Illiterary

I don’t know what great literature is.

I’ve just finished rereading Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises. For those of you who’ve had the good sense or disdain to stay away, the story is about an American expatriate newspaper reporter living in Paris who goes down to Pamplona for the running of the bulls. He is accompanied by a crew of bankrupt, dissipated upper class friends. The principal features of the story are explicit anti-Semitism and extreme drinking bouts, with a few guy adventures sprinkled in.

While Hemingway includes some vivid description and the prose is rich with short, declarative sentences, he often repeats himself. The dialog is repetitive to the point of boredom. While this may be an accurate depiction of the way drunk (or upper class) people talk, it does not make for snappy repartee. His characters seem well drawn, and the plot about the bad end of an affair between two of the characters is easy enough to follow, but it is not the kind of writing that fills me with pleasure to read.

Hemingway’s writing is much better than James Joyce’s, but that is not saying much.

A friend of mine says that you need to work to understand (and enjoy) great music. Perhaps the same thing could be said about great literature.

I don’t believe it.

Great music, art and literature should resonate with their audience. A bond should form between author and reader that communicates all the emotion, imagery and nuance. That process of transmission is what great writing is all about. When I read, I expect images to form before my mind’s eye that place me in the scene with the characters. I want to be there, to see what they see, to feel what they feel. When I don’t I feel cheated, like I’ve missed something.

Hemingway can do that, but at times I feel like wandering off to find another group of people who are more interesting to be around. The book was published in 1926, so it is one of his earlier efforts. Islands in the Stream, written at the end of his career, is much better, although the drunks are still carousing.

I’m obviously not in the same league with Hemingway, but I try to do the same thing with my own writing. I want to put my readers into the minds of my characters. If they are there, they may get caught up in the events of the story and be swept along with the events.

If the pace of events is not quick enough, if my characters are too cold and distant to interest readers, it is my fault. The story fails.

I would never do that intentionally.