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This is the only Hemingway I like. Yes, I commit that blasphemy of not liking His Holiness. Sorry, y'all. Just hate his prose style, and I hate the direction that he's led a lot of writers in. His writing style is the polar opposite of the writing style that I love, which is full and descriptive, a tradition that descended out of poetry. When novels were still looked down upon and poetry was the way to be really respected. The writers who made that not true anymore, but still had the training and the sensibility.

Hemingway is not that. Obviously that's why he's famous. But it's not to my taste. Except in this book. The writing is a bit less harsh here, and the subject and location I think is interesting by definition. The characters are tragic in a way that reminds me of grand operas, though the writing would not suggest them as such. I was really very seduced by this book, against my will. I didn't even like A Moveable Feast that much, and I was going to Paris at the time. (Though the Fitzgerald section is pretty fun.) This book really appeals to me. I will probably read it again at some point, actually.

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

I read this book for the first time my sophomore year of highschool, and I decided it was time to revisit it. This one started off slow for me. Hemingway's narrative at the beginning of the story is quite fragmented and hard to follow at times - especially with new characters being frequently introduced. However, as the story proceeded, the narrative, and I believe the main character, regained some clarity and began to make more sense. If you read this one, my advice is just to stick it out through the first 50 pages, and then things become more clear. This story truly entranced me. Each character is vitally flawed, and as a group they bring out the worst in each other. I've never read a novel in which *all* of the characters are so heavily flawed, but this one certainly checked that off the list. Based on what I read in the preface, this was in all likelihood Hemingway's attempt to capture the post war generation's struggles. This novel broke my heart in a lot of ways. Watching these characters make circumstances worse and worse for themselves was trying, but Hemingway does this to beg the question: what do they have to lose? In a generation scarred by war, what more can they lose? Overall, this book, entrancing and incredibly well written, was a sobering reminder of what happens when we let our grip on out personal sense of humanity slip. Another thing I particularly loved about this one were the multiple settings, between Paris and Pamplona, this novel is full of breathtaking locations and descriptions. I really enjoyed this one, and would recommend to anyone, but having some experience with classic literature would help with this one.

She Aches Just like a Woman

I’ll start off with something that I thought was interesting (hint: it borders on being annoying). For the first 75 pages, characters move in and out of this book with such swiftness and with no mention of physical description or notable characteristics, it mimics the effect of being at a really crowded party where you meet face after face, name after name and you have no time to process who is who, why they are significant and if you should even bother to remember them; so at the very least, the book is able to imitate the “big-party-greeting” that seems to permeate throughout the lives of the characters, but this only goes so far; that section is one long boring party that requires the minimum amount of your attention to understand what all these vapid, vacuous people are doing and what their current life drama is all about. Sure, there might be a great deal of interesting people moving in and out of your living room, but everyone is so focused on getting plastered drunk (on absinthe mind you), that no one cares about anything but what the most superficial impression of a person can yield.

Whoo, my attempt at a complement turns into a nasty criticism and my struggle to appreciate Hemingway continues.

The Iceberg Theory. Ya’ll know it. It doesn’t bear repeating but I will anyway. The gist of it is, is that in order to involve the reader as the author should, he must properly convey the depth of human emotion by giving the most minute of details, so that the full depth of a scene is communicated implicitly not explicitly. The theory revolves around the idea that feelings unspoken, are more profound than feelings spoken. And up until this point, I couldn’t agree with Hemingway more. How many times can you read a story that gives it all away? What’s the point of feeling the emotion of a story, if we have to be reminded that “John is feeling sad. John cried”. It freezes the drama; the characters go stiff. Yet, I couldn’t disagree more with Hemingway’s execution of the iceberg theory. If words are to allude to a much deeper reservoir of meaning, then shouldn’t each word be dense, double-entendréd and deeply consequential? I am reminded time and time again, that there is a wrong way to take this theory. Plus I am overcome with the feeling that all of poetry operates on this same principle, yet Hemingway writes the most dull and framework prose I’ve ever read. How could someone fully embrace the Iceberg Theory and then write a line like: n  

“It seemed like a nice cathedral, nice and dim, like Spanish churches”?

n A few lines earlier we were told that they are in Spain. So Hemingway writes that the nice churches located in Spain are like nice Spanish churches. Ugh.

