The Sun Also Rises
Pages: 256 / Audiobook: 7 hrs 46 min
Published 2006 by Scribner (first published 1926)
The quintessential novel of the Lost Generation, The Sun Also Rises is one of Ernest Hemingway's masterpieces and a classic example of his spare but powerful writing style. A poignant look at the disillusionment and angst of the post-World War I generation, the novel introduces two of Hemingway's most unforgettable characters: Jake Barnes and Lady Brett Ashley. The story follows the flamboyant Brett and the hapless Jake as they journey from the wild nightlife of 1920s Paris to the brutal bullfighting rings of Spain with a motley group of expatriates. It is an age of moral bankruptcy, spiritual dissolution, unrealized love, and vanishing illusions. First published in 1926, The Sun Also Rises helped to establish Hemingway as one of the greatest writers of the twentieth century.
Novel Gobblers Perspective
Carol's Rating: ★★★★
So This Is Hemingway...
This was my first Hemingway book and I was engaged from the start.
I was amused by the characters, often disturbed by their behavior, and slightly confused that there didn't seem to be a plot to the story. There were no specific descriptions regarding the physical appearance yet the animated conversations gave a real sense of the characters personalities - flighty, self-absorbed, and with no real purpose other than seeking out the next superficial experience, which usually took place at the next bar or cafe. The characters didn't grow into better people and they were ceaselessly drunk and rude.
Yet I could not stop reading it. Why did I like this book so much?
I loved Hemingway's writing style; he conveys so much in so few words. He gives powerful, short descriptions of surroundings and emotions. Even though the characters were rather awful people, I found their banter to be very entertaining. I particularly liked Bill and his discussions about "utilizing" things (often bottles of alcohol) and Brett, so dramatically stating things like, "Oh, please let's not talk about it" and yet she is the only one that continues to "talk about it". There is a lot of symbolism in the story that offers insight and depth to the otherwise aloof characters, but you have to pay attention to pick up on it. I didn't at first and thought the entire story was pretty shallow. Then in contemplation and discussion I began to understand the symbols and was taken aback at how clever Hemingway's writing was. In the end I loved the story and now realize why Hemingway is known as one of the greatest writers of the 20th century.
Catherine's Rating: ★★★★
I was surprised to find that this book reminds me of Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby," although I suppose it shouldn't have because the two books were written at nearly the same time by men who were friends. You really get the feel of this "Lost Generation" not really sure of their place in the world. The spare details of the dialog always make you feel as if you walked in midway on a conversation of other people and missed the background and details -- but that is what makes the book more lifelike than many books that over-explain everything for you. With this novel, you really feel like you are sitting there with the characters as they truly are (which is drunk most of the time, so that was a bit tiresome).
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'Everybody Behaves Badly': The Backstory To 'The Sun Also Rises'
NPR.org | June 4, 20167:46 AM ET
The true story of Ernest Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises is told in Lesley Blume's book, Everybody Behaves Badly. She talks to NPR's Scott Simon about what made Hemingway's book such a breakthrough.
Earnest Hemingway's "The Sun Also Rises" has never been out of print since it was published in 1926 and is universally acclaimed a masterpiece. A few Americans and British ex-pats take a trip to Spain to see the bullfights. They spend the road trip getting drunk, seeing pointless gore, sleeping with and turning on each other to become symbols of what Hemingway's friend Gertrude Stein christened the lost generation that found no meaning in life after the mass losses of World War I.
It's the novel that made Ernest Hemingway a huge literary force, admired, mocked and imitated to this day. But the characters he brought to life were already alive - people close to Hemingway who made that trip to Spain just the year before. Lesley M. M. Blume, a contributor to Vanity Fair, Vogue and The Wall Street Journal, has written the story of the actual trip that led to the literary one - "Everybody Behaves Badly: The True Story Behind Hemingway's Masterpiece The Sun Also Rises."
Listen to the Interview or Get the Transcript
The True Story of the Booze, Bullfights, and Brawls That Inspired Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises
Ernest Hemingway’s debut novel gave a voice to the Lost Generation—often by lifting it directly from his affluent expat circle in post-war Paris. A new book by Lesley M. M. Blume recounts the scandalous trip to Pamplona that inspired Jake Barnes, Lady Brett Ashley, Robert Cohn, and the characters from literature’s greatest roman à clef.
BY LESLEY M. M. BLUME | VANITY FAIR | MAY 12, 2016 3:00 PM
In the middle of June 1925, Ernest Hemingway sat down to write. He pulled out a stenographer’s notebook, otherwise used for list-making. The back contained a rundown of letters he “must write”; intended recipients included Ezra Pound—a mentor of his—and his Aunt Grace. Also scribbled there: a list of stories the 25-year-old writer, who had moved to Paris in 1921, had recently submitted to various publications. On this day, he opened the notebook to a fresh page and scrawled in pencil across the top:
ALONG WITH YOUTH
began writing a sea adventure, set on a troop transport ship in 1918 and featuring a character named Nick Adams. Exactly two months earlier, Hemingway had informed Maxwell Perkins, an editor at Charles Scribner’s Sons, the prestigious publishing house in New York City, that he considered the novel to be an artificial and played-out genre. (Perkins had heard through the grapevine that Hemingway was doing some remarkable writing.) Yet here he was, making a bid to jump-start one.
