the sun also rises

Love is one very significant motif of the first chapter of this book. Jake is in love with Brett. She fancies Jake and they share a concentrated relationship. Potent and quickly progressing. This is demonstrated when Jake tells her he loves her after only having been involved with with her a short time. Brett claims to love him as well, but gives signs of setting for him. Too afraid of being alone, she’d rather force feelings on herself and with a person she does not reciprocate feelings for than to let him know.

It is important to take notice of the novelty of these characters in regards to the time it was written in. Writing of love that is speedily plunged into is not out of the ordinary, especially in movies. The difference between Hemingway’s work and the film is that the love in the movies is not tumultuous past the climax. The two make up by denouement and live happily thereafter. The obvious difference in the Sun After Rises is their failure to renew their relationship. In opposition to the present day. People commit to people without truly knowing them. Their honeymoon phase fades after a time and are left with a person that are incompatible with.

Perhaps Hemingway purposely gave the characters this specific conflict to show that America during the 20s, the Jazz Age, was not all the magic that it is projected to have. He knew the other end of the spectrum personally, what with his separation from the love of his life. Showing this side of love, specifically in America gives a dose of realism to an era of delusions.

To some extent, Cohn’s comment about bullfighters being the only people who really live. This is true of those like Brett who remain with those they do not love. This is true of those like Brett who remain with those they do not love. People that do this lead a restricted life. They spend their lives making do. Really living would include informing the other person of their feelings and finding a person that actually love or accepting not having at all. Brett is not the only in this situation failing to live to their full potential. It is very improbable that Jake is blind to the way that she is not fully invested in the relationship. His want for her outweighs his respect of self. If he was living his life, he would have the pride to give her permission to leave him. “Actually living” is not just about pursuing adrenaline and constant danger, but doing the hard things in life that are for the best. There are times when doing what is right for yourself means hurting another person. To hold yourself back for the benefit of others is when life begins to stop.

Rousseau

Walking is widely known to be a way of reflecting, and in incidents of even deeper self examination of self, it can take the form of meditation. Simple contemplation will most definitely lead one to think on the most pressing matters in one’s life. This can also include the things that weigh a person down. Walking gives space in his mind to dwell on what seems to be his most difficult hardship in life which is his seemingly one sided battle against the unspecified multitude of people who feel the need to attack Rousseau’s character. What his enemies do specifically that hurts him is not explained much past them being “automatons who acted only on impulse.” People can only “calculate through the laws of motion,” meaning that he does not understand them. This may have to do with his discontent with people. He does not know how to read them and therefore misinterprets his situations.

Interestingly, despite his constant unhappiness, he feels that he is better for the torment his enemies put him through. As lonely as he is, he would not exchange situations with someone who enjoys an easier existence. It is not unusual that he would feel stronger because of his troubled past. In situations where a person has actually had a hard time in life, they are more resilient than those who have not. Rousseau’s claim however, is more of a case of self pity than surviving against all odds. His confusion between the two indicates that the people he accuses may not be as interested in him as he thinks that they are.

Even with his inaccurate picture of people, he brings up a thought-provoking idea about effective actions versus evil intent. He seems to have come across people that have attempted to do ill towards him is just as bad as if the effort had been successful. Importance is placed on the intentions the person has. Even while he is deep in his depression he has the mental capacity to make some logical connections. The same is true of good aims that turn poor. The person is usually not faulted because unfavorable circumstances were not planned upon. Rousseau claims that he finds calm and peace in his sadness. This is very likely a coping mechanism or a result of him becoming used to being sad. If a person believes that they are always the victim of some kind then they are likely to resort to dwelling in that space all of the time. It hurts less to get your hopes up. Rollercoaster emotions are troublesome to manage. The problem is that he probably has these feelings unnecessarily since there is no evidence of anyone purposely taking action to hurt him.

Hughes and Baldwin

Black intellectuals such as the likes of Langston Hughes and James Baldwin were more foreign to their parents for uprooting their lives and moving to a different country without money. For their sons to do so, while they themselves were not so distant from their ex-slave relatives. Coupled with being the recipients of racism, thoughts like leaving the country in pursuit of a career that is not promised not crossed their minds. Sets of dissimilar circumstances, assured that they were just as removed from their peers as they were from their parents.  