Then there are literal chunks of this book that scream look at me! Look how much I researched for this novel!, that contain descriptions making an american tourist of France's handbook seem like a high-octane thrill ride: n  

“We came unto the Rue du Pot de Fer and followed it along until it brought us to the rigid north and south of the Rue Saint 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 Mountparnasse, 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.”

n This is not what I read fiction for.

There could be a lot of emotional depth coursing underneath all this banal prose, but it is all lost on me. I know that many people find this book to be their favorite of Hemingway, but without much action, where is the pleasure? Which I posit to be Hemingway’s biggest strength. All the bull-fights and the corriendo de los torros were quite strong; they were the only things worthwhile, but there is still something that bothered me; why wasn’t the heroic and idealized Pedro Romero killed? Wouldn’t that have been so much more interesting/tragic/thematically significant in light of Hemingway’s oft used “failed masculinity”, if Pedro Romero had been killed? He is the ultimate symbol of macho libido; wouldn’t that have played so well into a book about an impotent man? But instead we’re told that a Vicente Girones died; who the fuck is that? Why do I even care? It’s all this meaningless minutia of names and places, that fall completely flat and hardly engage me as a reader. I could learn a lot from Hemingway about how to properly write brutal violence or any scene where men face tough adversity. Heck, even the fishing trip is one of the more exciting parts of this book. Hemingway’s strengths are on beautiful display in For Whom the Bell Tolls. This is because the book is set during the Spanish Civil War. I even enjoyed the imitation Castilian Spanish, and needlessly translated dialogue; I felt that Hemingway had achieved a tone that befit the old-time feel of its characters and story, but without much of anything happening in The Sun Also Rises, I can’t say that this would be worth your time.

One last thing, to tie in the review’s title. I couldn’t stand the main female character. Like not even for a few pages. I started to loath her so much, that I started to wonder is this the point?. Now, enough ink has been spilled over Papa Hemingway’s possible sexist leanings, but this is one despicable cock-tease of a female protagonist. Whoever inspired him to feature such a lady to be the only female character in the entire book must have given Hemingway’s heart quite the roller coaster ride. That being said, this book was written in the 20’s. And I have to maintain my rule of thumb that anything written before 1975 containing flagrant sexism or racism must be given a cultural pass. It’s messed up, I know. But I must take the fact that there is a racial slur on every other page of this book with a grain of salt.

As I read this review over, it really seems like I hated this book. Well I did. But there were parts that were great.

So here’s the thing.

I will admit that I’m not one who takes to plot very often. I tend to err on the side of beautiful writing, even if it’s for the sake of beautiful writing. I am willing to admit, at any time, that Hemingway is just not for me. But I’m struggling to understand how Hemingway could be for anyone.

I am always open to having my mind changed. That is what I love about this site. So please, make your case for the Papa! I want to hear why I’m wrong. Bring it on!

Because I want to love Hemingway. I really do.

p.s. Goodreads wouldn't let me post my real recommendation.
It should say "I would recommend to: Men who enjoy their women like their bull-fights, wild, violent and leaving a gaping hole where your heart used to be"

n  "'The Sun Also Rises' is about bullfighting, bullslinging and bullshit."n
Zelda Fitzgerald

[[3.4 stars]]

2d from left is British socialite Duff Twysden (on whom "Lady Brett Ashley" was based), and next to her is Hadley Richardson, Hemingway's 1st wife

On my mission over the past 8 years to read all "classics," this one strikes me the least.

The novel is apparently held in high esteem now for Hemingway's style than for the story's substance, which is a bit dated by its reliance on the people, places and things of the mid-1920s. As to the style, it's his short sentences with little punctuation that create a collage of visuals, and his mastery in the quasi-cinematic techniques of cutting quickly from one scene to the next in a seamless blend. The story is known for drawing the most vivid picture of American and British expatriates living in Paris during the 20s, and played a huge part in Americans' romanticization of the place and era. As a side note, its portrayal of Lady Brett Ashley (a twice-divorced, liberated lady) created a fad for short hairdos for 1920s American females. And, Hemingway was applauded for creating such a feminist leading lady.



