Book Review: The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway

When you think of Hemingway, what is the first thing that comes to mind?

"Ugh, Hemingway."

"Uh, Hemingway?"

"Aaaah, Hemingway."

"Hmm, Hemingway."

"Hemingway, Hemingway. Isn't that the guy who shot himself in Sun Valley, Idaho? So much for a vacation, huh?"

"Hemingway? He was an abusive, alcoholic misogynist who spent half of his life hanging around Picasso trying to nail his leftovers" (from film Ten Things I Hate about You)

Any of these reactions may work for you. If you are the sort of person who says, "Hmm, Hemingway," you might as well know that is same reaction I used to have should someone in the room have the gall to mention that name in my presence. I used to tell my English teachers how little I thought of Hemingway's work, not because I thought he was a horrible writer but because I actually thought little of it. In fact, I tried hard not think of it at all. I had read the first five stories in The Collected Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway, put the book down, and based my judgment of the man's work solely upon them. And why should I not? Each story, it seemed to me, ended with either disillusionment or death, hardly inspiring topics. Of course, the theme of death is completely in keeping with a personal philosophy of Hemingway's, namely that "all stories, if continued far enough, end in death, and he is no true-story teller who would keep that from you" (from Hemingway's Death in the Afternoon), and Hemingway was nothing if not a true-story tell. However, the feeling of melancholy which accompanied my reading of Hemingway forced me to put the book away for a long time and not think of it if I could help it. Being an English major though, the subject of Hemingway is bound to come up sooner rather than later, and you might as well develop an opinion in that case, whether positive or negative, because he simply won't be avoided. Consequently, my opinion became negative.

However, I had two college professors--if not more--and several friends who thought quite a lot of Hemingway's books, and since I have a lot of respect for these individuals in the way of their literary tastes, I came to the conclusion that Hemingway must have some merit, and I ought to consider attempting the unthinkable task of reading (gulp) Hemingway again. The short stories would obviously only take me down the same path as the previous time, so I was compelled to think of another strategy.

A friend of mine suggested The Old Man and the Sea as a possibility. I mulled it over for a while and ultimately did nothing about it. I had plenty of other things to do without wasting my time with Hemingway.

Then, one wintery Saturday, around 4:30 p.m., I took my usual weekend constitutional a mile down the street, right for three blocks, up one more, across the K-Mart shopping plaza, and up two or three more blocks to the thrift store. I frequented this particular with some frequency to buy books.

After entering the toasty, though oddly aromatic store, I made my directly to the bookshelves. On the far shelf, among the other paperbacks, I found a like-new edition of The Old Man and the Sea. Seventy-five cents. I was determined not to buy a book I might have ended up hating. But the gray-and-red cover beckoned to me as the store's fluorescent lighting glinted off the book's glossy paper finish. Very well, I thought; I have avoided you long enough, Hemingway. But if you disappoint me again, you and I are done.

I sat down on one of the musty, brown sofas in the back corner of the store and began to read.

And I read.

And I read.

And for two hours I read.

During that time, I looked up every so often, only to see that a middle-aged Hispanic man had taken up permanent residence in an old leather recliner not five feet from me. He smiled, somewhat creepily. I imagine that was his way though. After all, he was missing teeth; he could not have done otherwise. I read some more.

I was not disappointed.
I finished the book around the store's closing time, and my respect for Ernest had been rejuvenated. More than rejuvenated, it had been created ex nihilo. I paid for it, as well as a few others, and walked slowly home, immersed in thought, sideways snowflakes, and a toothy wind.

Plot Summary: The story centers around a Cuban (a man, not a cigar) who catches a giant marlin (a fish, not a baseball player) in the Gulf of Mexico. His battle against the large fish and voracious sharks who would rob him of it leads to his statement, "But man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed but never defeated," which happens to be one of my favorite quotations from the book.

I can say no more about the story line itself because I do not wish to give anything away or make you feel like there is no point in reading it now. However, I will say that this book will force you into introspection and make you question your own purpose and will to achieve your personal goals in life. I know that sounds odd because I am describing a work which came from the typewriter of a man like Hemingway who shot himself, but it's true. I felt it when I read it the first time. I felt it when I read it the second time. I do not belive there is an individual alive who cannot relate in some way to the little Cuban fisherman who must fight physically and mentally against time, nature, and his own body and mind.

And thus, at last, we see in the fisherman the real Hemingway, a man who ultimately may have lost his fish, his fight, his nerve perhaps. Maybe his fingers cramped, his mind weakened, his stomach starved. Regardless, Ernest, "you stand at the blackboard.../ in the picture I have of you" (from Sylvia Plath's "Daddy"), you "dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher" (from Allen Ginsberg's "A Supermarket in California"), and in your work we find "the singing locust of the soul unshelled, / and all we mean or wish to mean" (from Richard Wilbur's "Advice to a Prophet").