man”, with the same leaps that Neil Armstrong waded on the moon. He represents the quintessential American writer, American English at its best.