I finished The Sun Also Rises in a hotel room in Vienna, and reading it while in transit in Europe perhaps affected how much I liked it – I liked it very much, far more than I expected to after my ambivalent reaction to A Farewell to Arms. The open, wide-ranging view of Europe from Paris to Pamplona is something I feel very in need of right now, and Hemingway's hungover cynicism masquerading as wisdom seems here much more beautiful to me. This is particularly so because instead of the grand tragedy of A Farewell to Arms, the tone is built around a more quotidian resignation which I thought was much more believable and familiar. I have never loved Hemingway's prose style but I do admire the way he writes dialogue in this book, very allusively, with all kinds of ironies and inside jokes and drunken repetitions flying around that make for very rich and dynamic scenes, despite the anonymity of a lot of the cast. The prevalence of dialogue also makes this a surprisingly fast read.

I was wooed early on by the opening descriptions of Montparnasse, where I used to live, and the expat stomping-grounds of the Rotonde, the Sélect, the Dôme, the Closerie des Lilas, all still going strong. (Well, most of them are a bit overpriced and unatmospheric now, although the terrasse of the Lilas is still one of my favourite places in Paris to get melancholically hammered.) Hemingway writes many paragraphs whose meticulous geographic detail is a sure sign of someone trying, by means of concrete landmarks, to understand where the beauty of a particular night inhered:

We came on to the Rue du Pot de Fer and followed it along until it brought us to the rigid north and south of the Rue St Jacques and then walked south, past Val de Grâce, set back behind the courtyard and the iron fence, to the Boulevard du Port Royal. […] We walked along Port Royal until it became Montparnasse, and then on past the Lilas, Lavigne's, and all the little cafés, Damoy's, crossed the street to the Rotonde, past its lights and tables to the Select.

You could read this book with Google Maps open in front of you; in fact you often feel that's what Hemingway wants. His descriptions of walking and fishing in the Spanish countryside are similarly exact, and – like the drum-beat of American placenames in Jack Kerouac's prose – they betray a deep intensity of emotion.

The most lavish setpieces are those around the running of the bulls, and the bullfights themselves, in Pamplona. After several pages about the behaviour of the ‘bulls’ and the ‘steers’, in which both words are used repeatedly, one is compelled to recall that a steer is a castrated bull and so to realise that this is some kind of guiding metaphor for Hemingway, not just in the context of the novel (whose narrator has been effectively castrated by a war injury), but in a wider investigation into masculinity.

It's more subtle than perhaps I was expecting from Hemingway, because when you look at the cast – a series of men getting ruthlessly friendzoned by one pretty, flighty Englishwoman – you see no sign of his ideal alpha male. Instead there are only men who sometimes try to act like bulls, and are damaged or otherwise made into steers in the process. So there is a deep ambivalence in the writing, because Hemingway is clearly seduced by what he sees as the raw manliness of bullfighting, but apparently sees no way of carrying it over into real life.

Brett Ashley, the ‘damned good-looking’ siren around whom the other characters orbit, is a fabulous and fascinating portrait of the modern, liberated, short-haired divorcée of the 1920s and '30s. She does not behave very well and you feel you should dislike her, but, then again, one sees the appeal. Not unlike Hemingway himself, in my case.

A magnificent and deceptively simple book. If you judged it solely on its plot, you probably wouldn't come away very impressed: a collection of American ex-patriots travel from Paris to Pamplona for the running of the bulls; drink too much and make fools of themselves; then return to Paris a few weeks older and not much wiser. Where Hemingway really succeeds, though, is in capturing brief flashes of life that any reader will recognize.

Again, I'm hardly qualified to propose and defend a thesis on the book, so I'll write about what impressed me. To start, of course, there are all the scenes that describe the art and beauty of bullfighting. Hemingway makes it sound like a fierce and graceful competition between humanity and nature. I have to say, however, that when I actually saw a bullfight I didn't come away with that impression at all. The odds are (understandably) so stacked in favor of the bullfighter that the whole process seems more savage and brutal than anything else. Still, it was Hemingway's description that drew me to see the match in the first place, so it carries a great deal of romantic power. Beautiful to read, horrible to see.

There is also a scene where two of the characters go off to a small village to fish before the Running of the Bulls feast. The description of the guys hanging out, lazily fishing, and waiting for their bottles of wine to cool in the river really captures those moments in life where you stand back from yourself for a moment, look around, and say to yourself: "Goddamn! It's good to be alive!" Makes you want to go out there and fish yourself.