For these men, Paris was a land of opportunity. With a reputation for a lack of racism and a growing population of American artists, Paris was not a far fetched idea for these aspiring writers. Despite not having sufficient funds to live there comfortably they believed in themselves, or Paris or both enough to uproot their lives to relocate there.

Keeping in line with what usually happens with expectations, they were not wholly correct. James Baldwin learns first hand, injustices that existed even in Paris. After being informed upon to the police, Baldwin is allowed to experience such indecencies personally. Sentenced to prison simply for unintentionally owning a stolen hotel blanket. He goes through the slow moving process of bureaucracy. In jail for many days and even past Christmas. This short episode erased any illusions of grandeur that Paris may have had the potential of holding for him.

While Langston Hughes did not encounter a cell during his time in Paris, he did learn poverty in a new country. After he had to settle for the cheapest room, he could find which did not even include heat. Hughes shared a room with a Russian ballet dancer on the first night he met her. Living from bread roll to bread roll and most times only eating twice a day. He would have been hard put to support himself had it not been for his needy partner since it took him only three weeks from the point they moved in together.

These men were members of what was known as the “lost generation,” A time known for indulgence, wildness, rebellion and excess. While the two men did not heavily partake in what characterized the reputation of this generation but they were lost in different ways. Being black, poor and very far from their families they were both physically and mentally separated from both the people they left as well as the new ones they chose to surround themselves with. Their parents did not understand their choices to move to a far away. The French, their new co-habitators simply did not understand them. They were young men lost in two worlds, yet they still found the resolve to become successful and influential through the power of their pens.

Second Fiction End

It’s 5:45. I’m preparing for my morning run. If I’m feeling really good… or bad I might go out up to three times in a day. I’m excited to get out this morning. I’ve missed running these past four days. Work and other responsibilities really got in the way. I don’t usually let that happen, but sometimes I run into emergencies that can’t be left until the last minute.

The air is pleasantly cool when I open the front door. I begin walking to the corner towards the main street. I live on a cul de  sac, so my destination is a little ways. This initial power walk conveniently serves as my warm up. I am coming close to the park that marks the point where I start my jog. I am a fan of this park. It has a merry-go-round and several swings. My favorite attractions at playgrounds. They are also the least safe. A fact that very likely has a good deal to do with my preferences. I was never one for safety. My apprehension of injury has always been heavily outweighed by my fondness of adrenaline. I’ve always hated anything that has to do with overprotectiveness. I have a tendency to do what I want and deal with the consequences as they come.

Once I reach the park I pick up the pace. My muscles fall into the rhythm I’ve trained them to know. They have been ready to do this for a while. I know that I’ll be sore tomorrow. It’s been a little too long. My breathing and heart rate both increase. I pass the Menchies I may or may not stop by at the end of my run. If I don’t, I’ll be proud of myself for resisting temptation. If I do, I’ll have a delicious reward at the end of my run. I’m winning either way.

The sweat is falling freely now. I’ll be drenched all the way through within twenty minutes. Another twenty-five and the endorphins kick in. This is the reason I kept running. Not solely, but mostly because I am addicted to this pleasurable blend of endogenous and morphine. I would live in this state, but I guess it wouldn’t be as special if it were constant. That’s the problem with good things. They need negatives to make them more poignant. Even as a child, I never understood the need for balance. It always seemed to me that it was possible to have just happiness. Good having an opposite never seemed necessary to me. Now that I have matured some, I can fathom the need for yin and yang in this life, but I like to imagine that there are other dimensions with only one side to the coin.

Passing the school district headquarters means that I have just done 2.5 miles. My body is beginning to acknowledge tiredness. Entertaining the thought of stopping is dangerous. Considering a break would lead to compromises and persuasions from myself that I don’t want. I am not interested in engaging with this chain reaction, so I don’t allow myself to think about it. I consider this a positive thing not to let myself think about. I’d rather refuse myself these thoughts  infinitely more than those the unguided need to make.   