It was not his first attempt. Hemingway’s literary ambition at this time was seemingly limitless—yet he was still a frustrated nobody as far as the wider public was concerned. He had long been trying to sell his experimental stories to publishers back in the States, with no success. F. Scott Fitzgerald—then the celebrated oracle of the Jazz Age and the friend who had been championing Hemingway to Perkins at Scribner’s—published practically everywhere, but no commercial publication or publisher would touch Hemingway. So far, he’d managed to place stories with small literary magazines; his first book, Three Stories & Ten Poems, was published in 1923 in a run of merely 300 copies. When Hemingway’s second book, In Our Time, appeared in 1924, only 170 copies were available for sale.
“I knew I would have to write a novel,” he later recalled. After all, this is what Fitzgerald had done. Before Fitzgerald had published his debut novel, This Side of Paradise, in 1920, he too had been a regular in the slush pile. After Perkins brought out This Side of Paradisewith Scribner’s, Fitzgerald remembered later, “editors and publishers were open to me, impresarios begged plays, the movies panted for screen material.” This was precisely the sort of success that Hemingway craved, and a blockbuster novel was key.
Already there had been two false starts. When Hemingway and his wife, Hadley, had moved to Paris, four years earlier, he had taken along with him the pages of a starter novel—which Hadley lost in a careless accident, along with most of his other “Juvenilia,” as he described the writings to Ezra Pound. He then hatched and abandoned an idea for another novel, satirizing a dictatorial colleague at the Toronto Star, where Hemingway had worked as a deadline reporter.
Along with Youth was destined to peter out after 27 pages. Hemingway decided that he would simply have to “let the pressure build”: when the moment came, his debut novel would simply happen. “When I had to write it,” he later recalled, “then it would be the only thing to do and there would be no choice.”
Little did he know that, at that moment, in June 1925, all of the elements were falling into place at last; he was just one fateful event away from getting the material he so desperately needed to join the novel club. With the resulting book—which would come to be called The Sun Also Rises, published 90 years ago this year—Hemingway would capture several coveted prizes: he would essentially broker for mainstream audiences a new era of modern writing, find himself dubbed the voice of a “Lost Generation,” and become launched as an international sensation.
More immediately on the horizon, though, was the month of July, which for Hemingway meant an annual trip to Pamplona, Spain, to take part in the San Fermin bullfighting festival. The bulls had become an obsession over the last few years. “He [first] heard about bullfighting from me,” Gertrude Stein later sniffed, but several friends had played a role in getting him hooked. He had gone to the Pamplona fiesta twice before. The first time, in 1923, it had been a romantic adventure for him and Hadley: at the bullfights, Hemingway had been enraptured (it was like “having a ringside seat at the war with nothing going to happen to you,” he wrote to a friend); Hadley—then pregnant with their son—had sat calmly at his side, stitching clothes for their baby and “embroidering in the presence of all that brutality,” as she later put it.
In 1924, the couple returned with a raucous entourage that included writers John Dos Passos and Donald Ogden Stewart. Pamplona still felt as pure and insular as it had the summer before, untainted by Americans and other tourists.
The town, Stewart wrote later, “was ours. No one else had discovered it. It was vintage Hemingway. It was a happy time.” No one was happier there than Hemingway. “He stuck like a leech till he had every phase of the business in his blood,” Dos Passos recalled, “and saturated himself to the bursting point.” It was a feeling Hemingway insisted his friends share. “[Hemingway] had an evangelistic streak,” Dos Passos went on, “that made him work to convert his friends to whatever mania he was encouraging at the time.”
The Hemingway crew started each sweltering day by slugging black coffee; they then moved on to Pernod. They lost one another in the bacchanal and found one another again—sometimes not until the following day. Every night, the drinking continued until the sun came up or you passed out, whichever came first. Hemingway goaded his friends into the bullring for amateur fights. “Ernest was somebody you went along with, or else,” Stewart noted. Their feats in the ring earned Stewart a few broken ribs and some breathless coverage in newspapers back home.
Hemingway now started rounding up a new fiesta entourage for the 1925 excursion. Stewart agreed to make a return appearance. Another expat who made the cut: the 34-year-old writer Harold Loeb, the product of Princeton (where he boxed and wrestled) and two of New York’s wealthiest and most prominent Jewish families. (Peggy Guggenheim was his cousin.) Loeb met Hemingway at a party in 1924 and became one of his tennis friends and most ardent supporters. In Loeb’s eyes, Hemingway was cool and unpretentious, with “a shy, disarming smile” and a “zest for living.” As he would remember years later, “I thought never before had I encountered an American so unaffected by living in Paris.”
By June 1925, however, Loeb was keeping a secret from his friend: he was having an illicit affair with a British expat named Lady Duff Twysden. One spring afternoon, Loeb had stationed himself at the Select, the Montparnasse café near the Dôme and the Rotonde, working on revisions to a novel. “I heard a laugh so gay and musical that it seemed to brighten the dingy room,” he would later write. “Low-pitched, it had the liquid quality of the lilt of a mockingbird singing to the moon.” He glanced up and spotted a long, lean woman perched on a barstool, surrounded by men. Her light hair had been shorn into a boyish cut; though she sometimes favored rakishly angled men’s fedoras, on this day she wore a slouch hat. A simple jersey sweater and tweed skirt completed the ensemble. Her strong, spare features were devoid of makeup. All in all, it seemed a fairly chaste presentation, almost masculine, yet she was arresting and sexy. This woman had, Loeb thought, a “certain aloof splendor.”
