The Sun Also Rises (1926) by Ernest Hemingway

 

The Sun Also Rises (1926) by Ernest Hemingway

Hemingway’s first novel is a bit of a chore to get through. But reflecting back on the WAYS it was a chore to get through, I realize that those burdensome facets really serve to uphold the themes here. The Sun Also Rises follows journalist Jake Barnes and his crew of fellow expatriates in Europe, as they essentially waste their lives away in aimless hedonism. And “aimless” is the key word here. The novel is said to capture the ennui of the Lost Generation following the first World War - a generation without purpose or drive, who don’t seem to have any direction in their lives. And this is reflected in the lifestyles of Jake and company, who bounce between bar-hopping in Paris, to attending the week-long bullfighting fiesta in Spain. They constantly drink themselves into stupors, dine anywhere and everywhere as an excuse for something to do, engage in open relationships with no sense of fidelity or depth, and attend sports as barbaric and inhumane as bullfighting in feeble attempts at exhilaration. And, as with all hedonistic pursuits, none of these exploits satiate the lost, wayward bunch. I’m told Hemingway himself was a victim of similar vices, and I suspect this novel reflects his own struggle with them - as the characters seem aware of their curse, but lack the drive to overcome it. They know only to smother and drown their problems.

I can’t comment on a Hemingway book without referencing his direct, unembellished, and arguably dry writing style. At first, as I previously noted, it felt like a chore to read through - but I came to appreciate how the style itself, reading more like a police report than a novel, betrayed an emotional distance from the narrative. A distance that, the reader comes to realize, is echoed in the characters’ engagement in their own lives. They live in emotional detachment - too afraid to reflect or be vulnerable, lest they acknowledge their own aimlessness. And what better way to represent this than by documenting their lives as newsreels rather than poetry. I fear there WAS no poetry for the Lost Generation, and I fear that a similar wave of hedonic aimlessness threatens a new, burgeoning “Lost Generation” of our own era. But life is cyclical, and I trust that we can all find purpose and meaning if we’re willing to fight the ennui, stay out of the Devil’s stream, and value openness, honesty, and healthy vulnerability with the people around us.