Coming to the end of my run, I am again faced with the enticement of the frozen yogurt store. I decide that I do not need it today. I haven’t run in a short while. I don’t want to negate the work I finally got the chance to do.

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s life was immensely unstable. From the time of his childhood up until his unexpected death, he was taken along for many unplanned turns. He lifts himself from obscurity to fame after he drops out of Princeton. After some time of writing for magazines he writes his first novel. It sells widely and gives him the first large amount of money that funds the luxurious lifestyle that he indulges in for the duration of the Jazz Age.

At the end of the era America and Fitzgerald’s life begin to deteriorate simultaneously. The stock market crashes while his books stop selling, Zelda’s mental health declines, his money runs out and his alcoholism gets a stronger hold on him. A silver lining appears in the form of  possible screenwriter credits. He manages to procure one, is unsatisfied with it since it ends up being rewritten by the producer. Another downfall following so many in addition to his disrepaired reputation. At this point he decides to undertake a new book. Working on it puts him back in good spirits. He is the Fitzgerald of old, putting in 16 hour days and waking up excited to write. He had a renewed craving for life. His passion for writing restored to it’s old level love. I believe that he would have improved if it hadn’t been for his abrupt end. He was pulling himself back together, but ultimately the ill he had done earlier in life pulled him apart.

Fitzgerald was not at all adept at responding to complex emotional situations. The first crutch that he would fall to is alcohol. He could go for long periods of time sober, but was also capable of consuming copious amounts of liquor when he allowed it to himself. The second is Sheilah Graham. When Zelda was in the mental hospital he began an affair with her. Although he would never divorce Zelda for her, she served as a placebo. Sheilah is Zelda’s placeholder for Fitzgerald even though he knows what he really wants is not coming back.   

The depression that Fitzgerald suffered from may also have been an extension of a fear rooted in his childhood. His father was fired from his job when Fitzgerald was a young boy. It left him a broken man. They were essentially supported by Fitzgerald’s mother’s family from then on. He was categorized as a failure for the rest of his life. Young Scott was privy to this as well. He could see the negative turn his father had taken and worked to never be a failure himself. Fitzgerald reached great heights, but it is possible that the valleys he fell in in some years of his life reminded him of his father.   

Second Fiction Piece

It’s 5:45. I’m preparing for my morning run. If I’m feeling really good… or bad I might go out up to three times in a day. I’m excited to get out this morning. I’ve missed running these past four days. Work and other responsibilities really got in the way. I don’t usually let that happen, but sometimes I run into emergencies that can’t be left until the last minute.

The air is pleasantly cool when I open the front door. I begin walking to the corner towards the main street. I live on a cul de  sac, so my destination is a little ways. It’s convenient because it serves as my warm up. I am coming close to the park that marks the point where I start my jog. I am a fan of this park. It has a merry-go-round and several swings. My favorite attractions at playgrounds. They are also the least safe. That probably has something to do with my preferences. I was never one for safety. I’ve always hated anything that had to do with overprotectiveness. I have a tendency to do what I want and deal with the consequences as they come.

Once I reach the I pick up the pace. My muscles fall into the rhythm I’ve trained them to know. They have been ready to do this for a while. I know that I’ll be sore tomorrow. It’s been a little too long. My breathing and heart rate both increase. I pass the Menchies I may or may not stop by at the end of my run. If I don’t I’ll be proud of myself for resisting temptation. If I do I’ll have a delicious reward at the end of my run. I’m winning either way.

The sweat is falling freely now. I’ll be drenched all the way through within twenty minutes. Another twenty-five and the endorphins kick in. This is reason l kept running. Not solely, but mostly because I am addicted to this pleasurable blend of endogenous and morphine. I would live in this state, but I guess it wouldn’t be as special if it was a constant state.

Hemingway and Pound

Hemingway’s relationship with Ezra Pound was very beneficial to Hemingway. Pound was a role model and most likely the only person Hemingway saw in this light. He admires Pound’s character so much that he goes so far as to call him “a saint.” Pound surely demonstrates the kindness of one when he organizes the charity Bel Esprit to support T.S. Eliot to make it possible for him to retire from banking in order to devote to writing full time. Hemingway adopts this project as readily as if it was his own idea. He solicits donations from friends against the wishes of Eliot, who is not in favor of Heminway tricking people into thinking that they are financing an ex enlisted man. In the end, Eliot manages to find his own source of sufficient money to extract himself from the banking business. This hurts Hemingway more than it should. He wanted the scholarship partnership between himself and Pound to be the reason Eliot began to write professionally. Whether he takes this to heart so severely is due to the fact that it was done in partnership with Pound is not stated.