Loeb was merely the latest man intrigued by the charms of Lady Duff: she had been captivating men throughout the Quarter. “We were all in love with her,” recalled Stewart. “It was hard not to be. She played her cards so well.” Lady Duff had acquired her title by marriage, but was soon to lose it: like many other expat ladies in Paris, dubbed the “alimony gang,” she had come to Paris to weather a nasty divorce from an aristocratic husband—Sir Roger Thomas Twysden, a naval officer and baronet—who’d remained back in the U.K. Though a notoriously hard drinker, she handled her liquor admirably for such a fashionably gaunt creature. “I wondered how long she could keep it up without losing her looks,” Loeb wrote.
Despite the English title, there was said to be something feral about Lady Duff; some maintained that she didn’t bother to bathe regularly. She was gregarious—one of the boys—but also exuded an air of unattainability, a necessary attribute for any successful siren. Men followed Lady Duff wherever she went—including Hemingway.
“I [introduced] Hemingway to Lady Duff and the title seemed to electrify him,” claimed Robert McAlmon, an acid-tongued expat writer and editor, years later. After that, Hemingway was seen for weeks on end in Montmartre, buying drinks for both her and her official paramour, Patrick Guthrie, a dissipated thirtysomething Briton who subsisted on checks from his rich mother back in Scotland. Sometimes Hadley joined these excursions with Lady Duff, but they were not happy outings for her. She often burst into tears, and Hemingway would prevail upon McAlmon or their friend Josephine Brooks to take his wife home while he stayed out drinking with Lady Duff.
I am coming on the Pamplona trip with Hem and your lot. . . . With Pat of course,” Lady Duff wrote to Loeb. “Can you bear it?”
Hemingway had written Loeb a jovial note about the upcoming Pamplona trip, promising it would be “damned good.” Now, after a flurry of letters back and forth among Hemingway, Loeb, and Lady Duff, Loeb was left with a “low feeling which I could not shake off.” This feeling was replaced with one of genuine foreboding when he received yet another missive from Lady Duff. “I expect I shall have a bit of time managing the situation,” she wrote, adding, “Hem has promised to be good and we ought to have really a marvelous time.”
Loeb was dumbfounded. Why on earth had Hemingway pledged good behavior? Was he sleeping with Duff now as well?
Hemingway had, in any case, learned about her liaison with Loeb. Their secret had been working its way through the Left Bank gossip mill. When a mutual friend told Hemingway the news, he had been furious. Everyone around the Quarter began to wonder, like Loeb, if Hemingway was sleeping with Lady Duff. The upcoming Pamplona trip was starting to look like a powder keg.
Yet no one backed out. Hemingway, Loeb, and Lady Duff all put on their best poker faces. “By all means come,” Loeb replied to Lady Duff with affected breeziness. He even pledged to escort her and Guthrie to Pamplona.
In the meantime, Hemingway and Hadley dispatched their 21-month-old son, Bumby, to Brittany with his nanny, packed their bags, and left Paris, heading to a quiet, remote Basque village in the Pyrenees called Burguete to kick off the Pamplona holiday with a week of trout fishing. But the trout were in no position to oblige them. A logging company had destroyed the local pools, broken down dams, and run logs down the river. The loggers’ trash was everywhere. Hemingway was in despair over the sight. It was not an auspicious start to the excursion.
Loeb skipped Burguete and went to Saint-Jean-de-Luz, where he was to meet Lady Duff and Guthrie. He grew upset the moment Lady Duff stepped off the train onto the platform. Instead of her usual man’s fedora, she was wearing a beret. “I did not like her in a beret,” Loeb grumbled. “Hem usually wore a beret.” Like Hemingway, Guthrie had now been apprised of the Loeb–Lady Duff interlude. Unlike Hemingway, he had no intention of pretending not to know. “Oh, you’re here, are you?” he said, greeting Loeb on the platform with a breezy snarl.
The party immediately repaired to the station bar, which Loeb and Lady Duff had graced together just a few weeks earlier. Three martinis later, Guthrie adjourned to the pissoir. Loeb began to interrogate Lady Duff. Her behavior toward him had changed, he said. What had happened?
“Pat broke the spell,” she told him. “He worked hard at it.”
“I see,” Loeb responded quietly. The trio hired a car for the awkward 50-mile journey to Pamplona. When they reached the Hotel Quintana, where Hemingway had booked rooms for the entourage, Lady Duff and Guthrie went to one room and Loeb to another. Hemingway, Hadley, and the Burguete group arrived the next morning in similarly petulant spirits.
A round of absinthe, a large Spanish lunch, and a walk through the town helped alleviate the atmosphere, but already it was clear that the jubilance of the previous year was probably not going to be repeated. First of all, Pamplona itself had changed. Just as Paris had become overrun with tourists, Pamplona now also included the appalling presence of some of the group’s compatriots. “We were no longer the exclusive foreign participants in the show,” Stewart later observed. “The establishment had caught up with the frontier.”
Rolls-Royces now idled outside the hotel. The American ambassador materialized in a limousine; to Hemingway, the functionary’s presence at the festival seemed particularly intrusive and symbolic of the shift. The town suddenly felt “cluttered and ordinary,” Stewart recalled. “Pamplona seemed to be getting ready for the hand of Elsa Maxwell”—one of the era’s most prominent gossip columnists.
