First, the fluff. Seven Up, by Janet Evanovich is the 7th (no shit Sherlock!) Stephanie Plum novel. Although probably the last I'll read for a while, so you won't have to endure too many more review of them. Cause although I enjoy them, I'm not willing to pay for them in hardcover. The next novel isn't due out in paperback for a while yet. Anyway, Evanovich continues to make Stephanie Plum more human, as well as the two leading men in her play. But everyone else continues to be as outrageous as ever. Not much else to say about it. Fluffy fluff fluff.
Second, I just finished the much more serious The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. Sorry, no GIF of the cover. Couldn't find one that shows the Scribner's edition cover. This is my first Hemingway novel. Frankly, I don't understand the fuss. While the story engaged me, and I shall most certainly read more Hemingway (I purchased two more in Fremont a couple of weekends ago), I fail to see anything significant in the writing. Perhaps I am just missing something. Anyway, the story revolves around a trip to Pamplona Spain by Jake and several of his ne'er-do-well friends. They fish, get drunk, watch the bullfights, have affairs, and generally do nothing. The only hitch is, all the men are in love with Brett, who seems to me to have no positive qualities about her, except her willingness to get in bed with whatever hot new stud is the flavor of the day. I can see why Hemingway is called a misogynist. What I don't understand is why men would find the life portrayed attractive. Pining away over a shallow woman? Yuck. I kept on waiting for one of them to come to their senses. The narrator, Jake, comes the closest in that he realizes that Brett would twist him apart, but seems to fail to realize that he only tortures himself by hovering near the fire.