A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway.

“You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person died for no reason.” 

I'll be honest and say I don't know a great deal about Hemingway, and I probably should. I definitely know the basics and have read a couple of novels (The Sun Also Rises and A Farewell to Arms) as well as a few short stories (I actually use "A Soldier's Home" in my American lit class). He's one of those figures in American literature I tell myself to read more of, but never seem to find the time. Then I had my experience with The Paris Wife over my break (post here) and found myself quite fascinated with Hemingway and his work.

This title had been sitting my shelf for quite some time, so I knew it would become a part of my TBR Challenge for this year, as well as a jumping off point for some further exploration of his work. And, so enthused by my recent reading of The Paris Wife, this become book #2 that I finished in 2014.

It was fabulous.

From the very first chapter, I was taken in by Hemingway's writing and transported back to his years spent in Paris. Through his recollections, I also got to meet some great literary figures-Stein, Pound, Ford, and Fitzgerald (all of which I should also explore at some later date). His gossipy chapters about their lives and his writing and his experiences on the streets were vivid and simple and complex all wrapped up in succinct observations. It was beautiful.

His observations of his fellow writers was both entertaining and heart-breaking. In particular, his chapters on Fitzgerald and his decline broke my heart, perhaps because I just finished teaching The Great Gatsby to my sophomores. Through Hemingway's eyes, I had to see Fitzgerald as weak and unsure...and a captive to his alcohol. But I also got to see him through a friend's eye-not just as someone I've admired from years away and based solely on his writing. I found that to be a bit of a profound experience. I mean, I love writers and their products and while I love to research their lives and experiences, I don't always get to see them in such a raw way. Hemingway's observations made that come to life.

However, my favorite parts where Hemingway's musings on his craft. His words about making stories appear, and living through them, was also raw and emotional. He took his writing seriously and set rules for drinking around his writing (interesting, right?). He also mentioned the devastation of losing his early work when his first wife, Hadley, was bringing it to him (it was stolen on her train). The idea of losing my own work, as unimportant as it is, breaks my heart, so I can imagine that he truly did feel lost when it was gone. Like myself currently, Hemingway had a real connection to his words. It was beautiful to see that passion and drive come through even as his reflection.

In all, I found this memoir to be inspiring. To know that he often felt discouraged and hopeless, that he and Hadley lived in tiny apartments cramped with books and paper...it was a bit soothing to tell the truth. It was all they really needed to be happy.

I'm curious to read more about hie life and more of his work. And by reading something that came out after his death. I think I can read his work with a new perspective-see his mind working away at crafting enough work each day. I'm so tempted to craft another author study for him, but I know I should finish those I've already undertaken.

And if you haven't read this and are looking for a way to introduce yourself to Hemingway, why not start here. It's a great recollection of his days in Paris before truly "making it" as a writer.

“There is never any ending to Paris and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other. We always returned to it no matter who we were or how it was changed or with what difficulties, or ease, it could be reached. Paris was always worth it and you received return for whatever you brought to it. But this is how Paris was in the early days when we were very poor and very happy.”

Classics Circuit: The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway.

“You can’t get away from yourself by moving from one place to another" (19).

Welcome to my post for the Classics Circuit tour of the "Lost Generation" era of American literature. I was really excited that this era of literature won in the vote, since I love this era of U.S. History. The period of U.S. History from the beginning of WWI to the end of WWII has defined the country we are today. What better way to explore that than through the eyes of writers?

For those of you unfamiliar with the "Lost Generation" writers, they are a group who worked closely together in the 1920s and focused on many contemporary issues in the American way of life. If you have read The Great Gatsby, then you are familiar with the era.

Given that there were so many choices by these wonderful authors, I had a hard time choosing. I was stuck between F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway. I have had limited experience with both, so you might understand why I had a hard time deciding!

I ended up going with a Hemingway novel. It spoke to me off my shelf. The Sun Also Rises, published in 1926, really starts this idea and concept of the "lost generation" of Americans. That term, in reference to history, identifies the young generation of Americans who came home from the war. for many, it had been a nightmare-vicious and violent. Many felt that it hadn't been our war to fight (since before WWI, the U.S. was rather isolationist. We didn't really involve ourselves in world affairs). When these men and women came home, they were lost. How DO you come back to living a normal life after seeing so much death?