Yet Lady Duff would prove the most disruptive intruder of all. “Someone had left the door open and Eve had walked into my male Garden of Eden,” wrote Stewart. Suddenly, in her presence, “Ernest had changed,” he noted. “Hadley wasn’t the same . . . the fun was going out of everybody.” That is, except for one person: Lady Duff, who looked especially beautiful and aloof that first morning in a broad-brimmed Spanish hat.
e next day, everyone scraped themselves out of bed in time to see the bulls driven from their corral to the stadium, with the usual crowd of men scrambling ahead of the herd. When the bullring was opened for the amateur hour, Hemingway, Loeb, and Hemingway’s childhood friend Bill Smith leapt in. The press corps was on hand, including photographers.
Hemingway, wearing a beret and white pants, got right down to the business of baiting the bulls. One bull knocked Smith down; it then turned and faced Loeb, who took off his sweater and waved it at the animal. The bull charged; its horn caught the sweater, which dangled from the bull’s head as it then galloped around the arena.
The real bullfights began that afternoon. In front of the Hemingway crew, a bull gored a horse, which took a death-throes run through the arena, trailing its intestines. At another point, a bull tried to escape by jumping over the wall surrounding the ring. “Perhaps he felt that it wasn’t his party,” Loeb said. He became increasingly dismayed by the spectacle; he even “considered oléing the bulls that refused to charge,” he recalled. “It seemed, in some obscure way, shameful.”
After the fight, the entourage reconvened on a café terrace. The fiesta was in full swing. Hundreds of people filled the main square, along with the relentless thump of drums and shrill piping of fifes. Hemingway asked Loeb what he thought of his first bullfight. When Loeb replied that he was not “too keen on the theme,” Hemingway was predictably unsympathetic. “We all have to die,” Loeb told him, “but I don’t like to be reminded of it more than twice a day.”
“Balls,” Hemingway said, and then turned his back on him. Being less than reverential about bullfighting was one of the surest ways to antagonize Hemingway. The only worse offense might be stealing the limelight from him. Later, when Hemingway, Guthrie, and Stewart were swept up in a parade streaming in an endless circuit around the square, Loeb began to quiz Hemingway’s old friend Bill Smith. “Hem seems to be bitter about something,” he ventured. Smith cut to the chase. Hemingway was angry about Loeb’s fling with Lady Duff. When Loeb pressed Smith about whether Hemingway was also in love with Lady Duff, Smith refused to give a straight answer. The conversation abruptly ended when Loeb realized that Lady Duff and Hadley—sitting together at the far end of the table—had gone silent. Loeb quickly changed the subject. If Hadley had indeed overheard the chat and entertained her own suspicions about a possible affair between her husband and Lady Duff, she appears to have kept them to herself.
In the morning, Hemingway, Loeb, and Smith headed back to the bullring for amateur hour. To spare his wardrobe any further indignities, Loeb came armed with a hotel towel. This time when a bull charged him, there was no chance to get out of the way. Loeb dropped the towel, and as the bull lowered its head to butt him, Loeb turned around, grasped its horns, and sat on the bull’s head.
The bull loped across the arena and eventually tossed Loeb into the air. Miraculously, he landed on his feet, as though the entire episode had been a choreographed stunt. The crowd went mad; photographers caught his moment of glory. Hemingway, not to be outdone, then emerged from the sidelines and approached a bull from behind. He grabbed the animal and then managed to catch hold of its horns and wrestle it to the ground. The other amateur bullfighters closed in on the downed bull. “For an instant it looked as if they would tear the animal’s limbs off,” Loeb reported in horror, but ring attendants came to the rescue.
Yet despite Hemingway’s herculean feat, Loeb was the king of the ring, treated like a hero around town. Apparently the locals were in awe of the first man (or the first foreigner, anyway) in living memory who had ridden a bull’s head. His newfound fame even carried across the Atlantic: pictures of Loeb perched atop the bull, legs scissoring in the air, eventually appeared in New York publications. Hemingway had been outshone—and by a man who scoffed at the whole sport.
But Loeb’s heroics weren’t enough to win Lady Duff back. She visited him in his room before lunch that day and told him that she was sorry he was having such a tough time on her account. She was worth it, Loeb replied and tried to embrace her, only to be rejected yet again. He thought of leaving Pamplona, but it would look as if he was running away.
That evening he cornered Lady Duff in the Plaza del Castillo and finally persuaded her to come have a drink alone with him. They walked off together to a small café and then got swept into a private party in one of the buildings overlooking the plaza. As the festivities stretched into the night, Loeb unsuccessfully tried to wrench Lady Duff away from the party. He drank himself into oblivion and woke up the next morning in his bed with no memory of having come back to the Hotel Quintana.
Loeb staggered out to meet Hemingway and the crew for lunch. Guthrie was in an ugly mood, Hadley had lost her kindly smile, and Smith wore a grim look. Lady Duff turned up later, accessorized not with a beret or a fedora, but rather with a black eye and a bruised forehead. Loeb demanded to know what had happened to her, but before she could respond, Hemingway interrupted, saying that she had fallen. No one else—including Lady Duff—offered an explanation, and Loeb made no further inquiries. Once again he considered leaving the fiesta, but once again he was afraid of looking like a coward. He stayed put.
As usual, Loeb noted, “there was too much lunch.”
The one bright, joyous presence in that week was Hemingway’s new friend, Cayetano Ordoñez, a 19-year-old matador who had been thrilling aficionados throughout Spain. “He was sincerity and purity of style itself with the cape,” Hemingway wrote of him later, adding that he “looked like the messiah who had come to save bullfighting if ever any one did.” When Ordoñez was awarded a bull’s ear after a particularly good corrida, he gave it to Hadley. “[She] wrapped it up in a handkerchief which, thank God was Don Stewarts [sic],” Hemingway reported to Gertrude Stein. Hemingway, however, was probably less than delighted when Ordoñez praised Loeb’s performance in the ring.
