So in Song of Solomon, Guitar is part of the 7 Days society. You know, the one that revenges white acts of violence on black people by equal and opposite (sorry, Juniors) killings of white people. Notably, its whole thing was secrecy, so we don't know if it actually existed. In any case, Guitar is in charge of Sunday, and it's explicitly stated that what he's working on (and what he needs the inheritance money for) is revenging the Birmingham Church Bombing, which killed four young black girls in 1963.
The reason Guitar is so angry about stuff like this, and the reason he joined the 7 Days society was that nothing was being done. He laments that the people who set the bomb were not persecuted, and he is angry at how little society and the justice system really care about black people. And when Toni Morrison was writing this book pre-1977, still nothing had been done. But those (KKK members!!) did end up being prosecuted, albeit after a series of refusals by the government to look at it.
The bomb went off in 1963. Police knew the names of the four suspects mere days after the attack. In 1965 the FBI sent the names to J. Edgar Hoover, the FBI director. He overruled and blocked it, and the case remained closed until 1971, when Alabama Attorney General William Joseph Baxley II reopened it. Six years(!!) later, (and 14 after the bombing itself, if anyone is counting) the ringleader was sentenced to life in prison (but he was really old and would die 8 years later, at the age of 81.) This puts us at 1977, when Toni Morrison was writing Song of Solomon. From her point of view, and certainly from Guitar's, nothing had been done. Only one of the four violent white supremacists had been imprisoned, and by that point nothing more was going to be done.
Cue 1993 (30 whole years later), when civil rights leaders pressured the justice system enough for it to be brought up again. Rob Langford prosecuted, and U.S. Attorney Doug Jones helped go through the evidence, eventually finding enough usable evidence (from wiretaps, documents, etc) to convict two of the others (the fourth one died without being charged.) One's trial was delayed because he tried to fake a mental illness, but it was seen through. After it was all over, Jones told reporters that "justice delayed does not have to be justice denied.” It was probably pretty delayed for Guitar though.
* And yes, that's the same Doug Jones who just won the senate race in Alabama. Apparently he was a little better than a proven sexual predator, somehow. *
* Another note: I don't like using the bombers' names because I think it gives their names an unworthy place in history, a 15 minutes of fame gone on far too long, for all the wrong reasons. You can tell me if you agree with that or not in the comments.*
December 20, 2017
November 27, 2017
Google Translate Takes Camus: L'étranger en anglais
See, when I thought of this post, I thought I'd be finding humor in a terrible translation of The Stranger. What I found was a surprisingly, disappointingly normal first couple of pages. A few pronouns are off, but I found no big errors, except for "Bière," which can translate to "coffin" or "beer." So they kept vigil over Maman's beer. Thanks, Meursault. I suppose the straightforward language of Camus lends itself better to Google's simplistic translations.
My pitiful little translation can be found here.
* * *
For a little more funny and less literary kick, here's the first paragraph put through a Bad Translator...
"Today, my mother died. Or maybe yesterday, I do not know. I received a telegram from the refugee hospital: "My mother died.We are buried tomorrow.Try feeling.It does not mean anything.It may be yesterday."
My pitiful little translation can be found here.
* * *
For a little more funny and less literary kick, here's the first paragraph put through a Bad Translator...
"Today, my mother died. Or maybe yesterday, I do not know. I received a telegram from the refugee hospital: "My mother died.We are buried tomorrow.Try feeling.It does not mean anything.It may be yesterday."
Does Anyone Look at Posts That Aren't on Mr. Mitchell's Blog? Anyway, here's the translation of the first few pages of Camus' /The Stranger/, trans. Google Translate.
Wow, I'm flattered.You clicked the links on a blog post?? You deserve this. Sentence (fragments) that are exactly the same as in Ward's Translation are bolded. Humorously clunky parts are underlined.
Today, my mother is dead. Or maybe yesterday, I do not know. I received a telegram from the asylum: "Mother deceased. Burial tomorrow. Sentiments distinguished. " It does not mean anything. Maybe it was yesterday.
