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Ernest Hemingway wrote seven novels. The most well-known are A Farewell to Arms, A Moveable Feast, The Old Man and The Sea, and The Sun Also Rises. He won the 1954 Nobel Prize in Literature because of how excellent his novels were and because he wrote them all in a terse style that influenced other writers. I read The Sun Also Rises.

The Sun Also Rises tells the story of five friends, Jake Barnes, Lady Brett Ashley, Bill Gorton, Robert Cohn, and Michael Campbell, who journey to Pamplona for the fiesta of San Fermin. Jake, a journalist like Hemingway was, narrates the novel. Michael is engaged to Brett, but their engagement is complicated. Jake was once Brett’s lover; Cohn was once Brett’s lover; Bill, admittedly, was not. The reader bears witness to the fighting, bullfighting, talking, fishing, driving, and, most of all, obscene amounts of drinking; the spectacle reveals an emotional depth to all the characters as much as it reveals how much of a goddamn writing genius Hemingway was.

Hemingway writes the novel like it is a play. How the characters feel is revealed through dialogue and actions. Narration is used to describe the scenes and advance the plot; and when it does reveal feelings, it is because the reader has dug deep to find them. I have the impression that the characters are folders with identification tags. They are moved around to different contexts by the narration and they exchange files with each other through dialogue. The reader learns about the folders by seeing glimpses at the files as they are being exchanged. Hemingway used the metaphor of an iceberg to describe his writing style. He called it the iceberg theory, or the theory of omission: “If a writer of prose knows enough of what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an ice-berg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water. A writer who omits things because he does not know them only makes hollow places in his writing.”

The Sun Also Rises meanders. It is not a plotted novel. Hemingway did not construct the events of the plot as a canvas and then paint in the detail and dialogue. He created people and set them loose and he saw where they went. The result is a genuine portrayal of human behaviour, not a hero’s journey butter churn. It never feels like a person behaves unnaturally, or something unrealistic happens because it was necessary for the plot.

Most importantly, Hemingway’s first novel is a pleasure to read. Any compartmentalized facets of his writing could still lead to trash if used in the wrong hands. Hemingway is a good writer, in that nebulous sense that cannot be logically described, because his writing makes you want to read more, not because he is famous and you know it is “good” so you ought to read it, but because you really have no choice. Once you start you cannot stop. There is no better way to show this than through quotations: “It was like certain dinners I remember from the war. There was much wine, an ignored tension, and a feeling of things happening that you could not prevent happening. Under the wine I lost the disgusted feeling and was happy. It seemed they were all such nice people.” Perhaps in a novel narrated by a sensitive, adverbial dialogue tag wielding emotion fiend who is as taciturn in conversation as they are verbose in their internal monologue this quotation would be restrained. However, this is probably the furthest Jake goes in the way of expressing his feelings in the entire novel. It has a stronger impact that way. As another example, consider the interaction when Jake meets Brett, his past lover and friend, for the first time in the book:

“ ‘Hello, Brett,’ I said. ‘Why aren’t you tight?’

“ ‘Never going to get tight any more. I say, give a chap a brandy and soda.’ ”

There is no whimpering, blushing, awkward chuckles; no sentimental slop. Or perhaps consider:

“ ‘Oh, Jake,’ Brett said, ‘we could have had such a damned good time together.’

“Ahead was a mounted policeman in khaki directing traffic. He raised his baton. The car slowed suddenly pressing Brett against me.

“ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it pretty to think so?’ ”

How powerful! How so infinitely superior to a gargantuan paragraph where Jake whines to himself! How genuine, how raw!

I recommend that you read the book.

Gibraltar looked up from his script. The audience was very small. Gibraltar reflected that it was not the size of the audience that counts, but how one uses their attention.

“I have something else to share,” he said. “I would like to read one of my poems.”

A baby screamed in the back; it had waited too long for the nipple. The mother scolded. A bored schoolboy called Ralph spoke something in his companion’s ear. Each member of the class had to record three points per speaker by way of notes, but Ralph hadn’t understood much about the sun book. So he needed to get something down for this poem or whatever they were called.