On the second-to-last evening in Pamplona, Hemingway informed his friends that Ordoñez had assured him that the following day’s bulls were going to be the best in Spain. They were all were sitting around a café table in the square after dinner, drinking brandy. As Loeb recalled, Hemingway then turned to him and said, “I suppose you’d like it better if they shipped in goats.” Loeb was close to losing his temper. He responded that while he didn’t dislike bullfighting he simply sympathized with the victims. Guthrie snickered. “Our sensitive chum is considerate of the bull’s feelings,” he said. “But what about ours?”
The situation was coming to a head. Hemingway accused Loeb of ruining their party. Guthrie sputtered “Why don’t you get out? I don’t want you here. Hem doesn’t want you here. Nobody wants you here, though some may be too decent to say so.”
“I will,” Loeb replied, “the instant Duff wants it.” Lady Duff quietly turned to him. “You know that I do not want you to go,” she said. “You lousy bastard,” Hemingway exclaimed to Loeb. “Running to a woman.”
Loeb asked Hemingway to step outside. Hemingway followed him. Loeb was scared to fight his friend in the dark. Firstly, Hemingway outweighed him by 40 pounds. Secondly, Loeb could usually tell when Hemingway’s punches were coming by the way his pupils “jiggled,” and in the dark he wouldn’t be able to see his eyes. Perhaps more disorienting was the realization that Hemingway had gone so quickly from being a close friend to a “bitter, lashing enemy.” The two men marched toward the edge of the plaza and walked down a few steps onto an ill-lit street. Loeb took off his jacket and slipped his glasses in the side pocket. He squinted around, looking for a safe place to put the garment.
“My glasses,” he explained to Hemingway. “If they’re broken I couldn’t get them fixed here.”
To Loeb’s surprise, he looked up and saw Hemingway smiling. It was a boyish, contagious smile—and even in that moment, that grin made it hard for Loeb to dislike him. He even offered to hold Loeb’s jacket. Loeb then offered to hold his. Their mutual rage seeped away. The men unclenched their fists, put their jackets on, and walked back through the plaza. “Duff,” Loeb later wrote, “no longer seemed to matter.”
The next morning, Loeb received a note from Hemingway. “I was terribly tight and nasty to you last night,” he wrote. He wished that he could wipe out what had happened, he went on, adding that he was ashamed of his behavior and of the “stinking, unjust uncalled for things I said.”
Loeb turned up at lunch and afterward accepted Hemingway’s apology in person. He hoped they could be friends as before, he told him. “But I knew we wouldn’t be,” he wrote later. He couldn’t have guessed that Hemingway would soon do something that would link them for the rest of their lives and beyond.
Mercifully, it was time to depart. Stewart, who was heading next to Sara and Gerald Murphy’s villa on the Riviera, later wrote, “It occurred to me that the events of the past week might make interesting material for a novel.” He was not the only one to think so.
For Hemingway, the events in Pamplona had become practically priceless. Here was the heaven-sent trigger he had been waiting for. “Let the pressure build,” he had told himself. “When I had to write [a novel], then it would be the only thing to do and there would be no choice.” He had now reached that point. Just when the pressure surrounding him as a virtually unknown writer had built to an almost intolerable level—financial woes, living with Hadley in squalor, fears of obscurity, excruciating writer’s block—Lady Duff Twysden had saved the day. As Hemingway watched her at the fiesta—a jezebel in Arcadia, manipulating her suitors like marionettes—he knew that he had figured out the puzzle at last.
A story began to shape itself in Hemingway’s mind—the intense, poignant story that, in short order, would become The Sun Also Rises. Suddenly every Pamplona confrontation, insult, hangover, and bit of frazzled sexual tension took on literary currency. Once he started working, he could not stop. He and Hadley moved into the Pensión Aguilar, in Madrid, where he wrote furiously in the mornings. During the afternoons, he went with Hadley to the bullfights. The next morning he would begin again. “Have been working like hell,” he reported to Bill Smith a week after the fiesta had broken up.
By early August, he started letting it be known that he was officially about to join the novel club. Expatriate bookseller and publisher Sylvia Beach, of the bookstore Shakespeare and Company, was the first to get the news. “I’ve written six chapters on [sic] a novel and am going great,” he wrote to her. By that time, he and Hadley had moved on to Valencia; they had seen 17 bullfights, and he had completed 15,000 words on loose-leaf paper. His handwriting—smooth, even, and upright—belied the urgency with which the story poured out of him.
Hemingway’s tale was a précis of dialogue and events that had gone down in Pamplona—from his conversations with Quintana and Ordoñez to his aversion to the American ambassador to the affair between Lady Duff and Loeb, who, he wrote, “was in love with Duff and she had slept with him while Pat was away in Scotland and told Pat about it and it had not seemed to make any difference but now whenever he got drunk he kept coming back to it. She had slept with other men before but they had not been of Harold’s race and had not come on parties afterwards.”
l of the Pamplona entourage appeared under their own names in this draft. Guthrie was depicted as drunk and belligerent, repeatedly informing Ordoñez that “bulls have no balls.” Stewart was the resident jester. Lady Duff smoldered and quipped and undressed the handsome Ordoñez with her eyes; her probable corruption of the young bullfighter—and her corrupting potential in general—promised almost unlimited dramatic potential.
