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    The Sun Also Rises
    The Sun Also Rises
    The Sun Also Rises
    Ebook302 pages4 hours

    The Sun Also Rises

    By Ernest Hemingway

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    A World War I veteran journeys from Paris to Pamplona during an era of decadence and despair in this “gripping” classic novel of the Lost Generation (The New York Times).
     
    Physically and emotionally damaged by his service in the Great War, Jake Barnes lives in 1920s France, where he passes time in nightclubs and cafés, yearning for a fellow expatriate, the beautiful English divorcée Lady Brett Ashley. She is a lively and daring woman, desired by many other men. As the pair and their social companions travel to Spain, engage in affairs and fistfights, and wrestle with the aftereffects of a senseless worldwide catastrophe, Jake must struggle mightily to hold on to his soul.
     
    From the Nobel Prize winner and icon of twentieth-century American literature, this novel is “the ideal companion for troubled times: equal parts Continental escape and serious grappling with the question of what it means to be, and feel, lost” (The Wall Street Journal).
     
    “A truly gripping story . . . magnificent writing.” —The New York Times
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateJan 1, 2022
    ISBN9781504068147
    Author

    Ernest Hemingway

    Ernest Hemingway was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1954. His novels include The Sun Also Rises, A Farewell to Arms, For Whom the Bell Tolls, and The Old Man and the Sea, which won the Pulitzer Prize in 1953. Born in Oak Park, Illinois, in 1899, he died in Ketchum, Idaho, on July 2, 1961.

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    Reviews for The Sun Also Rises

