The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway (first color ebook reader TXT) 📕
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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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“Here,” I said. “Utilize a little of this.”
We uncorked the other bottle.
“What’s the matter?” I said. “Didn’t you like Bryan?”
“I loved Bryan,” said Bill. “We were like brothers.”
“Where did you know him?”
“He and Mencken and I all went to Holy Cross together.”
“And Frankie Fritsch.”
“It’s a lie. Frankie Fritsch went to Fordham.”
“Well,” I said, “I went to Loyola with Bishop Manning.”
“It’s a lie,” Bill said. “I went to Loyola with Bishop Manning myself.”
“You’re cockeyed,” I said.
“On wine?”
“Why not?”
“It’s the humidity,” Bill said. “They ought to take this damn humidity away.”
“Have another shot.”
“Is this all we’ve got?”
“Only the two bottles.”
“Do you know what you are?” Bill looked at the bottle affectionately.
“No,” I said.
“You’re in the pay of the Anti-Saloon League.”
“I went to Notre Dame with Wayne B. Wheeler.”
“It’s a lie,” said Bill. “I went to Austin Business College with Wayne B. Wheeler. He was class president.”
“Well,” I said, “the saloon must go.”
“You’re right there, old classmate,” Bill said. “The saloon must go, and I will take it with me.”
“You’re cockeyed.”
“On wine?”
“On wine.”
“Well, maybe I am.”
“Want to take a nap?”
“All right.”
We lay with our heads in the shade and looked up into the trees.
“You asleep?”
“No,” Bill said. “I was thinking.”
I shut my eyes. It felt good lying on the ground.
“Say,” Bill said, “what about this Brett business?”
“What about it?”
“Were you ever in love with her?”
“Sure.”
“For how long?”
“Off and on for a hell of a long time.”
“Oh, hell!” Bill said. “I’m sorry, fella.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I don’t give a damn any more.”
“Really?”
“Really. Only I’d a hell of a lot rather not talk about it.”
“You aren’t sore I asked you?”
“Why the hell should I be?”
“I’m going to sleep,” Bill said. He put a newspaper over his face.
“Listen, Jake,” he said, “are you really a Catholic?”
“Technically.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“All right, I’ll go to sleep now,” he said. “Don’t keep me awake by talking so much.”
I went to sleep, too. When I woke up Bill was packing the rucksack. It was late in the afternoon and the shadow from the trees was long and went out over the dam. I was stiff from sleeping on the ground.
“What did you do? Wake up?” Bill asked. “Why didn’t you spend the night?” I stretched and rubbed my eyes.
“I had a lovely dream,” Bill said. “I don’t remember what it was about, but it was a lovely dream.”
“I don’t think I dreamt.”
“You ought to dream,” Bill said. “All our biggest business men have been dreamers. Look at Ford. Look at President Coolidge. Look at Rockefeller. Look at Jo Davidson.”
I disjointed my rod and Bill’s and packed them in the rod-case. I put the reels in the tackle-bag. Bill had packed the rucksack and we put one of the trout-bags in. I carried the other.
“Well,” said Bill, “have we got everything?”
“The worms.”
“Your worms. Put them in there.”
He had the pack on his back and I put the worm-cans in one of the outside flap pockets.
“You got everything now?”
I looked around on the grass at the foot of the elm-trees.
“Yes.”
We started up the road into the woods. It was a long walk home to Burguete, and it was dark when we came down across the fields to the road, and along the road between the houses of the town, their windows lighted, to the inn.
We stayed five days at Burguete and had good fishing. The nights were cold and the days were hot, and there was always a breeze even in the heat of the day. It was hot enough so that it felt good to wade in a cold stream, and the sun dried you when you came out and sat on the bank. We found a stream with a pool deep enough to swim in. In the evenings we played three-handed bridge with an Englishman named Harris, who had walked over from Saint Jean Pied de Port and was stopping at the inn for the fishing. He was very pleasant and went with us twice to the Irati River. There was no word from Robert Cohn nor from Brett and Mike.
XIIIOne morning I went down to breakfast and the Englishman, Harris, was already at the table. He was reading the paper through spectacles. He looked up and smiled.
“Good morning,” he said. “Letter for you. I stopped at the post and they gave it me with mine.”
The letter was at my place at the table, leaning against a coffee-cup. Harris was reading the paper again. I opened the letter. It had been forwarded from Pamplona. It was dated San Sebastian, Sunday:
Dear Jake,
We got here Friday, Brett passed out on the train, so brought her here for 3 days rest with old friends of ours. We go to Montoya Hotel Pamplona Tuesday, arriving at I don’t know what hour. Will you send a note by the bus to tell us what to do to rejoin you all on Wednesday. All our love and sorry to be late, but Brett was really done in and will be quite all right by Tues. and is practically so now. I know her so well and try to look after her but it’s not so easy. Love to all the chaps,
Michael.
“What day of the week is it?” I asked Harris.
“Wednesday, I think. Yes, quite. Wednesday. Wonderful how one loses track of the days up here in the mountains.”
“Yes. We’ve been here nearly a week.”
“I hope you’re not thinking of leaving?”
“Yes. We’ll go in on the afternoon bus, I’m afraid.”
“What a rotten business. I had hoped we’d all have another go at the Irati together.”
“We have to go into Pamplona. We’re meeting people there.”
“What rotten luck for me. We’ve had a jolly time here at Burguete.”
“Come on in to Pamplona. We can play some bridge there, and there’s going to be a damned fine fiesta.”
“I’d like to. Awfully nice
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