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Dry. Bare. Brittle. But not drying out so far. Quite the contrary.
Dry like a very dry Jerez, a "manzanilla." But he doesn't drink Jerez in Spain before, brandy de Jerez from Fundador, after a few bottles of dry rioja.
In Paris, however, he always has a siphon close at hand for his whiskey, and the fine is still in the water, but the wine remains dry, whether it is Piquette or Chateau-Margaux.
He drinks dry and writes dry. He's Hemingway, but he's also his hero, Jacob (Jake) Barnes. A journalist who haunts bars and nightclubs in the Quartier Latin with friends thirsty as him and on both shores. From Montparnasse too. Americans like him. And in English sometimes. And an English one. A Unique. Lady Ashley. Brett has a boyish hairstyle. Who quickly becomes infatuated and passes from the arms to the arms. By love? But no! Infatuation, perhaps. Need escort, parade, never in the arms of Barnes. And yet. But it is impossible. They got to know each other; she is a volunteer nurse and hurts him. There's a nasty wound that keeps them from materializing their love. Since then, they turn around, and he follows his connections calmly.
The reader travels with them for a long time in Paris until they decide to leave in a group for Spain, fish for trout, and especially for the feast of San Fermin in Pamplona. The Fiesta! Los Sanfermines! The bulls ran in the streets to the corrals, the bullring enclosures, and the Plaza de Toros. The raging crowd rushed past them. And the bullfights! The ballet of bullfighters and the smell of blood in the air! And eight days of festivities, fireworks, songs and dances, bands of jota dancers, bands of fifes and drums! It will be eight days of dreams and nightmares for the Barnes gang. Eight days of drunkenness, or they will explode. They will insult each other; they will fight, always for them. - or because of - the beautiful eyes of Brett, who, affirming his inconstant pose, will leave them, will reject the English of service which was to marry her to follow a beautiful toreador of 19 years. Inconstancy? Constance, instead, is in a love that she knows is impossible, unrealizable. And so the end of the book can only bring us back to its beginning, in a kind of loop without exit, without hope, dry, dry to prevent the tears from blooming:
"- Oh, Jake, " said Brett, " We could have been so happy together!
In front of us, an officer in khaki controlled traffic from the top of his horse. He raised his staff. The cab suddenly slows down, pressing Brett against me.
- Yes, I say. But, of course, it's always nice to think about. "
Very dry writing. Descriptions and dialogues. Without introspective passages. Without psychological explanations. And that gives a moving book. This work is the secret of Hemingway's "iceberg writing": it reveals what we see, and the reader senses the enormous mass of emotions that lurk beneath the surface. Some saw it as a description of the interior of the famous "lost generation" of Americans exiled in Paris; others as an ode to hedonism. I saw perhaps the opposite: a cry of alarm, a cry for help, and above all, a remarkable love story. Impossible, of course, for the most incredible compassion, for the most excellent emotion of the reader. And suppose we want at all costs to speak of a lost generation. In that case, it is perhaps the whole generation of the post-war period, the post-World War I, the horror of trenches. Still, it is precise to her that Hemingway dedicates the title of his book (after trying to call it Fiesta): The Sun Also Rises, the Sun Also Rises. After the night always comes the day. The Sun rises every day and will always give us light and hope. Precarious, not assured, but hope all the same.
I will repeat myself, and you will forgive me: it is a remarkable love story.