    4/5

    5,094 ratings61 reviews

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    • 1/5
      Hemingway is one of those divisive writers that you either love or you hate, and I happen to fall in the latter category. There is a point where literary realism and description can be taken so far as to reach the point of utter ennui, and nobody does this better than Hemingway. He has no intention of entertaining anybody, especially himself, and appears to write for no other reason but to record the most blandest and pointless conversations and events he can latch onto. Personally, as a reader, I'm far too lazy to make the inferences on my own that Hemingway wants me to, and what the critics love so much about him; I like to be shown everything I'm supposed to see and not have to play a guessing game. As far as I could tell, this novel has nothing more to do with a bunch of people drinking and watching bullfights, because I wasn't at all interested in figuring out the context of it all.
    • 4/5
      Understanding much of the emotional power and observations of the novel seems likely to require knowledge/experiance of historical situation
    • 2/5
      Hemingway's minimalist style does not stand up for more than a couple dozen pages, and his plot is nonexistent. Read his short stories instead.
    • 3/5
      Very good clear prose, technically seen. And Hemingway is very visual in the description of Paris,Spain, bullfighting, fishing and boxing and cycling sports. You have to place the novel, in the historical time (nineteen twenties). Nowadays, you can see the description of the Jewish character Robert Cohn as political incorrect, as also the bullfighting can be seen nowadays.
    • 3/5
      So here is my problem I rad this book back in high school and could not relate to it. 30 years later I had a better understanding of it, but still can't relate to it nor did I care about any of the characters in the story. I know people rave about Hemingway but to me he is just an ok writer. The only book for me that was readable by him was The Old Man & The Sea. The rest of his books were boring.
    • 5/5
      A young Ernest Hemingway writes his first novel. Full of the joy and sadness of youth, no one is better than Hemingway in evoking the sensual pleasures of the world. Lovely prose, wonderful energy...Hemingway in the first flush of his true talent. Not to be missed.
    • 3/5
      I still love the way Hemingway writes, but I'm docking this a star because the portrayal of Brett Ashley feels so dated. Yes, I recognize this book was written 90 years ago. But I found Brett grating enough that it spoiled the reading experience.
    • 3/5
      Short sentences, lots of drinking, dissolute characters and bulls.
    • 4/5
      Classic novel -- emasculated WWI veteran finds himself in Paris with others of the lost generation. I kept drawing parallels to the children of the 60s, similar, I thought. Characters well developed as always. Papa did good in this novel. My first Hemingway novel in this decade, I'll read some more.
    • 2/5
      Portret van een Lost Generation helemaal in lijn van Scott Fitzgerald, ook toets van Hesses Steppenwolf. Stylistisch helemaal de toonzetting van de echte Hemingway: direct, echte spreektaal.
    • 5/5
      My first Hemingway and I must say that I was impressed. The "tough guy" writing style along with his natural wittiness is what first caught my attention but it was the characters and their relationships that really drew me in. Brett is one of the most interesting female characters I've read about and, throughout the novel, I found myself wishing that she and Jake could somehow consummate their complex and unobtainable relationship.
    • 5/5
      was not expecting to like this and don't really know why i did. a story of english-speakers in france and spain between wars, they all drink way too much and look down on the europeans. they are all in lust with brett who is more like a man than the men. jake is an extremely nice guy. hope he doesn't finish last. he keeps the novel going.
    • 3/5
      Didn't connect w/this one like I did w/For Whom The Bell Tolls & A Farewell To Arms. For Whom The Bell Tolls is my favorite.
    • 3/5
      After, reading The Paris Wife, I was disappointed in The Sun Also Rises. So many of the scenes are repeated in both books, with more detail in The Paris Wife. All the drinking and carousing and fighting becomes too much. The relationships are sketchy in both books. The bull fighting and fishing are very detailed. I would venture to say that The Sun Also Rises is a book that most men would enjoy, but I felt under currents of homosexuality.
    • 4/5
      When I finished this book on March 12, 1955, I said: "I so envied the characters, getting to spend such delightful days and nights in Paris and Spain. I felt so refreshed by Hemingway's clear, clean prose, better, I think, than his later stuff. I was quite caught up in the style, and of course vicariously enjoyed the drinking that so reminded me of my brief times in Europe. Golly, how I wish I could go to Europe."
    • 1/5
      The book was well written, I suppose, but I found it a complete bore. I could never connect with any of the characters. Hemingway got his point across about this bitter and amoral lost generation of young people after the first world war, who spend their days aimlessly drinking and partying together. I am sure that there is much literary praise for this work and the author, but I wasn't impressed with the book at all.
    • 5/5
      Lovely edition of my favorite of his books, with a hand-tipped illustration, Woman With a Mandolin by Georges Braque (1937,) on the cover. Beautiful writing, timeless story, very handsome book. Best last line in the history of novels.
    • 4/5
      Loved the critique of ex-pat society in the 1920's. Loved the slight on the French. Loved that this American man experienced and described the corridas in a decade where few would have known what the hell he was talking about. Loved that he uses French and Spanish words and doesn't define them. In general, I very much enjoyed this book and look forward to the rest of Hemingway. Say what you will of his character, but writing by your own rules certainly has an impact.
    • 3/5
      When people are talking it's kinda interesting, but more often it's just pages and pages of Spanish countryside and fishing and stuff. Meh.
    • 5/5
      Powerful, vivid book read in 1969, just after living in Spain - Hemmingway's description of Spain and bullfighting resonated strongly.
    • 5/5
      A powerful description of the Lost Generation that aptly resonates in modern ears. Various topics of importance are discussed like the irreparable damage of war, how to hold your liquor and cultural differences between the Spanish and the French. Is both very sad and very funny simultaneously with the leitmotif properly expressed by Voltaire long ago "O che sciagura d'essere senza coglioni."
    • 4/5
      Wonderful read. Set after WWI, the book chronicles the wild nightlife and laissez faire attitude of ex patriate Jake Barnes and his unforgettable friends as they drink themselves silly enjoying the Paris nightlife and during a trip to Spain to fish and participate in a week long bullfight fiesta. Terrific dialogue and character development ... particularly with Lady Brett Ashley, a true free spirit.
    • 4/5
      I had just finished the Paris Wife which tells about EH writing this book after they had been to the bull-fights in Spain. I have to remember this was written in a different time. It seems all they did was drink and travel and I wonder how they had the money to do all of that. Not my favorite book. But glad I can say I read Hemmingway.
    • 3/5
      not sure about this one. Got to page 94. Might get again.
    • 4/5
      Yeah, Hemingway, so I'm sure its great. I didn't get it.
      I feel dumb for not getting it, but I didn't get it.
      These characters were a brat pack of annoying spoileds getting drunk and roaming Europe. Read it anyway, because I'm a literary snob and Hemingway was on my literary bucket list. Someone please explain it to me.
    • 5/5
      The first Hemingway novel I've read in a very long time, and it totally redeemed the writer for me. The episodic story of Jake Barnes and Lady Ashley, together with their friends was much more than their drunken sprees, fishing in the Pyrennes, and the bulls running in Pamplona. This time the language absolutely caught me up in the atmosphere and time period between two world wars.
    • 5/5
      My favorite Hemingway. Explores the expatriates of the list generation.
    • 1/5
      BORING!!!!! this book should have ended 100 pages before it did. the first hemingway i ever read. i only pick it up now if i can't sleep.
    • 3/5
      Interesting story, like most of the so called great books it was so-so. I guess this is the story where the running of the bulls became a thing for Americans to go to. A lot of the prose is unfamiliar in today's world. I found that keeping a dictionary close by was helpful.
    • 4/5
      Love this book. I always wanted to be Brett when I was young (and tried).