The old people's asylum is at Marengo, eighty kilometers from Algiers. I will take the bus at two o'clock and I will arrive in the afternoon. So, I will be able to watch and I will return tomorrow night. I asked my boss for two days off and he could not refuse them with such excuse. But he did not look happy. I even told him, "It's not my fault. " He did not answer. I thought then that I should not have told him that. In short, I did not have to apologize. It was rather his turn to offer his condolences. But he will probably do so the day after tomorrow when he sees me in mourning. For the moment, it's a bit like mom was not dead. After the funeral, on the contrary, it will be a classified case and all will have a more official look.
I took the bus at two o'clock. It was very hot. I ate at the restaurant, at Céleste's, as usual. They all had a lot of trouble for me and Céleste told me, "We only have one mother. When I left, they accompanied me to the door. I was a little dizzy because I had to go up to Emmanuel to borrow a black tie and an armband. He lost his uncle a few months ago.
I ran so as not to miss the start. This haste, this race is because of all this, no doubt, added to the bumps, the smell of gasoline, the reverberation of the road and the sky, that I dozed off. I slept most of the way. And when I woke up, I was crushed against a soldier who smiled at me and asked me if I came from far away. I said "yes" so I did not have to talk anymore.
The asylum is two kilometers from the village. I made the walk. I wanted to see Mom right away. But the concierge told me that I had to meet the director. As he was busy, I waited a bit. All the while, the concierge spoke and then I saw the manager: he received me in his office. He was a little old man, with the Legion of Honor. He looked at me with his clear eyes. Then he shook my hand that he kept so long that I did not know how to remove it. He looked at a file and said, "Mrs. Meursault came here three years ago. You were his only support. I thought he was reproaching me for something and I started explaining to him. But he interrupted me: "You do not have to justify yourself, my dear child. I read your mother's file. You could not support himself. He needed a guard. Your salaries are modest. And all things considered, she was happier here. I said, "Yes, Mr. Director. He added, "You know, she had friends, people her age. She could share with them interests that are from another time. You are young and she must be bored with you."
It was true. When she was home, Mom was always following me with her eyes silently. In the first days she was in the asylum, she often cried. But it was because of the habit. After a few months, she would have cried if she had been removed from the asylum. Always because of habit. It's a bit of a fact that in the last year I've hardly been there. And also because it took me on a Sunday - not to mention the effort to get to the bus, get tickets and drive two hours.
The director talked to me again. But I hardly listened to him anymore. Then he said to me, "I guess you want to see your mother. I got up without saying anything and he preceded me to the door. On the stairs, he explained: "We took her to our little morgue. To not mischief others. Each time a resident dies, the others are nervous for two or three days. And it makes the service difficult. We crossed a courtyard where there were many old men, chatting in small groups. They were silent when we passed. And behind us, the conversations resumed. It looked like a muffled chatter of parakeets. At the door of a small building, the director left me: "I leave you, Mr. Meursault. I am at your disposal in my office. In principle, the burial is fixed at ten o'clock in the morning. We thought that you will be able to look after the disappeared. One last word: your mother has, it seems, often expressed to her companions the desire to be buried religiously. I took on myself, to do the necessary. But I wanted to inform you. " I thanked him. Mom, without being an atheist, had never thought of living religion.
I entered. It was a very bright room, whitewashed and covered with a glass roof. It was furnished with X-shaped chairs and easels. Two of them in the center supported a beer covered with a lid. Only gleaming screws, scarcely sunk, could be seen coming off the planks of walnut. Near the beer, there was an Arab nurse in white coats, a brightly colored scarf on her head.
At that moment, the concierge came in behind my back. He must have run. He stammered a little: "We've covered it, but I have to unscrew the beer so you can see it. He was approaching the beer when I stopped him. He said to me, "You do not want to? I replied, "No. He stopped and I was embarrassed because I felt that I should not have said that. After a while, he looked at me and he asked me, "Why? But without hesitation, as if he were inquiring. I said, "I do not know. Then, twisting his white mustache, he said without looking at me: "I understand. He had beautiful eyes, light blue, and a slightly red complexion. He gave me a chair and he himself sat a little behind me. The guard it's a nurse got up and headed for the exit. At that moment, the concierge told me, "It's a chancre she has. As I did not understand, I looked at the nurse and saw that she was wearing a blindfold around her head. At the height of the nose, the headband was flat. Only the whiteness of the blindfold was visible in his face.
