#classics!

I feel I didn’t appreciate Hemingway’s prose in high school; he’s a remarkable writer on the level of the sentence. Hemingway is doing something that seems simple, but—in that—is very, very difficult to achieve. The naturalness of Hemingway’s dialogue and scene-setting is key to his craft. Conversations occur naturally to the point of the reader’s confusion, as various other characters and events are referred to in a scene, and adjustment is not made for exposition or the reader’s understanding. This approach, therefore, feels like authenticity, like truly dropping us “in medias res.” I can’t think of another writer who does this as well as Hemingway. Yet, he pairs this authentic world-building with some (likely very authentic to the setting) blatant sexism and anti-semitism, which I struggled to parse as the opinions of the characters or of Hemingway himself. While Brett’s character is perceived by other characters through a time-period accurate sexist lens (women come out to gawk at her; Pedro Romero wants her to grow out her hair), it’s the comments about Jewish character Robert Cohn that most baffled my ability to separate the author from his characters. And while body shaming is directly stated (by some characters), the nature of main character Jake’s World War I injury remains consistently vague to the reader. It seems, I deduce, that he lost his penis fighting in the war, but this is always said in a slant way, that captures the emotional impact of the injury (and its impact on his potential love affair with Brett) more than the physical impact. 

The choice of a protagonist whose “manliness” is so fundamental challenged (in his own eyes, in the eyes of others) brings in an inherent and consistent complexity about gender and what is means to be masculine. From Jake’s injury to Brett’s characterization—Brett comfortably hangs out with all male friends, while calling them “chaps,” and occasionally the men refer to collectively to their group as “men,” while Brett acts as she wants, following her sexual and financial desires, wears her hair cut short and her shoulders bare, and she is labeled with a masculine name—the novel’s concept of gender continues to distort and tangle. When Pedro Romero, brilliant young bull fighter appears on the scene, much is made of his beauty and of his tightly-fitting flamboyant clothes (much in the way we might expect a young female person to be received). Brett wonders if his entourage had to “shoe-horn” him into those clothes. The original description of Pedro Romero, alone yet surrounded by his entourage, was my singular favorite image and moment of the novel: “He was standing, straight and handsome and altogether by himself, alone in the room with the hangers-on as we shut the door.” It’s a moment in which it is easy to deeply identify with Pedro Romero. In a novel where emotional evolution is communicated through what is noticed, focused on, and discussed, given the level nature of the prose, gender nuance takes on importance through repetition. Even though the conclusions about gender aren’t obvious, it’s clear that “something is going on with gender” in this novel. And the piling up of moments and details of gender nonconformity shifted my perspective about Hemingway’s relationship to gender in his literary oeuvre. 

Another shift in my perspective throughout this book was on bull-fighting itself. A staunch vegetarian, I know I would be quick to recoil at the cruelty of bull-fighting. But the depiction of the community’s buy-in and risk—everyone running ahead of the bulls, rather than non-implicated spectators out for a bit of entertaining bloodshed—the descriptions of the matadors, particularly the injured fighter and the kid who takes on all the remaining bulls in the essay (he is likely the inspiration for Pedro Romero’s grace and purity in the novel)—made the tradition of bull-fighting appear in a different light to me. What is it that is so alluring about a person rising to the occasion? About someone showing fortitude and brilliance beyond what we expect possible of humans? It’s incredible feats, like the Olympics, that move us: the grandeur and fascination of transcendence, the highest pinnacles of human physical and psychological acts—these capture our hearts and imaginations. And I could see bull-fighting, in its artistry and rigor, in this light. 

The beauty of bull fighting—its pure form, the version embodied by Pedro Romero—is placed in relief against the background of meaningless extravagance and frivolity of the characters who take center stage in this book. The novel begins in the decadence of Paris, as Jake, Brett, Robert Cohn, and their other friends—hilarious Bill and predictably pig-headed Mike—drink, eat, dance, and wile away the time. In spite of the seeming purposelessness of their lives, we see the hollowness Jake feels within this. We also see glimpses of the hollowness Brett feels within this, as she seems to seek over and over again the fulfillment, the thrill of love, while finding nothing of substance to sustain her. This is showcased in her “relationship” with the affluent Count, who buys her extravagant things and doesn’t pressure her into marriage or conformity along similar lines.