The novel, a roman à clef based on the lives of Hemingway and a few of his friends, follows protagonist Jake, a vet rendered impotent by a war injury, and his writer/artiste/riche set of pals, one of whom is female, Lady Brett Ashley. They hang out in open Parisian nightclubs, Jake and a buddy go fishing, and then all head to Pamplona, attend the bullfights, drink and generally make merry. Jake is in love with Brett Ashley; yet, he cannot fulfill her needs due to his impotence. Robert Cohn, a former boxer turned writer, is also in love with Lady Brett, yet all in their group detest Cohn, who is Jewish (the novel could be considered anti-Semitic).* Lady Brett (a new feminist of the 1920s) is attracted to and seduces the young stud bullfighter, who is half her age.



I was unaffected by this novel, except to feel empathy for Jake for his impotence and inability to consummate his love and a bit of anger for the general mistreatment of Cohn.


Streets of Pamplona prior to Annual Running of the Bulls

Hemingway, a real man's man, expressed angst about writing Jake's character as "less than a man," that is, because of his impotence he was unable to have consummate his love for Lady Brett. Some have speculated that one reason Hemingway killed himself was because he was severely depressed due to his age-related impotence. Obviously, this speculation discounts any other sources, such as alcohol, of Hemingway's depression which he had apparently suffered for years.



I like Hemingway's clear, concise writing style. Twenty years ago, I would have argued with you that Hemingway was the best writer of all time. That was the me who romanticized the life of a writer living in Paris, covering the Spanish Civil War, going to Africa and settling in his later years in Key West, the writer who wrote so the common man could understand what he was saying without constantly stopping to go to the dictionary (compare, e.g., Wm. Faulkner and Absalom, Absalom!; Cormac McCarthy and Suttree). This, the revered writer who, in response to Faulkner's criticism that he's "never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary," cooly declared:

Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words? He thinks I don't know the ten-dollar words. I know them all right. But there are older and simpler and better words, and those are the ones I use.

*Hemingway was criticized as anti-Semitic for portraying the only Jewish character in such a negative light.

That summer of 1969, the experience of reading this book on my friend Doug’s recommendation was a peaceful hiatus from collegiate life.

Doug worked at a nearby swimming pool as a lifeguard, and I was immersed in reading up extensively for my Eng Lit degree.

Larry, across the street from Doug, would share his Yamaha motorbike seat with me in the evenings for long rides, while Doug zipped around closer to home on his Honda 50 scooter.

It was a sun-filled summer, perfect for a Hemingway novel in the same vein.

I loved it and could relate.

Its hero, Jake, was a lot like me. Uncompromisingly straight in orientation, we both fell victim to a private Daemon.

And Jake drinks.

Drinks to forget the war injury that has driven a wedge between him and his ladylove Brett. So they usually end up the evenings getting a little happy.

Oh, so you say the sun also rises? Dang, missed it again.

The real problem with Jake - and his great creator Hemingway - is that it’s impossible for him to forget.

But you gotta deal with it!

And balancing homophobia with the blurred lines of vision afforded by drink always backfires.

If you blur those lines they’re gonna bite you back. Happened to me, too, the year after I read this. Always keep one eye open.

Hemingway didn’t even believe in precautions.

When he died in the JFK Era there was new hope in the air.

But Hemingway didn’t feel it.

All he felt were his demons.

Folks, never make a habit of drowning your demons. For your self pity will then give them strength.

DEAL with them now -

BEFORE they roar back, seeking revenge.

My feelings haven't changed since my last re-read of The Sun Also Rises (my earlier review is below). I'm still amazed at how fully the characters come alive on the page! I don't think The Sun Also Rises is for everyone; however, nearly from beginning to end, I'm engaged in the story.

Just finished a re-read of The Sun Also Rises (my favorite Hemingway book-last read in 2014). I didn’t provide a review at the time so I thought I would (try to) explain why this book speaks to me. First, it is deceptively easy to fall into with its short sentences and simple language. Nothing is forced. However, it is the mood Hemingway creates in this novel which really engages me. Perhaps that says as much about me as it does about the novel. The appeal is not so much about the story; it is how the characters move through the scenes with a sense that nothing can touch them (while conversely, they can’t really touch or be important to anyone else).