    Book preview

    The Sun Also Rises - Ernest Hemingway

    Book I

    Chapter 1

    Robert Cohn was once middleweight boxing champion of Princeton. Do not think that I am very much impressed by that as a boxing title, but it meant a lot to Cohn. He cared nothing for boxing, in fact he disliked it, but he learned it painfully and thoroughly to counteract the feeling of inferiority and shyness he had felt on being treated as a Jew at Princeton. There was a certain inner comfort in knowing he could knock down anybody who was snooty to him, although, being very shy and a thoroughly nice boy, he never fought except in the gym. He was Spider Kelly’s star pupil. Spider Kelly taught all his young gentlemen to box like featherweights, no matter whether they weighed one hundred and five or two hundred and five pounds. But it seemed to fit Cohn. He was really very fast. He was so good that Spider promptly overmatched him and got his nose permanently flattened. This increased Cohn’s distaste for boxing, but it gave him a certain satisfaction of some strange sort, and it certainly improved his nose. In his last year at Princeton he read too much and took to wearing spectacles. I never met any one of his class who remembered him. They did not even remember that he was middleweight boxing champion.

    I mistrust all frank and simple people, especially when their stories hold together, and I always had a suspicion that perhaps Robert Cohn had never been middleweight boxing champion, and that perhaps a horse had stepped on his face, or that maybe his mother had been frightened or seen something, or that he had, maybe, bumped into something as a young child, but I finally had somebody verify the story from Spider Kelly. Spider Kelly not only remembered Cohn. He had often wondered what had become of him.

    Robert Cohn was a member, through his father, of one of the richest Jewish families in New York, and through his mother of one of the oldest. At the military school where he prepped for Princeton, and played a very good end on the football team, no one had made him race-conscious. No one had ever made him feel he was a Jew, and hence any different from anybody else, until he went to Princeton. He was a nice boy, a friendly boy, and very shy, and it made him bitter. He took it out in boxing, and he came out of Princeton with painful self-consciousness and the flattened nose, and was married by the first girl who was nice to him. He was married five years, had three children, lost most of the fifty thousand dollars his father left him, the balance of the estate having gone to his mother, hardened into a rather unattractive mould under domestic unhappiness with a rich wife; and just when he had made up his mind to leave his wife she left him and went off with a miniature-painter. As he had been thinking for months about leaving his wife and had not done it because it would be too cruel to deprive her of himself, her departure was a very healthful shock.

    The divorce was arranged and Robert Cohn went out to the Coast. In California he fell among literary people and, as he still had a little of the fifty thousand left, in a short time he was backing a review of the Arts. The review commenced publication in Carmel, California, and finished in Provincetown, Massachusetts. By that time Cohn, who had been regarded purely as an angel, and whose name had appeared on the editorial page merely as a member of the advisory board, had become the sole editor. It was his money and he discovered he liked the authority of editing. He was sorry when the magazine became too expensive and he had to give it up.