Finally, Hemingway really conveys the wild revelry of the feast itself. The writing comes in flashes, like memories of a great night out. Dancing with locals in a tavern. Sharing a wineskin while traveling between bars. Fumbling with your keys as you try to get back in your room. Trying to recover fast enough the next morning to start all over again that night. The book focuses on the consequences of this kind of lifestyle, as well, but being a half-full glass kind of guy draws me to the more enjoyable aspects of the book. An enormously fun read.

I'd forgotten what an interesting novel this is, as it has probably been at least thirty-five or forty years since I last read it. The Sun Also Rises impacts me on a couple of levels. First, there is an almost travel-log aspect to it. I mean, after all, this is the story of a group of friends starting out in the Bohemian quarter of Paris and then making their way down to Spain to attend a bullfighting fiesta, with a very cool trout-fishing interlude in the Basque countryside. Hemingway is great at putting the reader in each every scene--you can feel the sultry heat of the day and sweat on your skin; experiencing the motorcars puttering down the dry, dusty roads; experience the swaying of the train cars; thrill with the crowds as the toreadors duel with the bulls, and so on and so forth. I suppose that it is really no wonder that so many people make the pilgrimage to Pamplona and "run with the bulls" even to this day!

The second aspect of this book that I really could relate to was the camaraderie of Hemingway's fictional characters. Sure, there was probably too much alcohol abuse, and some bullying, but really this was not a lot different than some of the times and experiences I shared with my gang of friends when I was in my early 20s and in the military. Also, I think a subtle point that Hemingway was endeavoring to make to his readers was that the First World War influenced not only his writing of the novel, but also the experiences of the characters in the novel. The whole psychology of friendship, as well as platonic, romantic, and sexual love is seen and experienced by the novel's characters, and all of those relationships are tinged with the taint of the War.

I think that The Sun Also Rises is a novel that should, in all likelihood be read many times over the course of a person's life. I think there is so much to get out of this novel, and the reader is only able to peel back the layers with increasing maturity, life experiences and wisdom. Even crafting this review has been a very thought-provoking exercise for me.

I am glad to have revisited Ernest Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises and do look forward to reading it again sometime soon. Four out of five stars for me.

"I unpacked my bags and stacked my books on the table beside the head of the bed,put out my shaving things,hung up some clothes in the big armoire,and made up a bundle for the laundry."

The above is just one example of the type of prose which fills this book.Nothing much happens.My eyes kept sliding from the top of the pages to the bottom,but I couldn't find much to interest me.

Where is the story ? A bunch of Americans are in Paris,they drink a good deal and they have a lot of inconsequential conversations.Supposedly,they represent the "lost generation."

Then,they go to Spain and watch the bull run and bull fights.Maybe that idea had novelty,when the book was published.But even the descriptions of bull-fights in the book aren't all that exciting.

First I watched the movie.I literally fell asleep while watching it.I don't blame the movie makers,not much could be done with this story.
They did a pretty good job with the bull run and bull-fights scenes,however.

I never was a Hemingway fan,I never will be,particularly after reading this book.Bored the daylights out of me.

1.5 stars,rounded down

It’s odd how my memory works, or rather, doesn't work. I first read this novel in about 1976. The only thing I remember about that first reading was that I didn’t like the book very much. I assumed that a rereading, albeit many years later, would trigger some memory of what I’d read before. But no, that file had been completely deleted from my memory bank.

A second reading was prompted by my fascination with the life and times of the Lost Generation. This, Hemingway’s first novel, is iconic of that period, focusing on the lives of American expatriates in Europe in the aftermath of World War I. The work prompted Lost Generation tourism, as young Americans flocked to the bars and restaurants in Paris frequented by Hemingway, his friends and the characters in his novel. The novel also romanticised the Running of the Bulls festival in Pamplona and Spanish bullfighting generally.

The Sun also Rises is in part a roman à clef, with the characters based on real people and the events in the novel based on what happened during a trip to Pamplona in 1925. In the central character, Jake Barnes, Hemingway portrayed himself, albeit with a quite different war injury. Robert Cohn is the fictional equivalent of writer Harold Loeb, whose affair with Lady Duff Twysden – the novel’s Lady Brett Ashley - enraged Hemingway, who fancied her himself. Hemingway set out to humiliate Loeb when the group was in Pamplona. In the manner in which Hemingway portrayed Robert Cohn in the novel, he humiliated Loeb all over again. According to Hemingway’s biographer Kenneth S Lynn, this affected Loeb for the rest of his life.



