Fighting Vainly the Old Ennui

Back when I was enrolled in the obligatory American literature class in high school, we read Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises.

It bored me to tears. I had no idea why I was reading a whole bunch of boring conversations between boring people.

Now, it is only fair to note that when I was in high school, my literary tastes were unrefined. Well, that is putting it mildly; I had no taste. So, my high school reaction to books is generally not even remotely accurate. But, in this case, I was actually not too far off. This novel really is a record of a bunch of boring conversations between boring people. That, as my older self realizes, is exactly the point.

A bunch of Americans living in Paris after War War I spend all their time roaming around bars, pretending to both work and sleep when they aren’t at the bar. They drink a lot. They talk about drinking even more which apparently makes them thirsty so they have another drink. They swap meaningless gossip. They trade insults, which every now and then results in a drunken brawl. They pout when things don’t go their way, which since they have no way, is all the time. There is, of course, a girl. Everyone likes Brett. So, they fight over her too. She doesn’t mind much. One might suspect she encourages it. Then, because they are bored, one day they all head down to Spain to, you know, drink and have more boring conversations.

There are two things that break up this pattern. First, there is the closest thing to a genuine love story in the whole novel. The narrator, Jake, and the girl, Brett, love one another. They have loved one another for years. Yet, they cannot run off into the sunset and live happily ever after. Why not? Jake’s war injury. The nature of this injury is never explicitly stated, so I suspect I totally missed it in high school. It’s hard to imagine we actually talked about it in class. Jake, you see, is impotent. Symbolism Alert!

I’d love to rewind and go back to see those discussions in my high school class which read this book. Did we really skip over the single most important detail in this novel, the detail which makes the book something other than boring people having boring conversations? Or did we discuss it, and somehow I forgot all about what must have been the most risqué conversation we ever had in an actual class in my high school? I have no idea.

Then we get to the other part of the novel which rises above all those deliberately boring conversations. Bull-fighting. While in Spain, our something-less-than-merry band goes to watch the bullfighting. Brett, in particular, is enraptured by the bull-fighting, and in particular the young bull-fighter so attractive that he is guaranteed to make every young heart swoon.

When Hemingway comes to write about the bulls, the prose noticeably shifts. Instead of the lazy, boring conversations of the bar, we get vivacious descriptions of bulls charging. The bulls are full of life, surging and thrusting their horns. The bullfighters do a delicate dance of teasing the bull just enough to get it to charge but then at the last minute dancing away, frustrating the bull, so the bull charges again with even greater fervor only to be frustrated again and again and again as the tension builds and builds and builds. In the end, the bull is slain by the bullfighter and falls limply to the ground. Yeah, if you don’t blush when reading Hemingway’s descriptions of the bullfights you aren’t paying attention. As Brett becomes increasingly excited, as Jake watches the bullfights with a sense of longing, if you don’t notice what is happening, you really aren’t paying attention. Way beyond symbolism alert.

We had that disturbed emotional feeling that comes after a bull-fight, and that feeling of elation that comes after a good bull-fight.

I found that quote, by the way, simply by opening the book to a random page in the section about Spain. I had no idea what was going on in this book when I read it in high school. None.

Which raises the question: why do people assume that every Great Book is equally good to use in high school English classes? In what world is The Sun Also Rises the best book to give to an 11th grade class? Even if you want to use Hemingway in high school, this is not the book to use. The Old Man and the Sea works vastly better with high school students. It has themes a 16 year old could appreciate. What 16 year old needs to reflect on the impotence of middle age when dreams have died and there is no life to sustain a day-to-day existence? What 17 year old needs a primer on the power of, ahem, bull-fighting to recapture a lost youth?

The Sun Also Rises and the Sun Goes Down. One generation ends and another begins. What abides? The old ennui. Decades after Hemingway, Frank Sinatra, the King of Cool, sang about it. Decades after Sinatra, Kurt Cobain sang about it. Decades after Cobain, you are reading a blog post about a book about bored people having boring conversations. The Earth abides. Hemingway and the Preacher have spoken.

Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher,
vanity of vanities! All is vanity.
What does man gain by all the toil
at which he toils under the sun?
A generation goes, and a generation comes,
but the earth remains forever.
The sun rises, and the sun goes down,
and hastens to the place where it rises.
The wind blows to the south
and goes around to the north;
around and around goes the wind,
and on its circuits the wind returns.
All streams run to the sea,
but the sea is not full;
to the place where the streams flow,
there they flow again.
All things are full of weariness;
a man cannot utter it;
the eye is not satisfied with seeing,
nor the ear filled with hearing.
What has been is what will be,
and what has been done is what will be done,
and there is nothing new under the sun.
Is there a thing of which it is said,
“See, this is new”?
It has been already
in the ages before us.
There is no remembrance of former things,
nor will there be any remembrance
of later things yet to be
among those who come after.

Hemingway’s Blog

I finished reading Ernest Hemingway’s blog. 

Now that I think about it, that is an odd sentence.  How do you finish reading a blog? 

The very idea implies that there will be no more entries.  But how can one be sure? 

I finished reading Ernest Hemingway’s blog.  Now that I think about it, that is an odd sentence.  How do you finish reading a blog?  The very idea implies that there will be no more entries.  But how can one be sure? 

In Hemingway’s case, it is obvious.  He is dead and to the best of my knowledge, despite the fabulous technological innovations in human history, nobody has yet invented the ability to do posthumous blogging. 

Then again, what if someone took up the Mantle of the Dead Person and continued the blog?  Is it then the same blog or a different blog?  Curious.  Maybe blogs can’t really end. 

Nevertheless, I did finish reading Hemingway’s blog, which I can say, despite the philosophical quandary above, because in the present case the blog in question is really just a blog in substance, not form. 

A Moveable Feast is actually a book (note the clever plot twist in this here blog post!) in which Hemingway, in a series of short anecdotes, relates his life (or more properly, what he is pretending to be his life (more about that anon)), in Paris in the early 20th century. 

Having read this book, I am perfectly confident in saying that if blogs had existed in the 1920s, Hemingway would have been a blogger. 

This book has the same formula as a decent blog: one part tedium, one part narcissistic self-promotion, one part interesting aside.  (Yes, Dear Reader, I hear your complaint that the present blog has only the first two components). 

The tedium of Hemingway’s book arises from the fact that most of the 20 entries in this book are dull.  Hemingway was poor and hobnobbed with lots of famous people and had mindless conversations with said famous people.  Yawn. 

The narcissistic self-promotion comes from the fact that it is hard to believe this is even remotely an accurate portrayal of either Hemingway’s life at the time or the assorted conversations; it’s all too cute to be real. 

As for the interesting asides?  Hmmm.  Maybe I was being generous.  I can’t remember any right now.  Which makes me wonder—perhaps the interesting asides aren’t really there at all. 

Hemingway writes well.  (Understatement Award.)  I enjoy reading Hemingway, and so I enjoyed reading his prose in this book. 

But, if I think back over all the Hemingway books and stories I have read, this is easily the worst. 

Now that is saying quite a lot, actually. If something akin to A Moveable Feast was the worst thing ever published under your name, you would be doing very well indeed. 

If this is right, then the sole virtue of this book, and the reason you might want to read it someday, is the joy in rolling along with Hemingway in a book akin to hearing someone telling tall tales round a campfire. 

I suppose there is another reason people read this book—fascination with celebrity. 

The whole conceit of the book is that Hemingway is repeatedly saying (in effect): “Hey look!  I am having a perfectly meaningless conversation with another really famous person.  Don’t you wish you were me sitting around talking with famous people?  Don’t you wish that the famous people would invite you into their homes for a conversation?  Don’t you wish you were me?” 

Alas, I have never been enamored with celebrity. When asked that parlor game question, “With which celebrity would you most want to have lunch?”  I always draw a blank.  I have no idea.  I can’t think of any famous person with whom I would be excited to dine simply for the sake of saying I was able to dine with them.  (Is that odd?  I really don’t know.)

There was one part of the book which did leave me wondering.  Hemingway writes:

It was a very simple story called “Out of Season” and I had omitted the real end of it which was that the old man hanged himself.  This was omitted on my new theory that you could omit anything if you knew that you omitted and the omitted part would strengthen the story and make people feel something more than they understood.

A curious theory.  Does it apply to blog posts too? 

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