When she left, the concierge spoke, "I'll leave you alone. I do not know what I did, but he stayed behind me. This presence in my back bothered me. The room was full of beautiful late afternoon [sun]light. Two hornets were buzzing against the glass roof. And I felt sleep winning me. I said to the concierge, without turning to him: "Have you been there a long time? Immediately he replied, "Five years" - as if he had waited for my request forever.
Then he chatted a lot. He would have been astonished to say that he would end up as a caretaker at the Marengo asylum. He was sixty-four years old and he was Parisian. At that moment I interrupted him: "Ah, you are not from here? Then I remembered that before I went to the director's office he had told me about Mom. He had told me that he had to be buried very quickly, because in the plain it was hot, especially in this country. It was then that he had taught me that he had lived in Paris and that he could hardly forget it. In Paris, one stays with the dead three or four days sometimes. Here we do not have time, we did not realize that already we have to run behind the hearse. His wife had said to him then: "Shut up, these are not things to tell to Monsieur. The old man had blushed and apologized. I intervened to say, "No, no. But no. I thought what he was saying was right and interesting.
Today, my mother is dead. Or maybe yesterday, I do not know. I received a telegram from the asylum: "Mother deceased. Burial tomorrow. Sentiments distinguished. " It does not mean anything. Maybe it was yesterday.
The old people's asylum is at Marengo, eighty kilometers from Algiers. I will take the bus at two o'clock and I will arrive in the afternoon. So, I will be able to watch and I will return tomorrow night. I asked my boss for two days off and he could not refuse them with such excuse. But he did not look happy. I even told him, "It's not my fault. " He did not answer. I thought then that I should not have told him that. In short, I did not have to apologize. It was rather his turn to offer his condolences. But he will probably do so the day after tomorrow when he sees me in mourning. For the moment, it's a bit like mom was not dead. After the funeral, on the contrary, it will be a classified case and all will have a more official look.
I took the bus at two o'clock. It was very hot. I ate at the restaurant, at Céleste's, as usual. They all had a lot of trouble for me and Céleste told me, "We only have one mother. When I left, they accompanied me to the door. I was a little dizzy because I had to go up to Emmanuel to borrow a black tie and an armband. He lost his uncle a few months ago.
I ran so as not to miss the start. This haste, this race is because of all this, no doubt, added to the bumps, the smell of gasoline, the reverberation of the road and the sky, that I dozed off. I slept most of the way. And when I woke up, I was crushed against a soldier who smiled at me and asked me if I came from far away. I said "yes" so I did not have to talk anymore.
The asylum is two kilometers from the village. I made the walk. I wanted to see Mom right away. But the concierge told me that I had to meet the director. As he was busy, I waited a bit. All the while, the concierge spoke and then I saw the manager: he received me in his office. He was a little old man, with the Legion of Honor. He looked at me with his clear eyes. Then he shook my hand that he kept so long that I did not know how to remove it. He looked at a file and said, "Mrs. Meursault came here three years ago. You were his only support. I thought he was reproaching me for something and I started explaining to him. But he interrupted me: "You do not have to justify yourself, my dear child. I read your mother's file. You could not support himself. He needed a guard. Your salaries are modest. And all things considered, she was happier here. I said, "Yes, Mr. Director. He added, "You know, she had friends, people her age. She could share with them interests that are from another time. You are young and she must be bored with you."
It was true. When she was home, Mom was always following me with her eyes silently. In the first days she was in the asylum, she often cried. But it was because of the habit. After a few months, she would have cried if she had been removed from the asylum. Always because of habit. It's a bit of a fact that in the last year I've hardly been there. And also because it took me on a Sunday - not to mention the effort to get to the bus, get tickets and drive two hours.
The director talked to me again. But I hardly listened to him anymore. Then he said to me, "I guess you want to see your mother. I got up without saying anything and he preceded me to the door. On the stairs, he explained: "We took her to our little morgue. To not mischief others. Each time a resident dies, the others are nervous for two or three days. And it makes the service difficult. We crossed a courtyard where there were many old men, chatting in small groups. They were silent when we passed. And behind us, the conversations resumed. It looked like a muffled chatter of parakeets. At the door of a small building, the director left me: "I leave you, Mr. Meursault. I am at your disposal in my office. In principle, the burial is fixed at ten o'clock in the morning. We thought that you will be able to look after the disappeared. One last word: your mother has, it seems, often expressed to her companions the desire to be buried religiously. I took on myself, to do the necessary. But I wanted to inform you. " I thanked him. Mom, without being an atheist, had never thought of living religion.