    By that time, though, he had other things to worry about. He had been taken in hand by a lady who hoped to rise with the magazine. She was very forceful, and Cohn never had a chance of not being taken in hand. Also he was sure that he loved her. When this lady saw that the magazine was not going to rise, she became a little disgusted with Cohn and decided that she might as well get what there was to get while there was still something available, so she urged that they go to Europe, where Cohn could write. They came to Europe, where the lady had been educated, and stayed three years. During these three years, the first spent in travel, the last two in Paris, Robert Cohn had two friends, Braddocks and myself. Braddocks was his literary friend. I was his tennis friend.

    The lady who had him, her name was Frances, found toward the end of the second year that her looks were going, and her attitude toward Robert changed from one of careless possession and exploitation to the absolute determination that he should marry her. During this time Robert’s mother had settled an allowance on him, about three hundred dollars a month. During two years and a half I do not believe that Robert Cohn looked at another woman. He was fairly happy, except that, like many people living in Europe, he would rather have been in America, and he had discovered writing. He wrote a novel, and it was not really such a bad novel as the critics later called it, although it was a very poor novel. He read many books, played bridge, played tennis, and boxed at a local gymnasium.

    I first became aware of his lady’s attitude toward him one night after the three of us had dined together. We had dined at l’Avenue’s and afterward went to the Café de Versailles for coffee. We had several fines after the coffee, and I said I must be going. Cohn had been talking about the two of us going off somewhere on a weekend trip. He wanted to get out of town and get in a good walk. I suggested we fly to Strasbourg and walk up to Saint Odile, or somewhere or other in Alsace. I know a girl in Strasbourg who can show us the town, I said.

    Somebody kicked me under the table. I thought it was accidental and went on: She’s been there two years and knows everything there is to know about the town. She’s a swell girl.

    I was kicked again under the table and, looking, saw Frances, Robert’s lady, her chin lifting and her face hardening.

    Hell, I said, why go to Strasbourg? We could go up to Bruges, or to the Ardennes.

    Cohn looked relieved. I was not kicked again. I said good-night and went out. Cohn said he wanted to buy a paper and would walk to the corner with me. For God’s sake, he said, why did you say that about that girl in Strasbourg for? Didn’t you see Frances?

    No, why should I? If I know an American girl that lives in Strasbourg what the hell is it to Frances?

    It doesn’t make any difference. Any girl. I couldn’t go, that would be all.

    Don’t be silly.

    You don’t know Frances. Any girl at all. Didn’t you see the way she looked?

    Oh, well, I said, let’s go to Senlis.

    Don’t get sore.

    I’m not sore. Senlis is a good place and we can stay at the Grand Cerf and take a hike in the woods and come home.

    Good, that will be fine.

    Well, I’ll see you to-morrow at the courts, I said.

    Good-night, Jake, he said, and started back to the café.

    You forgot to get your paper, I said.

    That’s so. He walked with me up to the kiosque at the corner. You are not sore, are you, Jake? He turned with the paper in his hand.

    No, why should I be?

    See you at tennis, he said. I watched him walk back to the café holding his paper. I rather liked him and evidently she led him quite a life.

    Chapter 2

    That winter Robert Cohn went over to America with his novel, and it was accepted by a fairly good publisher. His going made an awful row I heard, and I think that was where Frances lost him, because several women were nice to him in New York, and when he came back he was quite changed. He was more enthusiastic about America than ever, and he was not so simple, and he was not so nice. The publishers had praised his novel pretty highly and it rather went to his head. Then several women had put themselves out to be nice to him, and his horizons had all shifted. For four years his horizon had been absolutely limited to his wife. For three years, or almost three years, he had never seen beyond Frances. I am sure he had never been in love in his life.

