The Sun Also Rises - Ernest Hemingway

At first I had to force myself to continue to read The Sun Also Rises, first published in 1926. Over and over again as I ploughed through scenes of the post-war “Lost Generation” drinking too much in Paris nightclubs or, around the middle of the book, fishing in the Pyrenees, I asked myself, and sometimes my friends: “So, what’s the deal with Hemmingway, anyway?”
     Spoiler alert: I ultimately fell madly in love with the book. Here’s an example of the kind of “Iceberg Theory” discussions Hemmingway used in the novel, with some very minor editing, and the teensy amount of non-dialogue phraseology eliminated by me:
     “Hope I gave him the right address.”
     “You probably did.”
     “Go on.”
     “Let’s eat.”
     “Where will we go.”
     “Want to eat on the island?”
     “Sure.”
     “I know who they are. Gentlemen who invented pharmacy. Don’t try and fool me on Paris.”
     “Here’s a taxidermist’s. Want to buy anything? Nice stuffed dog?”
     “Come on. You’re pie eyed.”
     “Pretty nice stuffed dogs.”
     “Come on.”
     “Just one stuffed dog. Just one stuffed dog.”
     “Come on.”
     “Mean everything in the world to you after you buy it. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog.”
     “We’ll get one on the way back.”
     “Alright.”
     It goes on much like this for five and a half pages and, not unlike the Seinfeld TV show, the rest of the book is chock full of similar discussions about pretty much nothing among a group of friends just hanging out, though mostly at bars instead of Seinfeld’s RESTAURANT.
     Indeed, throughout The Sun Also Rises, there is enough imbibing by the protagonists to make the reader dizzy. I suppose if I was knowledgeable about 1920 Paris I might have found all those cozy cafes and night clubs familiar and interesting, but instead their names meant nothing to me.
     Hemmingway’s “Iceberg” method represented a sharp contrast to previous novel forms, where both dialogue and descriptions are intense, long and detailed. (Think Dickens, Tolstoy). “Fellow” writer Gertrude Stein coined both terms, including the “Lost Generation,” which refers to post-war young adults who are supposedly directionless and emotionally empty.
     As professedly meaningful as is this ostensibly profound analysis, some ninety years after publication, the book comes off, in many places – and using my simplistic present-day standards of a good read – as choppy, slow and boring, that is, until the group ends up at the week-long Spanish Fiesta, really, a 24/7 drunk-fest with street dancing.
     The Sun’s first chapter tends to move quickly enough and seems to promise exciting events. We are introduced to Robert Cohn, from a wealthy Jewish family, educated at Princeton, athletic, shy and spontaneous, the last characteristic obvious when he marries “the first girl who was nice to him. He was married five years, had three children….” That, by the way, is the last time the reader hears of his children, a kind of ghost hanging over the rest of the book. Cohn, it turns out, is also incredibly unlucky.
     As I approached the three quarter mark of The Sun – my first Hemmingway book, I am loath to admit – my intrigue emerged. Soon, I couldn’t put the book down. I was captivated. Though late, the story ended up with all the elements of a modern, spine-tingling novel: a sexually misbehaving, gorgeous, impulsive woman; unrequited love; jealousy; a fascinating and childish conflict among friends; a gory bloody death; and, most excitingly of all, bull fighting in Pamplona, Spain.
     Considered the creator of some of America’s great classics, Hemmingway – who was one among seven members of his family to commit suicide – certainly had an impressive resume. In his youth he was both athletic and musical, while his writing talent blossomed early. Undeniably brave, he drove ambulance in Italy during the First World War and later, in the late 1930s, he covered the Spanish Civil War as a journalist, cheering for the republicans, not the fascists. Awarded for his writing and leadership during World War Two, he ultimately won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1954.
     In total, both before and after his death at sixty-two in 1961, his published work included ten novels, ten short story collections, and five non-fiction books. I can’t wait to read them all.

As with most books on Lynne Like's, you can get this on Amazon.ca.