I entered. It was a very bright room, whitewashed and covered with a glass roof. It was furnished with X-shaped chairs and easels. Two of them in the center supported a beer covered with a lid. Only gleaming screws, scarcely sunk, could be seen coming off the planks of walnut. Near the beer, there was an Arab nurse in white coats, a brightly colored scarf on her head.
At that moment, the concierge came in behind my back. He must have run. He stammered a little: "We've covered it, but I have to unscrew the beer so you can see it. He was approaching the beer when I stopped him. He said to me, "You do not want to? I replied, "No. He stopped and I was embarrassed because I felt that I should not have said that. After a while, he looked at me and he asked me, "Why? But without hesitation, as if he were inquiring. I said, "I do not know. Then, twisting his white mustache, he said without looking at me: "I understand. He had beautiful eyes, light blue, and a slightly red complexion. He gave me a chair and he himself sat a little behind me. The guard it's a nurse got up and headed for the exit. At that moment, the concierge told me, "It's a chancre she has. As I did not understand, I looked at the nurse and saw that she was wearing a blindfold around her head. At the height of the nose, the headband was flat. Only the whiteness of the blindfold was visible in his face.
When she left, the concierge spoke, "I'll leave you alone. I do not know what I did, but he stayed behind me. This presence in my back bothered me. The room was full of beautiful late afternoon [sun]light. Two hornets were buzzing against the glass roof. And I felt sleep winning me. I said to the concierge, without turning to him: "Have you been there a long time? Immediately he replied, "Five years" - as if he had waited for my request forever.
Then he chatted a lot. He would have been astonished to say that he would end up as a caretaker at the Marengo asylum. He was sixty-four years old and he was Parisian. At that moment I interrupted him: "Ah, you are not from here? Then I remembered that before I went to the director's office he had told me about Mom. He had told me that he had to be buried very quickly, because in the plain it was hot, especially in this country. It was then that he had taught me that he had lived in Paris and that he could hardly forget it. In Paris, one stays with the dead three or four days sometimes. Here we do not have time, we did not realize that already we have to run behind the hearse. His wife had said to him then: "Shut up, these are not things to tell to Monsieur. The old man had blushed and apologized. I intervened to say, "No, no. But no. I thought what he was saying was right and interesting.
November 17, 2017
The Sargassum in the Sea: A Small Map of the Book
This is a common blog idea and a small post but I enjoy finding the concrete reasons behind things.
We talked about this briefly in class. The Sargasso Sea is a section of the Atlantic ocean between Europe and the West Indies well known for its long, treacherous not really strings of sargassum seaweed, from the Portuguese sargaço. The general consensus in class was that the Sea represented the vast, symbolic uncrossable gulf between Antoinette's world and Rochester's, which is why nothing good came of either of them crossing it.
The theme and its implications are not what I'm here to talk about. Some books (see: Lord of The Rings, Watership Down, Mrs. Dalloway, even) have maps, and this one doesn't. I found it hard to picture where everything was. Let's explore the West Indies.
Zooming out: This is the North Atlantic Gyre. The currents of the world swirl sort-of-clockwise around the Americas and Europe, ending up spinning around in what is called the Sargasso Sea. Also mentioned in class, a lot of stuff tends to wash up there, be it trash or kelp or (hopefully more symbolically) people. In fact, there's a gross thing there called the North Atlantic Garbage Patch (which also would have been a good name for the novel). It is, you guessed it: just a bunch of plastic waste out on the ocean, and it's "hundreds of kilometres across in size." Nasty.
Here are the West Indies.
See where we're going? Annette and Christophine are from Martinique (about in the middle of all those tiny islands). Rochester says that after he and Antoinette get married, they go on an "interminable journey from Jamaica," specifically mentioning going from Spanish Town (which is in Jamaica) to the Windward Islands (66).