Ernest Hemingway (left), with Harold Loeb, Lady Duff Twysden (in hat), Hadley Hemingway, Donald Ogden Stewart (obscured), and Pat Guthrie (far right - Lady Duff Twysden's lover, who is Mike Campbell in the novel) at a café in Pamplona in July 1925.

I find the autobiographical aspects of the novel particularly interesting, although they don’t show Hemingway the man in a good light. Hemingway the writer is much more impressive. I love the fragmented Cubist narrative style of the work. As with a Cubist painting, the novel’s themes and meaning emerge through the putting together of its individual pieces. Each of the characters is in effect dealing with the horrors of World War I, although this is not overtly what the novel is about. In describing the post-war generation, Hemingway explores issues of sexual identity, masculinity, communication and authenticity. The complex simplicity of the prose is also astounding: the short, simple sentences and the repeated words and phrases give it a musical, poetic quality. I also love the interlude in the mountains between the Paris and the Pamplona scenes. This part of the novel demonstrates Hemingway’s ability to describe landscape in a way which makes a reader feel and not just see the scenes he paints. And I love Hemingway’s ability to evoke the Paris I know and the Pamplona I don’t know with such precision and economy.

On a second reading there are still things I don’t like about the novel. A significant proportion of it consists of somewhat tedious action and conversations, both of which follow a particular pattern. The characters drink a lot, then they bicker, then they’re hung over. Afterwards they talk about how much they drank, what they bickered about and how bad their hangovers are. Repeat ad infinitum. The anti-Semitic comments about Robert Cohn and the anti-homosexual comments are annoying, although they reflect common attitudes in the 1920s. What I dislike most about the novel is the bull fighting. I know that Hemingway was passionate about bull fighting. I understand that in the novel bull fighting operates as a symbol of authenticity and nobility and reflects and anticipates some of the actions of the characters. However, I can’t get past the fact that bull fighting is about killing animals for entertainment. Maybe I would react differently if I were Spanish, but I’m not Spanish and Hemingway’s glorification of the activity repels me.

I listened to an audiobook edition of the novel narrated by William Hurt. In general terms I like Hurt as an actor. However, his performance narrating this novel is only good in parts. He is great with the male American characters, particularly Jake Barnes. In addition, Hurt clearly speaks good French and his pronunciation of French words and phrases is excellent. Otherwise, accents are not Hurt’s strong suit. His English accent for Brett Ashley is awful, his Scottish accent for Mike Campbell is all over the place and his Greek, German and Spanish accents all sound pretty much the same. Although I’m glad that I listened to an audiobook – listening rather than re-reading often helps me to like books I haven’t liked first time around – I can only recommend this particular audiobook to very tolerant listeners.

It’s hard for me to rate this novel. Hemingway’s prose and the innovative narrative style impress me and the autobiographical aspects of the novel interest me. Other aspects of the novel I find significantly less compelling. In addition, while I was intellectually engaged by Hemingway’s writing, I was not particularly moved by it. As important as the novel is as an example of modernist literature, I would’ve liked it better if I’d been able to respond to it on an emotional level. Consequently, the rating fits in at somewhere between 3 and 4 stars. My lovely friend Jemidar read this novel as I listened to it and I am, as always, glad to have shared the experience with her.

Hemingway'in en beğendiğim eseri. "Çanlar kimin için çalıyor" dahi bundan sonra gelir. Sıradışı bir anlatım .Romanı belki iki üç defa okumuşumdur ilerde tekrar okuyacagim kesin. Konu sadece sevgi aşk değil,insan ruhunun öylesine bir şekilde derinliğine gitmis ki sanki sizde bunu biliyormuş sunuz gibi bir izlenim veriyor. Çok yoğun bir duygusallik var ama drama kaçmayan zekanın birleştiği bir şey insana şakır şakır gözyaşlari döktüren bir duygusallık değil sadece sarsıyor bir şekilde. Yinede nedense romanı okuduğumda hep aklıma "Casablanca" filmi gelir. Alakası olmasa dahi bir şekilde çağrışım yapmıştır bana. Belki de roman daki kahramanı (Bogart)Filmin kahramanı ile özdeşleştirdim:) kesinlikle herkese tavsiye edecegim bir eser.

Souvenirs.. C'est ce que j'avais laissé dans ma mémoire, et j'aurais du m'arrêter ici, mais cela aurait été, en quelque sorte, incohérent.
J'ai lu " Fiesta", il y a 30 ans, et je ne me souviens pas que d'une longue lueur d'espoirs, de déceptions, de beaucoup d'alcool, mais surtout, d'un sentiment de frustration permanente. Des personnages qui essaient de se projeter dans le présent, mais qui sont fortement ancrés dans leur passé.

