Hemmingway feels like a suitable place to continue last week's discussion, and while reading I couldn’t help but recall Justin’s thoughts on the theme of unregenerate sexuality.  If any work could cause me to further reflect upon this topic, it must surely be The Sun Also Rises, in which every character, in nearly every possible way, seems somehow stunted, desperate, anxious, or impotent, and often several of these.  Jake desires Brett, but agonizes over the fact that he cannot have a physical relationship with her as other men do.  Mike plans to marry Brett and take care of her, while Brett, who has agreed to this, also says she truly loves Jake, but could never be faithful to him due to his inability to perform sexually.  Cohn desires Brett, and believes he has her love for a moment, only to suffer pathetically over the loss of her regard for the rest of the novel.  The presence of the young Romero allows Brett to think she might at last catch hold of happiness, before disappointing her, too.  Overall the novel impresses me keenly with a sharp tinge of desperation.

I find Jake an interesting character as one who, while outwardly flippant about his injury, is still able to weep quietly at night when considering his war-torn body and subsequently (or not) hopeless relationship with Brett near the beginning (39).  Although Jake’s reflections are dejected, the moment at least brings him a bit of solace, for “after a while it was better and I lay in bed and listened to the heavy trans go by…” (39).  But by far the loveliest section of the novel, to my mind—and also only section where I feel high-strung tensions easy—is during the trip Jake and Bill take to Burguete to fish.  Here the sun shines, the hills slope, and Bill explains it simply enough: “The is country” (122).  I was particularly struck by a morning exchange between the two friends in which Bill almost encourages Jake outright not to give up hoping: “’I had a lovely dream,’ Bill said. ‘I don’t remember what it was about, but it was a lovely dream’” (129).  Jake asserts that he didn’t have any dreams at all, to which Bill replies: “You ought to dream” (129). 

These moments of peaceful connection with nature and one another caused me to wonder whether or not Hemmingway truly saw the opportunity for regeneration in those who lived through the horrors of WWI, but another brief and seemingly inconsequential moment near the end of the novel has me questioning whether or not this solace is actually possible for Jake in particular.  While Jake is half-drunk, he searches for a way to take a simple hot bath after Brett has sought—rather desperately—to clutch onto a semblance of true love and happiness with the youthful, virile Spanish bullfighter, Romero.  But Jake finds himself unable to attain even this method of comfort, for when he approaches the “deep stone tub” and attempts to turn on the faucet he finds that “the water would not run” (199).  The brought “The Wasteland” to mind, of course, since there, too, we encounter many instances of the regenerative waters being either dried up or almost obstinately refusing to flow.  Is Hemmingway, like Eliot, suggesting that hope may reside in returning somewhere, or does he intent, to the contrary, to assert that there is no returning from tragedies that leave men and women impotent and in ruins?