So, Spanish Town is the capital of the parish of Saint Catherine, in the historic county of Middlesex, Jamaica. just saved you some googling. In Part One, Antoinette talks about "the Jamaican ladies" near them and "the road from Spanish Town to Coulibri Estate," so Part One most likely takes place on Jamaica, moderately far from Spanish Town. The convent Antoinette stays at is "Mount Calvary Convent, Spanish Town, Jamaica, 1839." This place does not exist now, if it ever did; the best I can find is a facebook page.
We talked about this briefly in class. The Sargasso Sea is a section of the Atlantic ocean between Europe and the West Indies well known for its long, treacherous not really strings of sargassum seaweed, from the Portuguese sargaço. The general consensus in class was that the Sea represented the vast, symbolic uncrossable gulf between Antoinette's world and Rochester's, which is why nothing good came of either of them crossing it.
The theme and its implications are not what I'm here to talk about. Some books (see: Lord of The Rings, Watership Down, Mrs. Dalloway, even) have maps, and this one doesn't. I found it hard to picture where everything was. Let's explore the West Indies.
Zooming out: This is the North Atlantic Gyre. The currents of the world swirl sort-of-clockwise around the Americas and Europe, ending up spinning around in what is called the Sargasso Sea. Also mentioned in class, a lot of stuff tends to wash up there, be it trash or kelp or (hopefully more symbolically) people. In fact, there's a gross thing there called the North Atlantic Garbage Patch (which also would have been a good name for the novel). It is, you guessed it: just a bunch of plastic waste out on the ocean, and it's "hundreds of kilometres across in size." Nasty.
Here are the West Indies.
See where we're going? Annette and Christophine are from Martinique (about in the middle of all those tiny islands). Rochester says that after he and Antoinette get married, they go on an "interminable journey from Jamaica," specifically mentioning going from Spanish Town (which is in Jamaica) to the Windward Islands (66).
So, Spanish Town is the capital of the parish of Saint Catherine, in the historic county of Middlesex, Jamaica. just saved you some googling. In Part One, Antoinette talks about "the Jamaican ladies" near them and "the road from Spanish Town to Coulibri Estate," so Part One most likely takes place on Jamaica, moderately far from Spanish Town. The convent Antoinette stays at is "Mount Calvary Convent, Spanish Town, Jamaica, 1839." This place does not exist now, if it ever did; the best I can find is a facebook page.
Additionally, Rochester first arrives in the West Indies via Spanish Town, a bustling port city.
Martinique is an island claimed and ruled by France, even today. This is where Annette and Christophine are from.
Granbois (meaning 'big tree'), where Antoinette and Rochester stay in part 2, is near Massacre, Dominica. (Dominica is the island right above Martinique.)
And of course, I managed to find Shmoop's explanation AFTER I finished all this research.
Martinique is an island claimed and ruled by France, even today. This is where Annette and Christophine are from.
Granbois (meaning 'big tree'), where Antoinette and Rochester stay in part 2, is near Massacre, Dominica. (Dominica is the island right above Martinique.)
And of course, I managed to find Shmoop's explanation AFTER I finished all this research.
November 3, 2017
Meursault's Animal Impulses
During The Stranger, Meursault sometimes doesn't act very recognizably human. We've attributed this to various things-- dissociation, apathy, depression, sociopathy, a sense of superiority-- but my favorite explanation (as I've mentioned it several times in class) is Meursault as a sort of uncaring, mentally distant animal like a sunning lizard, or a fish staring blankly out of its tank in a populated waiting room. This comes up in a few places, namely during the funeral and on the beach with the Arabs, but most strikingly when he's sitting on his balcony in Chapter 2 for pretty much his entire Sunday. His balcony, this semi-public space where he can see and be seen but not interact, is his fishbowl. He alternates between people-watching and doing pointless things to pass the time, yet he's not waiting for anything. He has no responsibilities or work to do at this time (Something Uni students could never understand), and is content to just absorb the world around him, or be apart from it and look on; this description is what brings to mind a cat or lizard laying out in the sun, gazing at the world without focus. Meursault is a creature ruled by impulse, without an inner thought process telling him what to do.