“It is entitled Time.” Gibraltar paused for the name to sink in, then began:

Fish swim through water

Like it isn’t there;

Only sharks, sand,

And shrimp deserve care.

Time is a means

Unto an end :

A coat hanger, a canvass,

Holding events we append.

And yet sometimes,

The water is gone,

Replaced by a fluid

More viscous.

Every instant’s a bore

When you want something more

But you’re stuck in

Molasses, malicious.

Most of the kids had their bullet points by now. They fidgeted and glanced at Mrs. Tillia.

“Alright, class,” Mrs. Tillia said. “I hope that you have taken enough notes. Let’s look at the next exhibit.”

“Finally,” whispered all the students. They got up and shuffled down the almost abandoned rows of seats to the exit door.

Ralph had been sitting near the front with his buddies Kurtis Vorgense, Tolly Princeton, and John Smarmee. Ralph glanced at the metal placard fixed to the podium.

“The Artist,” the placard said.

Some psycho farmers are dragging me across a massive plain.

I desperately scream and kick hoping for anything, anything that could save me. My legs scrape along the ground, the dry grass pricking at them like needles, cutting through my threadbare clothes. Every so often, I’m dragged over some rocks, and I cry out in pain.

Several minutes later, I finally work up the courage to glance at my feet, and I shriek at the ghastly sight: oozing from them is a dark red liquid that pours onto the green grass, forming a trail of red. I don’t know if I can even walk anymore.

I wail with rage. How could these farmers do this to me! I throw a punch at one of the farmers, just missing their head. “Arrrrgh!” I yell in frustration and violently shake my whole body, hoping to loosen their grip.

“Help!!!” I yell. If the farmers are living here, there needs to be other farms nearby, it just makes sense!

I look around desperately, hoping to catch a glimpse of another human. Instead, I realize that this whole area is an island surrounded by endless water.

“Now there is no way for me to get to the docks without a boat, which means that I will never, ever get home without nice farmers” I mutter, filled with sadness.

I glance around the area again, but see nothing, so I return my attention towards freeing myself from the farmers.

The farmers are both frowning, their stern faces clouded with anger. They both walk in front, dragging me by my upper arms. They each wear a blue shirt and pants that look like they were once white, but are now brown and stained with dirt. I try to throw a second punch towards one of the farmers but miss again. Their heads snap towards me.

“Bedeni candi, mortzako baloo!” one of them yells at me in their crazy language.

I scream curses back at them.

Many hours later, the sun begins to set; its last rays peek out from behind the mountains and illuminate the plain with an orangish light.

The kidnapper farmers have a quick conversation in their foreign language, and decide to set up camp. They’ve brought a sack with supplies for the night: wood, blankets and a long rope. “Oh no,” I moan, as I realize the rope is for me.

The farmers tie my hands to a nearby tree with the rope, double checking their work. Then, they start a small fire with the wood they’ve brought, and have a short conversation before falling asleep.

I’m tired too, but I can’t sleep. The fact that I was kidnapped just adds to the growing stress building up since I got stranded here. I have to escape from these maniacs before they wake up and do something terrible, but how?

The answer comes sooner than I expect: I will bite through the rope. It sounds silly at first, but after I finish my first few bites, the knot seems to be getting weaker. I feel my teeth wail at me as I bite, but I try to ignore them, because I know I have to escape these farmers. I have to.

After a great deal of biting, I feel the rope snap. “Yes!” I almost shout, until I realise that the farmers are sleeping. Better to leave earlier than later.

With one last glance at the farmers’ camp, I pick a random direction and run. As soon as I start running, my feet explode with pain, but I try to push those sensations aside. Now is not the time to mourn my feet. I keep on running, not looking back for fear it would slow me down.

I run for at least an hour before my legs give in and collapse. I fall to the cold earth, and instantly pass out from exhaustion.

* * *

I wake up, squinting at the rays of the morning sun. It looks to be about 10 AM. I get up and stretch, only to find that my feet explode in pain.