This exemplifies that lack of hope in the so-called ‘lost generation,’ that feeling that nothing you do will make a difference. The Sun Also Rises is not a feel-good book, but it allows you to re-evaluate people as social animals who constantly struggle and fail (and maybe once in a while succeed) in forging meaningful relationships. In some ways, the carefree expat life of the characters seems idyllic; however, Hemingway also makes you feel that slipping into this existence (even with its charms) might make you want to spit at the world. The Sun Also Rises captures a historical moment, perhaps not just of the lost generation, but also of future generations uncertain of their place in the world.

What I learned from this book (in no particular order):

1.tJews are stubborn.

2.tBeing a Jew in Princeton sucks.

3.tBeing impotent sucks, especially if you are in love with a beautiful woman.

4.tA beautiful woman is built with curves like the hull of a racing boat. Women make swell friends.

5.tIf you suffer from domestic abuse, the best way to work it out is by going through as many men as possible in the shortest time, and then discard them like wet tissues once you’re done --- if you happen to be pretty enough to attract scores of them, that is.

6.tThe best way to work out existential angst is to drink your way through France and Spain.

7.tThe Left Bank sucks. Being an expat sucks.

8.tSpain sucks, except for the bullfighting. Bullfights are swell.

9.tNobody ever lives their life all the way up except bullfighters. Bulls have no balls.

10.tPeople who run with the bulls are suckers.


Other Random Observations

No. of times the word “swell” is used: 13

No. of alcohol units consumed by the protagonist: Dunno. Too tight to count. Hic.


Hemingway might have perfectly captured the Lost Generation’s times, but he also succeeded in inducing a profound ennui in me, especially during the long stretches in which the characters (none who is terribly interesting to begin with) do nothing except drink (“I’m a little tight you know. Amazing, isn’t it? Did you see my nose?”) and flirt with each other. These passages are tediously repetitive, and the effect is like being trapped in a Left Bank café with a bunch of casual acquaintances who insist on regaling you with boring anecdotes from their boozy Spain road trip. After a while, your eyes start to glaze and your attention wanders: you begin to take in the Belle Epogue interior, the cute waiter, the way the afternoon sun casts interesting patterns on the white tablecloth --- anything that is more interesting than the dull main narrative. I just didn’t care for any of them, and that Brett woman is a biatch. Why is everyone so desperately in love with her? They told me that her former husband slept with a gun under his pillow, but who is she really? And I wish that everyone would stop whining and being glib for a while so that they can tell me more about that wonderful Basque country. But no, they always return to these tedious, unaffecting love triangles.

You guys are the Lost Generation indeed.

I was sitting on the patio of a bar in Key West Florida. It was August, it was hot. The bar was on the beach where there was lots of sand and water. In the water I saw dolphins and waves. The dolphins jumped and the waves waved.

My glass was empty. The waiter walked up to my table. “More absinthe miss?” He asked. “No, I better not. *burp*” I put my hand over my glass “I read somewhere that it can cause hallucinations and nightmares. Just some ice water please.” I said. He put an empty glass in front of me, tipped his picture of water over my glass until it was full, at that time he stopped pouring.

A man I did not know walked up to my table and said to the waiter “No one in Key West is to stop drinking alcohol while they are conscious, you know the rules Manuel! Don’t make me repeat myself; did you hear me? Don’t make me repeat myself, it’s annoying.” Manuel rolled his eyes.

“I’ll drink to that.” I said and held up my glass of ice water to the stranger, then put it to my lips and drank. It was cold. I set it back down on the table. “I just finished a book where everyone repeated themselves……drove me to drink!”

“Sorry Mr. Hemingway” said Manuel “she said she wanted ice water, so that’s what I gave her”. A cat ran by, it was fast. “Meow” it said. It was orange. “But you know the rules Manuel, you know the rules.” Repeated Mr. Hemingway “I know the rules Mr. Hemingway, how could I not? You tend to repeat yourself constantly, it must be all the absinthe…..” muttered Manuel.

“What did you say Manuel?” Asked Mr. Hemingway “Nothing” said Manuel. “Bring the lady some Champagne right away!” said Mr. Hemingway. Manuel walked away towards the kitchen.

“Who are you?” I asked the man I did not know. “Hemingway, you wouldn't happen to be related to the writer would you? His book The Sun Also Rises was the book I was just referring to; I don’t remember ever being quite so bored. On the bright side, I think it did wonders for my blood pressure.” I said.

