Nobody did it like Hemingway...

Hemingway at his peak, late 1930s

He lay flat on the brown, pine-needled floor of the forest, his chin on his folded arms, and high overhead the wind blew in the tops of the pine trees. The mountainside sloped gently where he lay; but below it was steep and he could see the dark of the oiled road winding through the pass. There was a stream alongside the road and far down the pass he saw a mill beside the stream and falling water of the dam, white in the summer sunlight.

-Opening paragraph of my favourite novel, For Whom the Bell Tolls, published in 1940.