I almost yelp in pain before I realize that the farmers are probably looking for me. I glance down at my feet to find that dry blood encloses them, making them a reddish-brown color.

I shake my head. This can’t be happening. The farmers have completely destroyed my feet. How can they do that? They’re so, they’re so… I can’t even find a word for it. I notice my anger flaring up and take some deep breaths to calm back down. Just then, it hits me. Escaping from the farmers must have angered them even more. If they find me, who knows what could happen!

I cautiously look around the plain for the farmers, but all I see is grass, grass and more grass. I sigh. Since I can see the whole plain, the farmers probably can too, so I make sure to keep low to the ground.

All of a sudden, a voice echoes across the plain. It's soft and kind, unlike the farmers’ voices. I can’t tell what it’s saying, it’s more of a note. It seems to be calling me, and I feel myself being drawn towards it. I shake my head. This voice could be dangerous, it could lead me into a trap. But…

The voice sings again, its sweet note echoing across the plain, and this time I can’t resist. I walk slowly towards it, each step rewarding me with a feeling of joy. All senses and thoughts seem to fade out, and I become surrounded in happiness. I smile, and keep walking to what seems to be everything I’ve ever asked for.

* * *

Time races past, and I find myself getting closer and closer to the voice, but as I cross a small hill, the happiness seems to fade away. I desperately try to hold onto it, but that feeling of joy slowly slips away revealing two figures.

As soon as the last bit of happiness fades away, I am filled with pure terror. The farmers are in front of me, so close that they could grab me whenever they want and I soon realize, that that’s what they’re going to do. That's not what really scares me, though. Behind them is a sleek, black helicopter, with a pilot turning its engines on.

How did the farmers happen to have a helicopter? What are they going to use the helicopter for? If they live in a shack, certainly they don’t have the money to buy a helicopter. Right? Questions swarm my mind and I feel myself getting dizzy.

I fall to the ground, and the farmers grab me by the arms and even though I resist, they shove into the back of the helicopter. They tie my hands to a metal pole placed in between the two passenger seats, and cover my mouth with tape. There is nothing I can do as the helicopter slowly lifts off and travels towards the mountains.

Dr. Elliot P. Lexington sighed as he read the email from his lawyer that morning.

It was not a pleasant day, not by any means at all. The sky was dark, despite it being almost seven thirty, the promises of winter not far away. The trees outside sighed with him, swaying mournfully in the cold autumn wind. Idly, he wondered if they might fall. The largest trees stretched over the house, the branches hanging precariously over his bedroom. He ought to get someone to look at them. An… arborist, that’s right. He’d tell the property manager about that.

Eric, his name was. Gardener. Lexington had always found it funny that his property manager’s name was Gardener, but the one time he had brought that up, Eric hadn’t laughed, only looked at him blankly. Elliot thought that was appropriate. Eric was a good man, and Elliot did many confusing things. After all, he was only an old, white-bearded millionaire who lived alone in the big manor, doing his lonely, eccentric things.

Eccentric. Elliot had always loved that word. When he was young, he had practiced saying it, shouting it, singing it until it no longer felt like a word. He hadn’t been eccentric then, only mildly crazy. His eccentricity had been achieved—not through his actions, but rather his financial situation and perhaps his age. Nobody called the fifteen year old paperboy eccentric, but the rich old man living in the woods certainly was.

Below the email from the lawyer was one from his niece, Beatrice. Trixie, he had called her when she was young. She lived in Toronto now, he thought. Her eldest was finishing high school, and not well. Her email was short and politely worded. She hoped he was well, she’d seen his latest book in the store, and please could she and the kids get away for the weekend at his lake residence? Regards, Bea.

Bea was what she called herself, what her mother—Elliot’s sister—had called her. She had never outright told Elliot not to call her Trixie, but her indifference was noted. She had never told Elliot not to do anything, ever. Only waited for him to die, her green eyes beady as she regarded his fortune.