Not only did the book depict in painful detail events that had transpired in Pamplona (and Paris), but vast swaths of their personal backgrounds had been blatantly used as the characters’ biographies. Hemingway generally declined to warn his characters’ real-life prototypes that they were about to star in his big literary coup. But one evening he leaked the news to Kitty Cannell, the expat fashion writer who happened to be Loeb’s former girlfriend (and another one of the novel’s unwitting models). Back in Paris, some of the Pamplona crew gathered for dinner one night to make amends. Nerves were still raw from the fiesta, which had concluded nearly two months earlier. After dinner, the group walked to a café. Hemingway and Cannell were strolling together when he suddenly made a startling admission. “I’m writing a book,” he told her. “Everybody’s in it. And I’m going to tear these two bastards apart,” he added, indicating Loeb and Smith, who were walking along nearby. Furthermore, Hemingway informed her, “that kike Loeb is the villain.”
In due time, they were all assigned their familiar fictional names, but they remained identifiable. Loeb was the hapless, insufferable Robert Cohn. Lady Duff was translated into the glamorous but anguished Lady Brett Ashley. The caricature permanently branded her as an “alcoholic nymphomaniac” as Hemingway would later unapologetically refer to her. Stewart and Smith were combined into the wry Bill Gorton. Guthrie became Mike Campbell. Hemingway poured in details about his friends’ failed past marriages, college sporting activities, speaking idiosyncrasies, and assorted indiscretions.
He also inserted a version of himself into the manuscript, at first under the name Hem. The character would become Jake Barnes. In Hemingway’s pages, both Loeb/Cohn and Hemingway/Jake fall in love with Duff/Brett. And in Hemingway’s pages, Loeb/Cohn has an affair with Duff/Brett, which drives a wedge between Loeb/Cohn and Hemingway/Jake, who happens to be impotent, thanks to a war wound.
It was a bold decision to make about a character who would surely be read as the author’s alter ego—especially one created by a writer known for goading friends into bullrings. Hemingway eventually downplayed the gravitas of his choice. “Impotence is a pretty dull subject compared with war or love or the old lucha por la vida [life struggle],” he would later write to Max Perkins. But Jake’s impotence made it clear that Hemingway was willing to take wild risks—even ones that might even compromise his personal dignity, for there would certainly be assumptions that he had based Jake’s condition on Hemingway’s own well-known wartime injuries. Though he had already been enjoying an almost aggressively masculine image—one that was about to prove immensely bankable—he would be the first to challenge that image if doing so would serve his art.
He soon put this loose-leaf draft aside, but a good deal of material from these first pages would eventually be transplanted wholesale into The Sun Also Rises. His vision was startlingly clear from the beginning. Earlier that spring, Hemingway had described his ingenious something-for-everyone writing formula to publisher Horace Liveright, who had brought out his collection In Our Time: “My book will be praised by highbrows and can be read by lowbrows,” he had written. “There is no writing in it that anybody with a high-school education cannot read.”
The Sun Also Rises—which Scribner’s would publish in October of 1926 to rapturous reviews (The New York Times would call it “an event”)—magnificently showcased Hemingway’s “highbrow-lowbrow” formula. Its terse, innovative prose would titillate the literary crowd, and the simplicity of the style would make it accessible to mainstream readers. “It is a hell of a fine novel,” Hemingway wrote to an editor acquaintance before the book came out, adding that it would “let these bastards who say yes he can write very beautiful little paragraphs know where they get off at.”
He was right. With the publication of The Sun Also Rises, Hemingway’s generation—the generation Fitzgerald had written about in The Great Gatsby the year before—was informed that it was not giddy after all. It was simply lost. The Great War had ruined everyone, so everyone might as well start drinking even more—preferably in Paris and Pamplona. Back in America, the college set gleefully adopted the label of “the Lost Generation,” a term that Hemingway borrowed from Gertrude Stein and popularized with his novel, using it as an epigraph. The Sun Also Rises became the guidebook to youth culture. Parisian cafés teemed with Hemingway-inspired poseurs: the hard-drinking Jake Barnes and the studiously blasé Lady Brett Ashley became role models. The reason this pioneering youth movement still shimmers with dissipated glamour has a lot to do with The Sun Also Rises.
No one seemed a better representative of that lost world than Hemingway himself, thanks to the public-relations machine that plugged him as a personality along with his breakthrough novel, which would sell 19,000 copies within the first six months of its publication. (By the time of Hemingway’s death, in 1961, an estimated one million copies had been sold.) Those charged with marketing Hemingway’s work were aware of their good fortune: in a sense, they were getting two juicy stories for the price of one. It quickly became apparent that the public’s appetite for Hemingway was as great as that for his writing. Here was a new breed of writer—brainy yet brawny, a far cry from Proust and his dusty, sequestered ilk, or even the dandyish Fitzgerald. Charles Scribner III, a former director of Scribner’s, which published both Fitzgerald and Hemingway for the majority of their careers, said that Fitzgerald “was the last of the romantics. He was Strauss.” Hemingway, by contrast, was Stravinsky. In him, a truly modern literature had arrived.
The portraits would haunt Lady Duff and the others for the rest of their lives. (Duff would die of tuberculosis in Santa Fe in 1938.) But, for Hemingway, his friends were simply collateral damage. After all, he was revolutionizing literature, and in every revolution some heads must roll. And if readers weren’t interested in a revolution, they still got a scandalousroman à clef featuring dissolute representatives from the worlds of wealth and ambition.
“There is a lot of dope about high society in it,” Hemingway wryly noted. “And that is always interesting.”
