The Sun Also Rises
I finished reading SAR around ten o’clock
tonight. I could have taken it all in one big gulp when I began a week
ago, but I couldn’t do that. It wanted me to bring it out slowly, so I
often found myself reading five or ten pages and laying it aside to absorb
without engulfing. A man gets used to reading Star Wars and pulp fiction
and New York Times Bestsellers and forgets what literature is until it
slaps him in the face. This book was written, not churned out or word-processed.
Again, I thoroughly enjoyed reading.
I never noticed it until it was brought
up in class, maybe because it wasn’t a point for me in In Our Time, but
He doesn’t often enough credit quotations with, “,he said,” or, “,said
Brett,” or, “,Bill replied.” In SAR it stood and called attention to itself.
I wasn’t particularly bothered by His not telling me who said what, but
it was very…pointed. I first noticed around the hundredth page or so.
Then I realized I couldn’t keep track of who was speaking. By not dwelling
on it, though, sort of (hate to say this) accepting it, I managed to assign
speech to whomever I felt was speaking. Gradually I came to enjoy it, in
another plane of reading, figuring out from whom words were originating.
To not notice it, as if it were one of those annoying 3-D posters that
you can’t see until you make a concerted effort not to try and see, became
simple – much like those 3-D pictures are once you know what not to look
for. (I abhor ending sentences with prepositions…)
His not telling was heightening to the
story. It made things come even more alive. As a conversation that you’re
hearing at a nearby table in a restaurant, the exchanges flowed, with me
as a more passive reader than in a story written to be read instead of
lived. It has always been troubling for me to read a book with the knowledge
that there are things I am supposed to be catching, but not quite. The
fish in the pools and the allegory and analogy and symbolism aren’t fond
of me. Trying to see that the bull-fighters and their purity or lack and
how it relates to Him as a writer surrounded by a universe of new fiction
printed for the masses, that is all fine and well. The short sentences,
the lack of qualifying, “he said”s and “she saids” and such, the tragedy
of his love for Brett, those are the things I enjoy reading. Those are
the reasons I read and the reasons a man like Him writes. There are stranger
things, Horatio…or something like that. I believe Paul Simon read Hemingway
at some point in his life.