It was likely that her mother had told Beatrice from the start not to anger Uncle Elliot, lest you be deprived of the millions that would become available at his death. It made sense, too. Elliot had never had children of his own, not since his wife died at only twenty-four. His money, the manor, his books—all of it would supposedly pass on to his sister’s children.

He declined to answer Beatrice’s email. Mostly likely, she’d assume he hadn’t seen it and go anyway. She had before, numerous times.

With another hearty sigh that soon became lost in the wind, he stood with some effort. The housekeeper would arrive soon. He always pretended to be asleep when she did, to allow her some relative peace as she made his breakfast. Today was a Tuesday, so it would be two eggs Benedict on brown toast with a side of bacon. She would bring it to his room, then begin cleaning. There wasn’t a lot to clean. Elliot lived alone, in a small section of the vast house. He paid her well, though, very well.

But first, he went to his study. He had an assistant once, but she’d reorganized the whole room. Elliot hadn’t liked that, and had sent her on her way with a healthy severance. He bore no ill feelings towards her, although it had taken him nearly two weeks to fix his desk.

He opened the computer, trying twice to input his password. It was little-used, especially of late. He preferred to write by hand most of the time, and send it to his editors to type. He had tried, of course, but his hands were shaky and the words less dramatic, so the computer was mostly for email and other such unpleasant matters. Elliot opened the lawyer’s document, taking far longer than necessary.

William always told him to learn to use a computer. His sister’s other child, married with three daughters. His wife was a little… snake of a thing, caked in powders and cosmetic adjustments she swore were natural. Her daughters were just like her—no substance, and not much style either, despite the designer brands that they sported. William was a lawyer in New York, a “hotshot” of tax (evasion) law, if such a thing existed. Elliot’s phone, equipped with email and not much else, had been a gift from him.

Not that William—Billy—had ever called. He only wanted to be the first to be called upon Elliot’s death, right before his sister. No different than Bea, he remarked upon Elliot’s health each time he saw him, about once a year, surprised to see his elderly uncle still alive. Surprised, and disappointed. That much didn’t escape Elliot.

He opened the lawyer’s document and nodded to himself. Yes, yes, this was what he had wanted, exactly what he had wanted.

William and Bea were about to receive a reckoning.

A storm incarnate.

Those words flashed into my mind that evening, when I saw her standing alone at the rain-slick bus stop. The breeze was tugging at the loose strands that had eluded the bindings of her inky ponytail. In contrast to her dark hoodie, giant, electric yellow letters embellished with black and lime graffitied the wall behind her, pulsing against the waterlogged street.

I barely checked for oncoming traffic as I crossed the road, fumbling a compact camera from my pocket. She didn’t seem to notice me—her dark eyes were glaring at something in the distance. Although the rain had tapered off earlier, within the sharp lines of her countenance and her rigid grip on the closed umbrella at her side, the thunderstorm raged on, its lightning striking ever more decisively.

I knelt at a wide puddle that had pooled at the roadside before her, and held my camera just above its silver surface. The petrichor, tinged sour by the city pollution, filled my nostrils as I carefully took the wide-angle puddle shot.

This wasn’t like the other photos I’d taken. She had never drawn my attention previously—I only vaguely recognized her as a face that briefly surfaced in the sea of bodies that flooded the hallways between classes. Despite that...

This feels like something I should remember.

—Is what I thought.

The clicking of the shutter seemed to summon a rushing wind, threatening to sweep me off my feet—and suddenly, she was in front of me.

“Did you just take a picture of me?” Her gaze, sharp with suspicion, cut across me: from the long, tangled nest of hair with bangs that crept over my eyes like vines; across the blue, oversized windbreaker that seemed to swallow up my skeletal frame; briefly pausing at the sopping backpack, its dark-red fabric smothered beneath muddy footprints; and finally, stopping at the black camera caged between pale fingers.

Her eyes flickered with recognition. “It’s the cam creep,” she muttered as she leaned back and wrinkled her nose. “There's something called privacy, you know. And why do you smell like rotting bananas?”