Aujourd'hui, en relisant le volume, j'avais la même image, beaucoup plus proche de celle d'une perpétuation de la futilité et de l'absurdité de certaines vies, qui voudraient être rose, mais en fin de compte, elles ne sont pas du tout comme ça.
Le roman de Hemingway est, à la base, sur la guerre, mais, grâce au style, nous voyons une autre guerre, - celle d'esprit contre l'âme, dans laquelle la victoire n'appartient ni à l'un, ni à l'autre.
Le dialogue final m'a fait penser à " Casablanca" de Curtiz ...Il a la même charge émotionnelle, d'une révélation tardive.
C'est peut-être pour ça que toute cette histoire m'a reanimé des souvenirs.

I gave this one star because I wasn't old enough to drink or really enjoy much of anything when I first read it, and I haven't read it again since.

I'm almost certain I'd still hate it though.

“Funny,” Brett said. “How one doesn’t mind the blood.” (p. 211)

Fifth or sixth reading. This is one of the essential books of life. It never fails. It possesses—for the right reader—an enormity of narrative pleasure and it grips from the very first line. Its storytelling is so exhilarating that one gets goosebumps.

Jake Barnes, our narrator, fought in The Great War for Italy (1914-18) when he was injured. Recuperating in the hospital he meets and falls in love with Lady Brett, a nurse. Later on, in Paris, where he works as a journalist, he runs into Brett again. Their relationship is now pure torture. Their chemistry is thermonuclear — she says Jake’s touch turns her to jelly and his love for her is beyond question — but sexual intimacy is impossible. Jake’s particular agony now, which he suffers in silence, is to standby while Brett sleeps with other men.

The passage at the Paris nightclub with the gay boys doesn’t bother me as it used to. Jake knows he’s being unreasonable. The queers, with whom Brett arrives at the club, have working penises and choose not to use them on her. To a man made impotent by war, a young man in love with her, their preference must seem like a kind of madness. Moreover, there may be a fear on his part that he’s becoming like them. That is, indifferent to female sexuality. He’s not, of course, not emotionally.

Now we’ve left Paris, taking the train to Bayonne. Then in an open car up the dusty roads to the plateau and Pamplona. From here Jake and Bill go to Burguete to do some fly fishing while Robert Cohn returns to San Sebastián to await Brett and fiancé, Mike. The trip on the bus to Burguete—through the stark countryside while Jake and Bill drink wine with the Basques—dazzles, lifts one’s spirits. The fishing sequences on the Irati River are beautifully spartan. Then after five days the fishermen are back in Pamplona. Mike and Brett and Cohn are about to complete the five-some.

So now we’ve got three men together in Pamplona who love Brett, two of whom have slept with her: Jake, Mike and Robert Cohn. Jake sadly can have nothing more to do with her, though they remain close. Cohn is like a child, always staring at her, and the bankrupt fiance, Mike, doesn’t like it. They all go to watch the bulls arrive at the ring. Steers are brought in to “calm” the bulls. This usually ends with a steer or two being gored. That’s when Mike refers to Cohn as a steer for the mute worshiping manner in which he follows Brett around.

“I would’ve thought you’d love being a steer, Robert."

“What do you mean, Mike?”

“They lead such a quiet life. They never say anything and they’re always hanging about so.”

We were embarrassed. Bill laughed. Robert Cohn was angry. Mike went on talking.

“I should think you’d love it. You’d never have to say a word. Come on, Robert. Do say something. Don’t just sit there.”

“I said something, Mike. Don’t you remember? About the steers.”

“Oh, say something more. Say something funny. Can’t you see we’re all having a good time here?”

“Come off it, Michael. You’re drunk,” Brett said.

“I’m not drunk. I’m quite serious. Is Robert Cohn going to follow Brett around like a steer all the time?”

“Shut up, Michael. Try and show a little breeding.”

“Breeding be damned. Who has any breeding, anyway, except the bulls? Aren’t the bulls lovely? . . . Why don’t you say something, Robert? Don’t just sit there like a bloody funeral. What if Brett did sleep with you? She’s slept with lots of better people than you.“

“Shut up,” Cohn said. He stood up. “Shut up, Mike.”