Adapted from Everybody Behaves Badly: The True Story Behind Hemingway’s Masterpiece The Sun Also Rises, by Lesley M.M. Blume, to be published next month by Eamon Dolan Books, an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt; © 2016 by the author.
HEMINGWAY’S HIDDEN METAFICTIONS
By Ian Crouch | New Yorker |
Ernest Hemingway’s “The Sun Also Rises” was almost called something else.
Early title contenders were “Fiesta: A Novel” (as the book was subsequently known in England), “Two Lie Together,” and even “For in much wisdom is much grief and he that increases knowledge increases sorrow”—a line that, like the winning candidate, comes from Ecclesiastes, and that, it is safe to assume, Hemingway might have abridged further if he’d used it. The evidence for these alternatives comes from early notes and manuscripts, which are included in a new edition of the novel, published this month.
There are signs of other felicitous decisions. The real-life socialite Lady Duff Twysden was given a better name, Brett Ashley. Maudlin dialogue was struck, as when the ill-starred Brett says to Jake Barnes, the narrator, “I love you and I’ll love you always.” (In the finished text, lines like “Well, let’s shut up about it” are more in the spirit of their unconsummated affair.) And Hemingway settled on a perfect final line. After Brett says, “Oh Jake . . . we could have had such a damned good time together,” the author at first had Jake respond, “It’s nice as hell to think so,” but later scribbled “Isn’t it nice to think so.” By the time the manuscript went to the printer, it had been altered again, to the sharp and sad and perfectly balanced “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”
Early drafts of the book are well known to scholars, and are available at the Hemingway Collection, at the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, in Boston. But this new edition puts them in handy appendices, giving us lay readers a sense of Hemingway’s writing process, and, more importantly, of how different a novel “The Sun Also Rises” might have been.
All of Hemingway’s major changes to his manuscript move it toward a greater simplicity. In early drafts, the novel began in the middle of the story, at the bullfights during the festival of San Fermín, in Pamplona. Later, Hemingway opted for a more straightforward, chronological order, introducing the American expats Jake, Brett, and Robert Cohn in Paris, before they travel to Spain. In the manuscript that he sent to his editor at Scribner, Maxwell Perkins, the first two chapters detailed the characters’ histories and motivations. “This is a novel about a lady,” it began:
Her name is Lady Ashley and when the story begins she is living in Paris and it is Spring. That should be a good setting for a romantic but highly moral story. As everyone knows, Paris is a very romantic place. Spring in Paris is a very happy and romantic time. Autumn in Paris, although very beautiful, might give a note of sadness or melancholy that we shall try to keep out of this story.
It is diverting to consider how the novel would have been different if Brett were indeed the main character and the heroine—if it really were a story about a lady, rather than about the various men who loved her, or couldn’t. But more intriguing still is the second part of the opening, in which Hemingway breaks into the narrative to address the reader directly, and, in so doing, calls out the artifice implicit in the writing and reading of fiction. It is a wink at the marketplace—readers want lively, lighthearted tales from abroad—and alludes to the novel’s central dark, repeated joke: that everything awful in life, in all of its sadness and melancholy, is better laughed at.
Later, in another section that was cut, Hemingway writes:
I did not want to tell this story in the first person, but I find that I must. I wanted to stay well outside of the story so that I would not be touched by it in any way, and handle all the people in it with that irony and pity that are so essential to good writing.
Jake Barnes was named Hem in the early drafts, and in the version he sent to his editor, Hemingway retained the conceit that the book was not merely based on his real-life experiences but was actually a memoir: “I made the unfortunate mistake, for a writer, of first having been Mr. Jake Barnes.”
All of this was cut at the suggestion of F. Scott Fitzgerald, who, after reading the version that Hemingway had sent to Perkins, wrote a long, dismayed-sounding letter to Hemingway, in which he said, “I think that there are about 24 sneers, superiorities, and nose-thumbings-at-nothing that mar the whole narrative up to P. 29 where (after a false start on the introduction of Cohn) it really gets going.” Though Hemingway would later downplay Fitzgerald’s editorial influence, the published novel begins with the sentence: “Robert Cohn was once middleweight boxing champion of Princeton.”
In the letter, Fitzgerald also criticized Hemingway for injecting his own writerly persona into the text: “That biography from you, who allways believed in the superiority (the preferability) of the imagined to the seen not to say to the merelyrecounted.” With this fragment of a sentence, Fitzgerald gives Hemingway the familiar writing-class advice—show, don’t tell; less is more; and what is left out can sometimes be more meaningful than what is included. Earlier versions of the novel contained even more of this “biography”; Fitzgerald had caught the remnants of nervous self-consciousness that Hemingway himself had curtailed as he wrote.
There are several striking examples, in the drafts, of this uneasiness. After a digression about a washed-up but popular bullfighter, Hemingway writes: “Well none of that has anything to do with the story and I suppose you think there isn’t any story anyway but it sort of moves along in time and anyway there is a lot of dope about high society in it and that is always interesting.” Later, after describing the habits of his social set: “I don’t know why I have to put all this down. It may mix up the story but I wanted to show you what a fine crowd we were.” These moments, which did not survive the editing process, have a superficial confidence, an edgy bravado, but they are also anxious, the sign of a writer trying to figure out where his voice fits in among those of his characters.