For many of them, they struggled to find a purpose and place back in America. Things were different, freer, and these young people had to adjust to that new feeling. Many struggled, but many more triumphed. It was a period in U.S. history (the twenties) where things appeared to be good. People were happy. We were at peace. We were not dominated by thoughts of violence and oppression.

So I was curious to see how Hemingway's novel captured this attitude and feel. I love the history of the 20s, so I couldn't wait to see his view.

The novel focuses on a group of Americans living abroad. Some are writers, others are just lost. Our narrator is Jake Barnes, a veteran of the first world war. In sparse prose, we are included in this collection of lost souls as they try to figure out where to go next. There are love affairs, fights, and pain, but the overall theme of this novel comes back to that idea of being lost.

Where do you go after you have faced death? What do you do when you have been through war?

I can't answer those questions. I haven't been there, I haven't faced those things. While members of my generation are fighting a war, it is not as widespread, as panic stricken, or as devastating as WWI was. I have never had to come home with the knowledge that I killed a man, or saw death on battlefields or in hospitals.

Those are feelings that many people in the twenties felt, and I can see all of those things in Hemingway's novel. He is not a flowery writer, preferring to get across his message in short, declarative sentences, but he doesn't need to beef things up to get across the sparse, bare feeling of being lost. He does that well by being straight forward. I love that kind of writing.

The characters are great examples of this feeling of a lost identity. This passage, taken from near the beginning of the novel, really sums up that feeling of confusion:

"'Listen, Jake,' he leaned forward on the bar, 'Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by bad you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?'
'Yes, every once in awhile.'
'Do you know that in about thirty-five more years we'll be dead?'
'What the hell, Robert,' I said. 'What the hell" (19).

I'm sure we all feel that way sometimes, but that feeling of desperation and loneliness was such an ingrained part of their lives.

Here is another passage that I have reread numerous times in the last few days:

"She was sitting up now. My arm was around her and she was leaning back against me, and we were quite calm. She was looking into my eyes with that way she had of looking that made you wonder whether she really saw out of her own eyes. They would look on and on after every one else's eyes in the world would have stopped looking. She looked as though there were nothing on earth she would not look at like that, and really she was afraid of so many things," (34).

Beautiful, isn't it? While I can certainly appreciate flowery description, sometimes all I really want is something to that point. Hemingway is good that way.

The Sun Also Rises is a beautiful novel-one that defines both a generation of writers and the hopeful nature of young Americans after the Great War. It captures a period and feeling of American history unlike any other and would be an excellent place to start for anyone interested in the time period.

If you are interested in signing up for future Classic Circuit posts, or to track other posts in the Lost Generation Tour, please visit the Classics Circuit Blog. It is a wonderful opportunity to promote the reading of classics, meet other bloggers, or dust off a classic that has been on your shelf for years (we all have them-don't be ashamed!).

Book 8: Finished.

For such a short little novella, The Old Man and the Sea packs something powerful that I found lacking in the other pieces I have read by Hemingway.

In short, an old man who is down on his luck goes out to sea fishing. He lands a great fish, a marlin, and battles with it for three days before he succeeds in killing it. By that time he is far at sea and must race back to land while sharks attack his catch and destroy the fish he has come to love and respect.

It’s clear that there are a lot of themes and metaphors in these 126 pages. The old man represents the old way of thinking and doing; the young boy the up and coming who are trying to learn from the old but improve on their techniques; and the marlin is the challenge, the essence of what both the old man and young boy are trying to attain—grandeur.

I read this in one sitting, while Matt was playing Guitar Hero and Hemi the cat (not named after Hemingway, but after the car engine) refused to cuddle on my lap. I think the only way to read this is in one sitting. It’s too hard to break away from the old man’s struggle.

I liked Hemingway’s writing style, which I knew from my previous readings of some of his short stories. It’s simplistic and to the point, a far cry from some other things I have read so far (*cough* Dostoevsky). The story is moving, sad, but really full of all the things that we have to find in ourselves at different times.