Dressed in worn khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt with one too many colors, he stood there at my table and squinted at me, sweat rolling down the sides of his red face and into his gray beard. It was hot. He set his drink down on the table, hard, and pulled out a chair and sat down. “May I sit?” he asked as he put his dirty bare feet up on the table and tipped the chair back. “Sure, you’re already in the chair. Besides I don’t think it will be long before you fall on your ass.” I said, I drank some water, it was cold. “Language! I’m Ernest Hemingway the guy who wrote that boring book” he put his feet on the ground and the chair dropped down with a bang. He put his right hand out to shake mine. I stared at it for a while then took it.

“Stephanie. Hey, I don’t want to come across as insensitive but aren't you dead?” I asked “Really? I don’t feel dead….at least I don’t think I am.” Said the not dead Ernest “Damn! Absinthe lives up to it's reputation." I said and smacked the left side of my head with my left hand. My head was hard.

“Manuel!! Where’s that champagne?" I shouted in a panic. “So” Ernest picked up his drink and drank the whole thing in one gulp. “I am one of the greatest American writers, if not the greatest, everybody says so. And you…..” he paused and pointed his finger at me using the same hand that still held the glass, the melting ice clinked “you didn't like the Sun Also Rises?” he asked and set his glass down.

“I know, I heard the same thing, that you were one of the greatest American writers, so imagine my surprise when I didn't love it like the rest of the human race. In fact, I really didn't like it AT ALL! Please don’t hurt me.”

Manuel walked back to the table caring the bottle of Champagne and two glasses. He sat the glasses in front of us and went about the task of opening the bottle. “Thank god your back Manuel, I think I’m hallucinating. I hope champagne helps things normalize.” I said, the bottle said “pop.” “It won’t help because you are not hallucinating.” He said and poured the Champagne, he turned and walked off. I picked up the glass and drank. It was bubbly and cold.

“What else didn't you like about my book?” Asked Ernest “I’m really not comfortable telling you to your face, but, alright” I said “I found all the characters to be aimless, unlikable, drunkards that didn't have any idea what to with their lives but travel about the world constantly drunk….which doesn't sound all that bad on the surface, but it was not interesting.” I said “They were excruciatingly boring that I couldn't care enough about them to remember who was who.” I said “It felt like it would never end, but when it did end the only thing that I liked about it was the fact that it was finally over. No big payoff to make the boring book worth my time.” I sighed and finished off my Champagne, I poured myself and Ernest another glass.

“Wow. Sorry you hated it. I suppose you can’t please everyone.” He said. “I’ll buy you dinner to repay you for putting you through that.”

“That’s not necessary, but I could eat. I must bathe first.” I said. “Well sure, it is hot after all.” He said “Yes, I must bathe you understand? One cannot dine without bathing first, as you know, so you will have to wait until I bathe.”

“I must bathe. I must bathe. I. must. Bathe.” I said.

“Now you’re just making fun of me.” he said.

“Yup……I will make you suffer the way you made me suffer.” I smiled.

“Great. I’m looking forward to it.” Said not dead Ernest. We swayed to our feet, Ernest took my arm, we steadied ourselves and stumbled off into the sunset.

Also reviewed on shelfinflicted

It must be me. Ernest Hemingway is an esteemed author and The Sun Also Rises is one of his many books that gets very high ratings.

I decided to read this book because I will be hiking the 500 mile Camino de Santiago in Spain. Many pilgrims on the Camino refer to The Sun Also Rises in their memoirs due to the reference of the running of the bulls in Pamplona. I will be spending time in Pamplona and thought this book would give me insight into Spain and Pamplona.

The book seemed to meander and the use of the "n" word was jarring. It wasn't my cup of tea.

I encourage readers to read the many varied reviews about this book.

I found this novel a bit slow and not really having a plot did not help. Jake had a nasty injury in the war is in love with Brett an aristocrat lady and it is unrequited. He drinks, goes fishing in Spain for trout, drinks, goes to a fiesta in Pamplona and watches bull fights and drinks some more. In places it is lovely albeit somewhat over descriptive.

I feel I have to revisit this book again and think I missed the point of it. The characters after the Great War were struggling to feel and trying to hard not to feel. Brett sleeping with the men, jealousy, antisemitism and trying to make sense of the world in 1924.