This loyal adoration of Pound also meant that Hemingway felt protective of him as well. He took it upon himself to make sure that Pound was shown in his best light even when it came to activities as inconsequential as boxing. When they were sparring in Pound’s studio one afternoon Hemingway knew the other man was out of practice, so he went easy on Pound so that he would not look bad in front of his “friend.” The “friend” was Wyndham Lewis. The man immediately gave Hemingway vibes that told him that Lewis was observing only to see Pound fail. There was a sleazy air about him that Hemingway attempted to ignore at future meetings, but was unable to do. He shared these thoughts with Gertrude Stein who herself called him a ‘Measuring Worm’ for the way he measured people’s paintings so that he could then return to London where he did inaccurate recreations of them. He does not share his or Stein’s feelings with Pound, but he is always sure to watch Lewis very carefully whenever they meet.

Hemingway was not wrong to enjoy Pound’s company. He seemed to be a sensitive, observant person who made for pleasant company. His poem ‘Portrait d’une femme’ describes a woman with whom the author seems to have an interest in. He is aware of both her beauty and imperfections that this is the way she is. There is no question as to if he would like to change her or not. What is written is the portrait of a woman. It is written as fact, giving the illusion of a lack of bias, but there is at least a small amount of it since a note of fondness can be detected.

Hamingway’s relationship with Ezra Pound was surely one of his most valued relationships. Hemingway learned something from almost everything Pound did. He continually taught Hemingway how to be more generous, thoughtful and kind. They shared a beneficial brotherly love and Hemingway would have been a different person without him.

Finished Fiction

I need to get out. Everything has been weighing on me for weeks now. Staying in the apartment is like letting them marinate in a small pot. A very small pot. The apartment is tiny and too small for my problems. I will surely implode if I don’t get outside soon. There at least, the problems can float around my head instead of crushing me the way they are in here. Maybe they crush me in here because the walls are too close. I wonder how much my troubles would press me if we were living  in a place that was actually big enough for all of us.

Deciding this pontification could take place outside, I grab my camera, Coco, her leash and nothing else. I silently walk passed my mother, who is watching TV in her room and go outside.

Just as I knew they would, my worries disperse. I imagine them as molecules in a jar, put into a slightly larger one. All of them are still there. Their situation is the same in both places. One jar just gives them more room to bounce around in.

The reason for these problems is that it’s mid April and I still don’t know what college I’m going to. I’ve been accepted to all my back up schools, but my second choice hasn’t sent a response. At this point in the game I have assumed that I’m not accepted. Everyone I know that applied to my top choice has already accepted. Beyond this, I don't even know how I expect to pay for college. Sometimes I blame my mother for not having prepared for her future better. I hold my dad at fault too, but most of the anger is usually directed towards her because she is the one I see every day. He lives in Georgia. They separated a couple years ago. I talk to him regularly and we see him sometimes. I prefer not to dwell on their relationship.

Part of the reason for my bad mood is the guilt of not having applied to any schools with significant photography programs. I remember being fascinated with Polaroids as a child and loving taking pictures with the disposable cameras I was always badgering my parents to buy me. The interest stayed with me. I took photography classes and eventually became good enough to make a business of doing headshots and photoshoots. Everyone has always praised my work and even I think I’m kind of good sometimes, but never good enough. I ultimately would like photograph landscapes around the world for a travel magazine, although I don’t know if this will ever happen. Since I have never been sure of myself, I persuaded myself that I didn’t need to go to a college with photography. The colleges I applied to were regular colleges where I can major in accounting, a safer career. I’m good at math, so I know I would enjoy it, but photography is above everything else. What I’ve come to realize, too little too late, is that I can’t do photography on the side because I would learn more and faster being in a school where I would be able to commit more hours to studying the craft. I love photography more than anything in the world, yet I am too scared to pursue it.