“Ah, sorry,” I replied. After retrieving my mud-caked backpack from the puddle it was abandoned in, I found the mashed up fruit inside, smattered over the contents of my bag. I had made a habit of keeping my camera with me during school, so it had been spared, but the same could not be said for the library books which I would surely be fined for.

“Delete it,” she demanded. When I hesitated, her arm darted out and ripped the camera from my hands.

“Wait!” I reached out, but she swiftly stepped out of range. The currents seemed to blow in her favour, tenaciously holding me back. Deftly, she clicked through the photos, stopping when she found the shot I had taken moments before.

“It’s not an up-skirt shot.”

“What kind of deplorable person do you think I am?” I cried. “You’re not even wearing a skirt.”

“With the way you were crouching, that’s what it looked like.”

“I...That was just...Sorry.” My sputtering apology brought a smirk to her face.

“This photo actually looks pretty cool,” she said at last.

“So I can keep it?”

“Only for as long as it takes you to edit and send it to me.”

At least she liked it enough to let it exist.

“I don’t know how to edit though.”

“Seriously? Aren’t you trying to be a professional photographer?”

“No,” I answered.

“So you’re just a stalker then,” she said, her mouth pulling back into a grimace.

She continued to click through my photos. “Still...I’m not an expert in photography or anything, but you seem pretty talented. I’m sure you could make a decent career out of it.” Her eyes found mine, seemingly searching for a response.

I shrugged.

“Do you not enjoy it?”

“What?”

“Photography. Do you like photography?”

“...I guess?”

“You’d carry that camera with you to hell and back, but you don’t know if you like photography or not?” she said, her voice prickling with irritation. She pushed the camera back into my hands and turned to her phone, ending our brief conversation as abruptly as it began.

As we stood at the bus stop in silence, I examined the photo. It was nice; the dynamism of the graffiti pulled her from the weather’s gloomy palette, and her reflection in the puddle drew out a softer expression. However, the thing about the scene that had possessed me was distinctly missing from the shot.

Do you like photography? she had asked. But for me, it was never about whether I liked it or not. One could scarcely hold onto a single moment in the river of time; they slip through the fingers and are muddied in the mind. Photography supplied me with clean, glass bottles to keep them in.

Or so I thought. It puzzled me, why this photo didn’t enthrall me the way it should have. Had I unwittingly romanticized the scene? In my contemplation, I glanced at her.

Our eyes met. “What’s your number?”

“Huh?”

“I need your number. So you can send me the picture later.”

“Oh.” I set my backpack down and pulled down the zippers. The smell of banana pricked my nostrils before being scattered by the wind. I fished my phone from the soggy recesses of the bag. It was sticky with a white goop.

Her eyes narrowed. “I just need your number. You didn’t need to get your phone…”

“I don’t have it memorized.”

“Seriously? Please don’t tell me mine is going to be the only number in your contacts.”

“I have my dad’s too,” I offered drily.

“Gross.”

“Thanks,” I sighed. I read aloud my number for her. Mere moments later, my phone buzzed. She had texted me a link.

“What’s this? A scam?”

“It’s a highschool art and writing contest, idiot. They have a photography section.”

“You think I should submit?”

“If you want to.”

“Do you submit to this contest?”

“Yeah. For writing.”

“Have you ever won?”

A thin smile wormed its way onto her lips, and at once the air between us seemed to sour with sickly sweet fruit.

“No,” she answered. “I’ve never won.”

Suddenly, the bus came tumbling down to the stop, and with it came a sweeping current that cleared the stagnant air.

“But I’m winning this year for sure,” she said, flashing white teeth through her cocky smile, and mounted onto the bus. “You coming?”

I shook my head. “I don’t take the bus.”

“So you just stood there with me for no reason? I guess you’re just a creepy stalker after all.”

And with that, she was gone, rumbling down the damp city streets, just another fish in the four-wheeled sardine can.

Watching the bus cross the meeting of the clouds and concrete, I said to no one in particular,

“A storm incarnate.”