    He had married on the rebound from the rotten time he had in college, and Frances took him on the rebound from his discovery that he had not been everything to his first wife. He was not in love yet but he realized that he was an attractive quantity to women, and that the fact of a woman caring for him and wanting to live with him was not simply a divine miracle. This changed him so that he was not so pleasant to have around. Also, playing for higher stakes than he could afford in some rather steep bridge games with his New York connections, he had held cards and won several hundred dollars. It made him rather vain of his bridge game, and he talked several times of how a man could always make a living at bridge if he were ever forced to.

    Then there was another thing. He had been reading W. H. Hudson. That sounds like an innocent occupation, but Cohn had read and reread The Purple Land. The Purple Land is a very sinister book if read too late in life. It recounts splendid imaginary amorous adventures of a perfect English gentleman in an intensely romantic land, the scenery of which is very well described. For a man to take it at thirty-four as a guide-book to what life holds is about as safe as it would be for a man of the same age to enter Wall Street direct from a French convent, equipped with a complete set of the more practical Alger books. Cohn, I believe, took every word of The Purple Land as literally as though it had been an R. G. Dun report. You understand me, he made some reservations, but on the whole the book to him was sound. It was all that was needed to set him off. I did not realize the extent to which it had set him off until one day he came into my office.

    Hello, Robert, I said. Did you come in to cheer me up?

    Would you like to go to South America, Jake? he asked.

    No.

    Why not?

    I don’t know. I never wanted to go. Too expensive. You can see all the South Americans you want in Paris anyway.

    They’re not the real South Americans.

    They look awfully real to me.

    I had a boat train to catch with a week’s mail stories, and only half of them written.

    Do you know any dirt? I asked.

    No.

    None of your exalted connections getting divorces?

    No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, would you go to South America with me?

    Why me?

    You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun with two of us.

    No, I said, I like this town and I go to Spain in the summer-time.

    All my life I’ve wanted to go on a trip like that, Cohn said. He sat down. I’ll be too old before I can ever do it.

    Don’t be a fool, I said. You can go anywhere you want. You’ve got plenty of money.

    I know. But I can’t get started.

    Cheer up, I said. All countries look just like the moving pictures.

    But I felt sorry for him. He had it badly.

    I can’t stand it to think my life is going so fast and I’m not really living it.

    Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bull-fighters.

    I’m not interested in bull-fighters. That’s an abnormal life. I want to go back in the country in South America. We could have a great trip.

    Did you ever think about going to British East Africa to shoot?

    No, I wouldn’t like that.

    I’d go there with you.

    No; that doesn’t interest me.

    That’s because you never read a book about it. Go on and read a book all full of love affairs with the beautiful shiny black princesses.

    I want to go to South America.

    He had a hard, Jewish, stubborn streak.

    Come on down-stairs and have a drink.

    Aren’t you working?

    No, I said. We went down the stairs to the café on the ground floor. I had discovered that was the best way to get rid of friends. Once you had a drink all you had to say was: Well, I’ve got to get back and get off some cables, and it was done. It is very important to discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper business, where it is such an important part of the ethics that you should never seem to be working. Anyway, we went down-stairs to the bar and had a whiskey and soda. Cohn looked at the bottles in bins around the wall. This is a good place, he said.

    There’s a lot of liquor, I agreed.

    Listen, Jake, he leaned forward on the bar. Don’t you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and 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 a while.

    Do you know that in about thirty-five years more we’ll be dead?

    What the hell, Robert, I said. What the hell.

    I’m serious.

    It’s one thing I don’t worry about, I said.

    You ought to.

    I’ve had plenty to worry about one time or other. I’m through worrying.

    Well, I want to go to South America.

    Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn’t make any difference. I’ve tried all that. You can’t get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There’s nothing to that.

    But you’ve never been to South America.

    South America hell! If you went there the way you feel now it would be exactly the same. This is a good town. Why don’t you start living your life in Paris?

    I’m sick of Paris, and I’m sick of the Quarter.

    Stay away from the Quarter. Cruise around by yourself and see what happens to you.

    Nothing happens to me. I walked alone all one night and nothing happened except a bicycle cop stopped me and asked to see my papers.

    Wasn’t the town nice at night?

    I don’t care for Paris.

