He pulled back the blanket from the Indian’s head. His hand came away wet. He mounted on the edge of the lower bunk with the lamp in one hand and looked in. The Indian lay with his face towards the wall. His throat had been cut from ear to ear. The blood had flowed down into a pool where his body sagged the bunk. His hand rested on his left arm. The open razor lay, edge up, in the blankets.
Hemingway, Ernest. “Indian Camp.” In Our Time. New York: Scribner Paperback Fiction, 2003. 18. Print.
Hemingway, throughout his stories, has a style where almost every single line is written without emotion or judgment of the situation that is occurring. In this passage, a suicide is described, but we are never given an expression of horror, or any expression at all. Perhaps the idea is to simply accept what is being described or to feel the horror without the assistance of any character depicting it for us.