The place I have decided to walk to is somewhere I refer to as ‘The Hill’. It is simply a hill that is significantly higher up with a number of bigger expensive houses on it. It is only across the next main street behind where I live, yet I have never been over there. I have wanted to for a while, but the motivation to do as much walking as this exploration calls for has never come to me until now.

I can never walk into a rich or even well-off neighborhood neutrally. There is always a mixture of sadness, yearning and even some anger. I never allow myself to feel them acutely, but I am always aware of their presence.

The residents of this area are aware of me as well. It’s some time after six now. The street lights are on. I am currently passing a group of people talking outside of a house. They are all white as I expect the entire population of ‘The Hill’ is. I am approaching them and as expected, one or two of them look up at me. Their eyes follow me for a couple of seconds and after they are satisfied that I am not looking to start a trend of harassing multiple people at once with a medium sized multi-poo as an attack dog, they turn around. I am only barely annoyed by this occurrance. I knew it was coming.

Suddenly a thought strikes me. I pick up my camera. Raise it to my eye and snap a picture. One of the people who had been watching me before stares at me. I continue to walk by as if what I have just done is not abnormal and a possible invasion of privacy. I wonder if they’re all looking at me now, but I don’t look back.

After walking for maybe thirty more minutes I begin to wonder when I will reach the top. The single street I have been walking on is winding. It’s impossible to tell that it curves this much from the bottom. I begin to estimate how long it takes to get up there by car. Ten minutes? What an inconvenience to arrive at your street only to have to drive an additional ten minutes up the mountain you live on. It must be hard being rich.  

I have come across a house that has caught my attention. It is by no means the most extravagant or appealing house on the block. It’s actually quite small and plain in comparison to the rest. I stop though, because it is one story with a flat roof. For some reason, I think of sitting on that roof and watching fireworks. It’s perfect for it. I know that if I lived in that house sitting on the roof would be it’s most important purpose. I take a picture of the house for all the nostalgic memories I never had there.  

Finally, we come to the top, which is cul de sac of the biggest houses yet. It’s good that we’re finally here because Coco has been walking slower than usual. She’s tired. None of us have ever walked her for this long.

This spot in the center of the street is the perfect place to see nearly the whole city. It’s dark now, so lights are on everywhere. Everything is twinkling beautifully below us. It isn’t every day that you get to look down on many of the places you frequent, unless of course, you are a person who lives on a hill. This is why people love looking out of airplanes so much. It’s amazing to look down and imagine life taking place on those microscopic streets and in the ant houses. It’s also hard to imagine that people live down there when everything is so incredibly small from this perspective. I wonder if that’s what people who live on hills think of those who don’t.  

The sun is completely down now. I didn’t make it up here fast enough, so I missed the sunset. That would have been nice to see. Even still, I am enjoying this view. It’s helped with the dejection I was feeling. Nothing has really changed. The problems molecules are still in that slightly jar, but my head is clearer. The walk hadn’t been for nothing though. I escaped them for a while.

It’s officially nighttime now. I wonder how long I’ve been out. I’m suddenly tired too. I’ve had my fill of impressive view. I decide that it’s time to start down the mountain. It takes half as long to get down as it did to get up. Downhill is so much easier and fun than up. Up is work, but you know. Anything worth doing….

The walk significantly alleviated the pressure that drove me from the apartment in the first place. I can think here again. I even feel like I might be able to figure something out to better my situation. Maybe I’ll start doing headshots. I don’t know if it will work, but I have to try. I need to at least work towards something that will get me closer to my goals.

Once I’m back inside I see that I have been gone for three hours. My mom greets me with a, “I was wondering where you went.” She doesn’t ask where I’ve been. I appreciate that. It makes me feel mature, and telling her where I went would probably include explaining why. I have no interest in doing that.

I head to the kitchen to stare at the freezer until I see something I will give in to eating. Coco comes in reminding me to take off her leash. I remove it idly, thinking of how I’m going to make everything right for myself. She then runs out of the room to find my sisters.

I still haven’t taken her on a walk as long as that one.