As you may have noticed by now, this isn't coming to a point or a thesis. I just really like animal Meursault, and what that might say about neutrality or maybe his innocence later when he's being judged.
Notable animalian scenes on that casual Sunday:
"I cut out an advertisement for Kruschen Salts and stuck it in an old notebook where I put things from the papers that interest me" (21). Meursault just keeps a book of ...advertisements..? from old (not even recent or relevant) newspapers. He doesn't give a reason, just sticks it in the notebook, like a bird with its favorite strip of cellophane.
"I turned my chair and set it down like tobacconist's because I found that it was more comfortable that way" (22). Meursault see, Meursault do.
"I sat there for a long time and watched the sky" (22).
"One of [the soccer players] even yellled up to me, "We beat 'em!" And I nodded, as if to say "Yes" (22).
Ridiculous animal pictures aside, I'm sure there's some fascinating literary analysis waiting to be made about Meursault's attitude about the world in these scenes. For now, all I can do is draw mustaches on lizards.
October 12, 2017
The Nightmare of Noncommunication
It's pretty well-established in our class that The Metamorphosis is dreamlike, if not nightmarish. It's surreal, everyone jumps to conclusions (dream logic), and of course there's the giant bug thing. However, I think the most terrifying, nightmarish part about the whole affair is Gregor's inability to communicate.
Think about it: Say Gregor had kept his human face, like in Kuper's comic adaptation. Or maybe he kept his ability to speak.
His family understands all the excuses he gives when they first see him. Maybe he asks a family member to dial the telephone for him, so he can talk to his boss. He and his sister sit in his room, talking, while he explains how nice it feels to hang from the ceiling. Maybe he even gains more sympathy from his family, who realize how terrible they've been to Gregor. (Okay, maybe that one is a stretch.) My point is that with the power of communication, Gregor's dehumanization grinds to a stop. His physical disabilities can be overcome by help from family, who wouldn't be disgusted by him if they could know for certain that he understands them, and can know what he's thinking.
The Metamorphosis is nightmarish because Gregor has lost all that power. He's surrounded by family, but can't talk to any of them. He feels unimportant and useless, moping in his room as he is unable to talk to anyone. In Act III, he fantasizes about [dragging his sister into his room and] whispering in her ear about his plans to send her to Conservatory. He's dreaming about communication! Does he know that his family can't understand him? I honestly can't tell. We can infer that they probably can't- he talks to them enough, and they always respond with the same revulsion and terror.
And isn't that a nightmarish idea? Inability to communicate, while everyone thinks you're too far gone and revolting to be saved. Gregor can't even use his writing desk, and because of that dream logic nobody ever tries any "blink twice for yes" stuff on him.
In the Samsa-Seuss communication we talked about in class, Gregor says he has communicated to Seuss by means of beating a typewriter repeatedly with his face (and still talks loquaciously, which was amusing to imagine). In that 'alternate world' in which Gregor writes to Seuss, he can use a typewriter. More importantly, he managed to get someone to fold up the letter, address it, and send it off to Seuss. If you think about that too closely, some holes develop in the story. Would Gregor's family still have abandoned him if they could understand him?
Think about it: Say Gregor had kept his human face, like in Kuper's comic adaptation. Or maybe he kept his ability to speak.
The Metamorphosis is nightmarish because Gregor has lost all that power. He's surrounded by family, but can't talk to any of them. He feels unimportant and useless, moping in his room as he is unable to talk to anyone. In Act III, he fantasizes about [dragging his sister into his room and] whispering in her ear about his plans to send her to Conservatory. He's dreaming about communication! Does he know that his family can't understand him? I honestly can't tell. We can infer that they probably can't- he talks to them enough, and they always respond with the same revulsion and terror.
And isn't that a nightmarish idea? Inability to communicate, while everyone thinks you're too far gone and revolting to be saved. Gregor can't even use his writing desk, and because of that dream logic nobody ever tries any "blink twice for yes" stuff on him.
In the Samsa-Seuss communication we talked about in class, Gregor says he has communicated to Seuss by means of beating a typewriter repeatedly with his face (and still talks loquaciously, which was amusing to imagine). In that 'alternate world' in which Gregor writes to Seuss, he can use a typewriter. More importantly, he managed to get someone to fold up the letter, address it, and send it off to Seuss. If you think about that too closely, some holes develop in the story. Would Gregor's family still have abandoned him if they could understand him?
