I have the impression that most people who used to read regularly and are now in their fifties or sixties once had a symbolic affair with Ernest Hemingway. In 1980s Cuba, profitability was never a serious consideration. Publishing houses flooded the streets with thousands of volumes sold for next to nothing—often cheaper than a plain cheese pizza. Even so, the books gathered dust in the shops. Among them, Hemingway’s complete works could be found without effort.