The old man has a lot to teach us: hope, faith, courage, conviction, passion, triumph, and loss. He faces this battle knowing that the fish must die, or he must die. He respects his enemy and victim, and thanks him for a worthy fight. And even though the sharks take away his victory when he finally pulls into shore, the skeleton of the great fish is a reminder to everyone who sees it of the strength of the old man.

Much like a scar, the skeleton of the marlin tells a story that only the owner can fully understand and appreciate.

And because Hemingway wrote down this story of courage and strength, we too can learn from the old man’s scar and see the skeleton for what it really is: a test of a person’s strength when all odds are against them.

I leave you with some favorite portions:

“Then he was sorry for the great fish that had nothing to eat and his determination to kill him never relaxed in his sorrow for him. How many people will he feed, he though. But are they worth to eat him? No, of course not. There is no one worthy of eating him from the manner of his behaviour and his great dignity.

I do not understand these things, he thought. But it is good that we do not have to try to kill the sun or the moon or the stars. It is enough to live on the sea and kill our true brothers,” (75).

“I must hold his pain where it is, he thought. Mine does not matter. I can control mine. But his pain could drive him mad,” (88).

“You are killing me, fish, the old man thought. But you have a right to. Never have I seen a greater, or more beautiful, or a calmer or more noble thing than you, brother. Come on and kill me. I do not care who kills who,” (92).

“Then his head started to become a little unclear and he thought, is he bringing me in or am I bringing him in? If I were towing him behind there would be no question. Nor if the fish were in the skiff, with all dignity gone, there would be no question either. But they were sailing together lashed side by side and the old man thought, let him bring me in if it pleases him. I am only better than him through trickery and he meant me no harm,” (99).

Book 8: My 5 Fish to His 2 Fish.

My paternal grandparents had a cottage in the northern part of the lower peninsula of Michigan, which has been passed on to my dad and his siblings. When we were younger, my grandparents would take my two older brothers and me up there with them all the time. Going up for a weekend trip with grandma and grandpa was always a treat, especially when we stopped at West Branch for McDonald’s.

There was one weekend in particular where I went up alone with Grandma and Grandpa during the summer (or everyone else was on their way and I just can’t recall at the time). I was young, maybe 6 or 7, but it is one of the most vivid memories from those years up there with them.

The cottage is on Otsego Lake, which is rather shallow, and as we jokingly say now, devoid of fish. Way back then we had better luck fishing and often caught big keepers off the end of the dock. On this particular trip, Grandpa and I decided to go fishing off the end of the dock.

Somehow I had managed to catch three fish to his two, when I snagged another fish and reeled him in. In the dim twilight I remember watching my grandpa trying to get the hook out of the fish, but the fish had swallowed it. Grandpa decided to go around to the garage to get a pair of pliers and left me in charge of watching the fish and his line.

While Grandpa was gone, I lowered my fish back in the water and watched him swimming a few inches from the surface of the lake. As I was watching my fish and neglecting my grandfather’s line, I saw a dark shadow approach my fish and linger. Squinting even closer, I realized it was another fish that had come to visit my victim. Instead of swimming away, the fish stayed right by my own fish, keeping him company.

Realizing that I could catch yet another fish, I lowered my grandfather’s line into the water slowly and wriggled the worm in front of the new fish. He grabbed on and by the time my grandpa came back from the garage with the pliers, I had two fish on the line.

After that night, I always teased Grandpa about being a better fisherman because I had caught 5 fish compared to his 2.

Now, you are lucky to catch one fish in that lake and usually it’s too small to keep.

I say all this knowing that I am diving into Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. It is a famous fishing story, perhaps not as epically huge as Moby Dick, but still about a man chasing a dream to catch the monster of all fish.

And as I read about the old fisherman and his battle with the marlin, I’m also going to think about my own grandfather, the fisherman and all those lessons her taught me before he passed away. I have many memories of him, and each memory is as strong as the one I have from that night, but not as touching.

He got down on the dock right beside me to look at the two fish I had caught—the one with a hook in its stomach, and the one who came to keep him company—and said,

“You cheated. You stole my line when my back was turned!”

The next time I went fishing with him, he made sure not to leave his pole untended and told me that even though I out-fished him that night, I would never have the chance to do it again.

And I never did.