The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway (first color ebook reader TXT) 📕
Description
The Sun Also Rises was Ernest Hemingway’s first published novel, and the novel that introduced the term “Lost Generation” to describe the generation that came to adulthood during World War I.
The novel follows Jake Barnes, an American expat living in the Parisian café society of the roaring 20s. A wound sustained during the war has left him unable to have sex, and that drives a wedge between him and the woman he loves: Brett Ashley, a twice-divorcée who has embraced the sexual freedom and independence of the age. As they drift through their lives in postwar Paris, they find themselves on a trip with some friends to Spain to witness the Festival of San Fermin, a week-long bacchanal whose highlight is bullfighting.
Hemingway explores the aimless, heavy drinking, and dramatic lives of Jake, Brett, and their friends as a means to reflect the Lost Generation as a whole. Jake is a character of troubled masculinity: his war wound has fundamentally changed him as a man, and his behavior is often tentative, unsure, and placating. On the other hand, Brett is an enigmatic New Woman: free to drink and carouse with the men, she is seductive, but aching for the reassurance and love of a real relationship, and not just sex. The satellites of friends that orbit around them are equally troubled, drinking to excess and fighting with themselves and with others.
These complex characters are now mere spectators for the bullfight, a microcosm of war and death whose masters, the matadors, are the powerful and elegant emblems of masculinity that the Lost Generation finds it impossible to compete against.
Though initially met with mixed reviews, modern critics consider it to be Hemingway’s best novel. The characters and events are largely based on real-life people in Hemingway’s social circle and his time spent in Paris and Spain. Thus, the book sold very well in its first print run, as the expatriate community was eager to read about the coded scandals of their peers. Today it is recognized as a foundational work of the modernist style, and an American classic.
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- Author: Ernest Hemingway
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As I started up the stairs the concierge knocked on the glass of the door of her lodge, and as I stopped she came out. She had some letters and a telegram.
“Here is the post. And there was a lady here to see you.”
“Did she leave a card?”
“No. She was with a gentleman. It was the one who was here last night. In the end I find she is very nice.”
“Was she with a friend of mine?”
“I don’t know. He was never here before. He was very large. Very, very large. She was very nice. Very, very nice. Last night she was, perhaps, a little—” She put her head on one hand and rocked it up and down. “I’ll speak perfectly frankly, Monsieur Barnes. Last night I found her not so gentille. Last night I formed another idea of her. But listen to what I tell you. She is très, très gentille. She is of very good family. It is a thing you can see.”
“They did not leave any word?”
“Yes. They said they would be back in an hour.”
“Send them up when they come.”
“Yes, Monsieur Barnes. And that lady, that lady there is someone. An eccentric, perhaps, but quelqu’une, quelqu’une!”
The concierge, before she became a concierge, had owned a drink-selling concession at the Paris racecourses. Her lifework lay in the pelouse, but she kept an eye on the people of the pesage, and she took great pride in telling me which of my guests were well brought up, which were of good family, who were sportsmen, a French word pronounced with the accent on the men. The only trouble was that people who did not fall into any of those three categories were very liable to be told there was no one home, chez Barnes. One of my friends, an extremely underfed-looking painter, who was obviously to Madame Duzinell neither well brought up, of good family, nor a sportsman, wrote me a letter asking if I could get him a pass to get by the concierge so he could come up and see me occasionally in the evenings.
I went up to the flat wondering what Brett had done to the concierge. The wire was a cable from Bill Gorton, saying he was arriving on the France. I put the mail on the table, went back to the bedroom, undressed and had a shower. I was rubbing down when I heard the doorbell pull. I put on a bathrobe and slippers and went to the door. It was Brett. Back of her was the count. He was holding a great bunch of roses.
“Hello, darling,” said Brett. “Aren’t you going to let us in?”
“Come on. I was just bathing.”
“Aren’t you the fortunate man. Bathing.”
“Only a shower. Sit down, Count Mippipopolous. What will you drink?”
“I don’t know whether you like flowers, sir,” the count said, “but I took the liberty of just bringing these roses.”
“Here, give them to me.” Brett took them. “Get me some water in this, Jake.” I filled the big earthenware jug with water in the kitchen, and Brett put the roses in it, and placed them in the centre of the dining-room table.
“I say. We have had a day.”
“You don’t remember anything about a date with me at the Crillon?”
“No. Did we have one? I must have been blind.”
“You were quite drunk, my dear,” said the count.
“Wasn’t I, though? And the count’s been a brick, absolutely.”
“You’ve got hell’s own drag with the concierge now.”
“I ought to have. Gave her two hundred francs.”
“Don’t be a damned fool.”
“His,” she said, and nodded at the count.
“I thought we ought to give her a little something for last night. It was very late.”
“He’s wonderful,” Brett said. “He remembers everything that’s happened.”
“So do you, my dear.”
“Fancy,” said Brett. “Who’d want to? I say, Jake, do we get a drink?”
“You get it while I go in and dress. You know where it is.”
“Rather.”
While I dressed I heard Brett put down glasses and then a siphon, and then heard them talking. I dressed slowly, sitting on the bed. I felt tired and pretty rotten. Brett came in the room, a glass in her hand, and sat on the bed.
“What’s the matter, darling? Do you feel rocky?”
She kissed me coolly on the forehead.
“Oh, Brett, I love you so much.”
“Darling,” she said. Then: “Do you want me to send him away?”
“No. He’s nice.”
“I’ll send him away.”
“No, don’t.”
“Yes, I’ll send him away.”
“You can’t just like that.”
“Can’t I, though? You stay here. He’s mad about me, I tell you.”
She was gone out of the room. I lay face down on the bed. I was having a bad time. I heard them talking but I did not listen. Brett came in and sat on the bed.
“Poor old darling.” She stroked my head.
“What did you say to him?” I was lying with my face away from her. I did not want to see her.
“Sent him for champagne. He loves to go for champagne.”
Then later: “Do you feel better, darling? Is the head any better?”
“It’s better.”
“Lie quiet. He’s gone to the other side of town.”
“Couldn’t we live together, Brett? Couldn’t we just live together?”
“I don’t think so. I’d just tromper you with everybody. You couldn’t stand it.”
“I stand it now.”
“That would be different. It’s my fault, Jake. It’s the way I’m made.”
“Couldn’t we go off in the country for a while?”
“It wouldn’t be any good. I’ll go if you like. But I couldn’t live quietly in the country. Not with my own true love.”
“I know.”
“Isn’t it rotten? There isn’t any use my telling you I love you.”
“You know I love you.”
“Let’s not talk. Talking’s all bilge. I’m going away from you, and then Michael’s coming back.”
“Why are you going away?”
“Better for you. Better for me.”
“When are you going?”
“Soon as I can.”
“Where?”
“San Sebastian.”
“Can’t we go together?”
“No. That would be a hell of an idea
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