September 28, 2017
The Sun Also Rises: An Autobiography
One of the main themes of The Sun Also Rises is Jake's focus on his own masculinity. He likes bullfights, fishing, and drinking, plus putting on the facade of being tough. We talked in class about how "Papa" Ernest Hemingway liked bullfights, fishing, drinking, and being a manly-man (especially as he grew older and got more famous). Of course, every author writes from experience, but I did some more research on Hemingway in order to make more comparisons.
From Wikipedia:
"Hemingway was raised in Oak Park, Illinois. After high school, he reported for a few months for The Kansas City Star..."
So we have a guy who was raised in the Midwest and was a newspaper reporter. Right after Ernest got out of high school in 1917, his father wrote to a classmate in Kansas to secure him the job (because he didn't want him going off to war.) Hemingway spent about a year in Kansas in total, and the Kansas City Star likes to brag that this time was "one of the most important periods of his life." Kansas does seem to show up in a lot of his works: Hemingway liked to "recast" scenes from his life into his books.
"Hemingway took the train to Kansas City in mid-October, arriving on Oct. 15, 1917. Dr. Hemingway accompanied him to the station. Ernest, who "was disgusted with teary fairwells,'' recast that scene in For Whom the Bell Tolls." Source
From Wikipedia:
"Hemingway was raised in Oak Park, Illinois. After high school, he reported for a few months for The Kansas City Star..."
So we have a guy who was raised in the Midwest and was a newspaper reporter. Right after Ernest got out of high school in 1917, his father wrote to a classmate in Kansas to secure him the job (because he didn't want him going off to war.) Hemingway spent about a year in Kansas in total, and the Kansas City Star likes to brag that this time was "one of the most important periods of his life." Kansas does seem to show up in a lot of his works: Hemingway liked to "recast" scenes from his life into his books.
"Hemingway took the train to Kansas City in mid-October, arriving on Oct. 15, 1917. Dr. Hemingway accompanied him to the station. Ernest, who "was disgusted with teary fairwells,'' recast that scene in For Whom the Bell Tolls." Source
In 1918, Hemingway went to war on the Italian Front, only to be seriously injured. (Sound familiar?) He fell in love with the nurse who was healing him. That nurse, Agnes Von Kurowsky, would leave him for an Italian officer. He went back to America to be a reporter until 1921, when he and his wife left for Paris. "In Paris, Hemingway met writers such as Gertrude Stein, James Joyce, and Ezra Pound who "could help a young writer up the rungs of a career"."
In 1923, Hemingway and his wife Hadley went to the San Fermin festival (as we've said, mostly unknown until The Sun) with some friends from Paris. Hemingway started to get interested in bullfighting here. "A few days after the fiesta ended, on his birthday (July 21), he began to write the draft of what would become The Sun Also Rises, finishing eight weeks later." Source
There are a lot of comparisons to be made here, even besides the obvious ones. It was fascinating to see the bits and pieces of the author's life that contributed to his first novel, and how he sculpted them into the complex story we can still read deep themes into today. This blog post is getting too long already, though, so I'll leave that to commenters.
A bunch of American expatriates at a cafe table in Spain, drinking heavily...
In 1923, Hemingway and his wife Hadley went to the San Fermin festival (as we've said, mostly unknown until The Sun) with some friends from Paris. Hemingway started to get interested in bullfighting here. "A few days after the fiesta ended, on his birthday (July 21), he began to write the draft of what would become The Sun Also Rises, finishing eight weeks later." Source
There are a lot of comparisons to be made here, even besides the obvious ones. It was fascinating to see the bits and pieces of the author's life that contributed to his first novel, and how he sculpted them into the complex story we can still read deep themes into today. This blog post is getting too long already, though, so I'll leave that to commenters.
(Hilariously, I found this bit while researching:"Hemingway suffered a severe injury in their Paris bathroom when he pulled a skylight down on his head thinking he was pulling on a toilet chain. This left him with a prominent forehead scar, which he carried for the rest of his life. When Hemingway was asked about the scar, he was reluctant to answer." Source)
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