The meatiest example of this kind of curious metafiction is in the second chapter of the novel’s first draft. Hemingway writes:
Probably any amount of this does not seem to have anything to do with the story and perhaps it has not. I am sick of those ones with their clear restrained writing and I am going to try to get in the whole business and to do that there has to be things that seem as though they did had nothing to do with it just as in life. In life people are not conscious of these special moments that novelists build their whole structures on. That is most people are not. That surely has nothing to do with the story but you can not tell until you finish it because none of the significant things are going to have any literary signs marking them. You have to figure them out for yourself.
At the start, it seems, Hemingway was attempting to write a novel very different from what would become “The Sun Also Rises,” which made his name as one of “those ones with their clear restrained writing.” He imagined a book in which the “whole business” of life gets expressed, in all of its messy detours and associations. In the same draft chapter, Hemingway goes on: “Now when my friends read this they will say it is awful. It is not what they had hoped or expected from me. Gertrude Stein once told me that remarks are not literature. All right, let it go at that. Only this time all the remarks are going in and if it is not literature who claimed it was anyway.”
This minor manifesto, embedded in a draft of his first novel, conceives of a book with greater intellectual and artistic ambitions than Hemingway ever produced—one akin to the more abstract fictions of the modernists. The line that he struck through—“It is not what they had hoped or expected from me”—becomes a potentially radical departure that Hemingway never realized, and that was nearly lost to history. Yet “The Sun Also Rises” is far from being a lesser thing, for all of its restrained clarity. It is partly a book of “literary signs,” perhaps against Hemingway’s own intentions. But it is also a book—Gertrude Stein be damned—of remarks, both in the elliptical declarations that the characters make to one another, and in the weighted silences that linger between them. “I mistrust all frank and simple people, especially when their stories hold together.” That line, which belongs to the narrator, and to the author, was there from the beginning. It is an echo of Hemingway’s more eager and brash equivocations in the drafts, a claim that there was an unseen depth to his plainspoken prose. It is an author’s note, a statement of purpose—subtly and skillfully absorbed into the art of storytelling.
Ian Crouch is a contributing writer and producer for newyorker.com. He lives in Maine. ~
Book Club Mojo
Catherine hosted a fabulous dinner and book discussion. She and daughter, Sarah, had recently returned from their trip to Spain where they walked the 500 mile Camino de Santiago. She shared many of her experiences and prepared authentic recipes for us from her Pilgrim's Menu, a multi-course meal of Tinto de Verano (Red Wine of Summer), Tapas -- fried peppers, sliced baguette and Manchego cheese, Gazpacho, Roasted Chicken, Chips, Tarta de Santiago (Almond Cake), and Flan. The meal and exciting memories of their trip made for the perfect prelude to discussing The Sun Also Rises. It was a delicious evening all the way around and as DeeAnn said, "Catherine, you set the bar high!"
What title would you have given this book?
1. When Jake Barnes rebuffs the prostitute Georgette because he is "sick," she says, "Everybody's sick. I'm sick, too" (p.23). Is Georgette's observation an appropriate description of the people in the novel? Why is Jake's emasculating wound such an effective symbol?
2. When Jake and Bill walk during the Paris evening looking at Notre Dame, watching young lovers, and savoring cooking smells, Jake asks whether Bill would like a drink. Why does Bill respond, "No...I don't need it" (p. 83)? Why does Jake say that for Cohn the Bayonne cathedral was "a very good example of something or other" (p. 96)?
3. Is Jake and Bill's fishing trip to Burguete relevant to the epigraph from Ecclesiastes? How do their conversations in Burguete differ from those they have back in Pamplona? How do Robert's, Mike's, and Brett's absences from the fishing trip set them apart from Jake and Bill? Why is the Englishman Harris included in the Burguete scene?
4. How would you describe Jake Barnes's relationship with Brett? Does he love her; understand her? Is his view of Brett constant? How does he see her at the close of the novel? What does he mean when he says, "Isn't it pretty to think so," when Brett tells him that they "could have had such a damned good time together" (p. 251)?
5. If Hemingway's novel is about "the lost generation," do we conclude that all five of the persons who have gone to Pamplona are lost? Is there evidence that moral or spiritual cleansing ever takes place in the novel?
After Reading the Novel
It would be difficult to overstate the remarkable influence of The Sun Also Rises upon its millions of readers. Not only did Hemingway's novel influence our prose and our conduct, it introduced Paris and Pamplona to many of us and made them so real that when we visit them, we feel as if we are returning for a closer look rather than seeing them for the first time. Several guides to Hemingway's Paris, complete with maps, photographs, and walking tours are in print which would provide your group with an opportunity to follow Jake Barnes's footsteps down the little side street Rue Delambre at the intersection of the Boulevard Raspail and Montparnasse to the Dingo Bar, where Jake and Brett had drinks, and Ernest Hemingway met Scott Fitzgerald for the first time in the spring of 1925. Guidebooks will also lead you through narrow streets of Pamplona where the bulls run and along Paseo Hemingway to the bullring, where a bust of the famous writer stands, bearing a statement of gratitude to him from the people of Spain.
Bring on the tough stuff - there’s not just one right answer.
1. In what ways are the male and female characters in the novel similar? How are they different? What might Hemingway be saying about sexuality and love in the post-war world?
2.Compare and contrast Cohn, Mike, and Jake. Consider their wartime experiences, relationships with women, etc. How are they similar? Different?
3.Is Brett a sympathetic character?
4.Is it possible to generalize about whether the characters that served in WWI (Jake, Bill, Mike, the Count, Brett) are different from Cohn, who did not?
5.How would The Sun Also Rises be similar or different if narrated by a character other than Jake? How would Cohn tell the story? Brett? Mike?