    So there you were. I was sorry for him, but it was not a thing you could do anything about, because right away you ran up against the two stubbornnesses: South America could fix it and he did not like Paris. He got the first idea out of a book, and I suppose the second came out of a book too.

    Well, I said, I’ve got to go up-stairs and get off some cables.

    Do you really have to go?

    Yes, I’ve got to get these cables off.

    Do you mind if I come up and sit around the office?

    No, come on up.

    He sat in the outer room and read the papers, and the Editor and Publisher and I worked hard for two hours. Then I sorted out the carbons, stamped on a by-line, put the stuff in a couple of big manila envelopes and rang for a boy to take them to the Gare St. Lazare. I went out into the other room and there was Robert Cohn asleep in the big chair. He was asleep with his head on his arms. I did not like to wake him up, but I wanted to lock the office and shove off. I put my hand on his shoulder. He shook his head. I can’t do it, he said, and put his head deeper into his arms. I can’t do it. Nothing will make me do it.

    Robert, I said, and shook him by the shoulder. He looked up. He smiled and blinked.

    Did I talk out loud just then?

    Something. But it wasn’t clear.

    God, what a rotten dream!

    Did the typewriter put you to sleep?

    Guess so. I didn’t sleep all last night.

    What was the matter?

    Talking, he said.

    I could picture it. I have a rotten habit of picturing the bedroom scenes of my friends. We went out to the Café Napolitain to have an apéritif and watch the evening crowd on the Boulevard.

    Chapter 3

    It was a warm spring night and I sat at a table on the terrace of the Napolitain after Robert had gone, watching it get dark and the electric signs come on, and the red and green stop-and-go traffic-signal, and the crowd going by, and the horse-cabs clippety-clopping along at the edge of the solid taxi traffic, and the poules going by, singly and in pairs, looking for the evening meal. I watched a good-looking girl walk past the table and watched her go up the street and lost sight of her, and watched another, and then saw the first one coming back again. She went by once more and I caught her eye, and she came over and sat down at the table. The waiter came up.

    Well, what will you drink? I asked.

    Pernod.

    That’s not good for little girls.

    Little girl yourself. Dites garçon, un pernod.

    A pernod for me, too.

    What’s the matter? she asked. Going on a party?

    Sure. Aren’t you?

    I don’t know. You never know in this town.

    Don’t you like Paris?

    No.

    Why don’t you go somewhere else?

    Isn’t anywhere else.

    You’re happy, all right.

    Happy, hell!

    Pernod is greenish imitation absinthe. When you add water it turns milky. It tastes like licorice and it has a good uplift, but it drops you just as far. We sat and drank it, and the girl looked sullen.

    Well, I said, are you going to buy me a dinner?

    She grinned and I saw why she made a point of not laughing. With her mouth closed she was a rather pretty girl. I paid for the saucers and we walked out to the street. I hailed a horse-cab and the driver pulled up at the curb. Settled back in the slow, smoothly rolling fiacre we moved up the Avenue de l’Opéra, passed the locked doors of the shops, their windows lighted, the Avenue broad and shiny and almost deserted. The cab passed the New York Herald bureau with the window full of clocks.

    What are all the clocks for? she asked.

    They show the hour all over America.

    Don’t kid me.

    We turned off the Avenue up the Rue des Pyramides, through the traffic of the Rue de Rivoli, and through a dark gate into the Tuileries. She cuddled against me and I put my arm around her. She looked up to be kissed. She touched me with one hand and I put her hand away.

    Never mind.

    What’s the matter? You sick?

    Yes.

    Everybody’s sick. I’m sick, too.

    We came out of the Tuileries into the light and crossed the Seine and then turned up the Rue des Saints Pères.

    You oughtn’t to drink pernod if you’re sick.

    You neither.

    It doesn’t make any difference with me. It doesn’t make any difference with a woman.

    What are you called?

    Georgette. How are you called?

    Jacob.

    That’s a Flemish name.

    American too.

    You’re not Flamand?

    No, American.

    Good, I detest Flamands.

    By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to the cocher to stop. We got out and Georgette did not like the looks

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