“Oh, don’t stand up and act as though you were going to hit me. That won’t make any difference to me. Tell me, Robert. Why do you follow Brett around like a poor bloody steer? Don’t you know you’re not wanted?” (p. 141-142)

It occurs to the reader just how painful this exchange must be for Jake, even though he doesn’t mention it. Hemingway was a master of omission, of not talking about the elephant in the room. I’ve read and reread this passage and every time it surprises me anew. In some ways Jake is like a steer, too, but he doesn’t moon and fawn. Instead he’s very stoic, tortured, yes, but good at not seeming so, good at joining in the party.

Then the fiesta “explodes” with two rockets over the main square and the peasants, who until then have been drinking quietly in the outer town, come rushing into the main square. They’re singing riau riau music and dancing. “The square solid with people, those in the centre all dancing.” (p. 159) The peasants dance about Brett as if she were some kind of Madonna. Everyone is ushered into a wine shop; some peasant women are wearing necklaces of garlic and one is hung about Brett’s neck. These are among the most moving moments in the book for the author captures the wonderful local manners with their astonishing air of friendliness and formality. The description is spare yet rich in detail.

The end is a knockout. Jake is held in odium because he has allowed the bullfight to be compromised. Whereas before, Jake and the hotel owner, Montoya, saw each other as fellow aficionados, now Jake is seen not just as a disappointment, but as a corrupter of the bullfight. There is much I’m not touching on here. Please read it.

When I think "work of classic literature from 1926 written by the kinda old white guy whose books single-handedly populate the syllabi of the cool English teachers the freshman girls have crushes on," I don't assume I will pick that novel up, be unable to put it down, finish it extremely quickly, and give it almost five stars.

(Also, as a former member of the aforementioned freshman girls, I'm qualified to make that assertion.)

Sometimes, people who don't rate books critically look at the ratings of myself or others like me and say, "Pick books you'll actually like, then." Or, "Someone doesn't know how to decide what to read."

And in response to them I say: to the former - I'm trying, and to the latter - correct.

I never know what I'll like, because I like everything and nothing. I have been known to read in every genre and to be disappointed by the ones I read most. I have tried picking up authors I've always liked to be treated to a garbage fire, and authors I've despised have written some of my yearly favorites. When it comes to reading I have learned to live and let live and hope for the best.

Which is why I should have picked this up sooner.

I owned this book for 6 years and never even considered picking it up. I assumed I wouldn't like it, but I picked it up to be delighted by the following:
- beautiful, clean writing
- a plot I was invested in
- characters who interested me from the first page to the last, from our protagonist to every supporting character

There were things I have historically hated reading about (bullfighting) that this time I found enjoyable. There were tropes I've always detested (cheating and affairs and what have you) that didn't bother me in the least. There were clichés of the time (melancholy men and the women whose love they feel entitled to) done differently enough to be a pleasure.

I'm still in a state of disbelief.

Bottom line: This is my first Ernest Hemingway book, but baby, it won't be my last!!!

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pre-review

i've owned this book for six years and i've meant to read it for even longer and never once in all that time did i expect to like it this much.

review to come / 4.5 stars

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currently-reading updates

feeling: scholarly.

clear ur sh*t book 40
quest 19: a book you forgot you owned

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tbr review

i've never read an ernest hemingway book, but i have had two of them on my owned tbr for six years. so that's kind of the same thing

“Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?"
"Yes, every once in a while."
"Do you know that in abou thirty- five more years we'll be dead?"
"What the hell, Robert," I said. "What the hell."
"I'm serious."
"It's one thig I don't worry about," I said.
"You ought to."
"I've had plenty to worry about one time or other. I'm through worrying."
"Well, I want to go to South America."
"Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn't make any difference. I've tried all that. You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There's nothing to that."
"But you've never been to South America."
"South America hell! If you went there the way you feel now it would be exactly the same. This is a good town. Why don't you start living your life in Paris?”

This is probably the trendiest novel from Ernest Hemingway. It was published one year after The Great Gatsby. It happens in Paris and Spain. It is about 'the lost generation'. Even though he hated those people, he was one of them.

He is the protagonist of this debut novel, even if the opening sentence is about Robert Cohn. He hated the real guy or his wife so much that he pretended to write a book about him, only to reduce him to the status of a secondary character, of course, that only after Hemingway shared his secrets with the world. :))

"I could picture it. I have a rotten habit of picturing the bedroom scenes of my friends."

Hemingway's reputation is unfortunately true. It's the reason people don't want writers as friends because they will write about your problems. At least, Hemingway also writes about his problems in this one, but I'm still unconvinced about it.

I think he made the right decision of leaving this world behind because he couldn't compete with Fitzgerald. His sensibilities are more about fishing and bullfighting, but you don't start a novel in Paris for that.