World War I

What struck me most about To the Lighthouse was obviously the odd narrative style, specifically, the manner in which the narrative seems to switch perspectives in different ways. There are clearly times in which Wolfe uses chapter demarkations to represent the same event through multiple perspectives. The most obvious example of this is Chapter XV which seems to be entirely dedicated to Prue answering a question. However, Wolfe's narrative also seems to switch focus within chapters too. At times it seems similar to free, indirect discourse; yet the use of paratheticals really trips me up. The parentheticals occur mostly when the character which the narrative is focused seems to imagine another character's thoughts. However, the origin of these parentheticals is not at all clear. If this is intended as a stream of consciousness, then it is odd that it would be represented in paratheses which presumably are absent from a charachter's train of thought. This leads me to wonder whether these words in the parenthesis are intended to be the charachter's thoughts, the narrator's thoughts, or the the thoughts of the charachter being imagined? All of these potential solutions are problematized by specific instances within the text, and it is the lack of consistency that really tripped me up.

When I first read To the Lighthouse last summer, I did not read World War I into it at all.  In fact, I thought of this novel as a sort of eulogy for traditional marriage as we see with Mr. and Mrs. Ramsay and their horde of children.  While I think that reading is still justified, with the context of this course I began to read WWI as a pervasive subtext to the novel.  Mrs. Ramsay's insistence on creating marriages is less an overbearing, motherly figure, but instead someone who wishes to see the world repopulated following a war that decimated the younger population like none other before it.  Mr. Ramsay has similar feelings that his children "must be filled with life." (37)  This insistence on "must" is important because it is declarative and insinuates that any other option would not be acceptable.  Mr. Ramsay, according to Mrs. Ramsay, sees the world differently and appears deeply appreciative of the life that surrounds him, but some part of him still cannot actually see the beauty of things (flowers, landscapes, his own daughter's beauty are just a few examples).  This also accounts perhaps for the general feeling of boredom that everyone feels.  As if something big is always just about to happen, and the endless waiting for whatever that event might be is exhausting.  It accounts for Charles Tansley's nihilism, that the Ramsey children misidentify as atheism.  The War might even account for some part of Augustsus Carmichael's opium abuse.  In many ways, To the Lighthouse can then be read as a portrait of how domestic lives attempt to account for trauma and how the mundaneness of it all comes up lacking in the wake of an event as devastating as the War.

Thus far the aspects of To The Lighthouse that stands out to me most must be the palpable anxiety felt by many of the characters regarding one’s proper place in life, from Lily Briscoe to Mr. Bankes.  Mr. Ramsay functions as the most obvious and outward example of this anxiety, for he is apparently a great philosopher of metaphysics—and thus concerned with the such subjects as the nature of existence and time—and yet, at the same time, he has a wife and many young children.  Mr. Ramsay seems torn throughout from this fear that he has abandoned the completely devotion his true calling—philosophy—for the sake of having a family, and yet, when he looks at them all, he cannot help but find their existence beautiful. 

It was Mrs. Ramsay anxiety, however, that I found most interesting in Part I, for she is peculiarly and strikingly pessimistic regarding the passage of time, and sees it not as a place of hope or possibility, but only as a signifier of the impermanent cruelty of life.  As the mother of 8 thinks to herself while she worries over the future lives of her children, there “was no treachery too base for the world to commit; she knew that.  No happiness lasted; she knew that” (64).  Indeed, Mrs. Ramsay seems to idealize the simplicity residing within childhood, for she muses, thinking of her youngest son, James, why “should they grow up so fast?  Why should they go to school?” and she concludes, “he will never be so happy again.” Again, of the other 7 of her children, “They were happier now than they would ever be again” (64).  It is difficult for me to tell, when reading this, if Mrs. Ramsay is simply being worrisome, or else prophetic.

Taking her fears into account, then, I find it quite fascinating how Mrs. Ramsay attempts to work against such impermanence by striving to create these brief moments of eternity through her (apparently womanly and maternal?) gift of bringing harmony from dissonant parts.  For when everyone has at last gathered together, Mrs. Ramsay is in her element, and feels everything coming together in a moment remarkably reminiscent of the end of Mrs. Dalloway.  For Mrs. Ramsay, and apparently the rest of the party, feel that “There it was, all around them.  It partook, she felt, carefully helping Mr. Bankes to a specially tender piece, of eternity” (105).  Mrs. Ramsay further muses that in this moment around the table “there is a coherence in things, a stability; something, she meant, is immune from change, and shines out” and it is thus “Of such moments, she thought, the thing is made that endures” (105). 

The moment cannot last, however, and when the night begins to wind down Mrs. Ramsay intentionally moves to leave the dinner first so as to have the opportunity of imprinting it into her mind: “With her foot on the threshold she waited a moment longer in a scene which was vanishing even as she looked,” for even in the moments that are currently passing those present are being changed, and the scene has “shaped itself differently; it has become, she knew, giving one last look at it over her shoulder, already the past” (111).  Thus, this beautiful unity which has taken place during the dinner concludes on rather a high note for Mrs. Ramsay, but one that is tainted by the knowledge that even such moments must inevitably fade away.

While reading To The Lighthouse, I had to stop and reread Chapter 3 a few times, as I was particularly struck by the way Woolf relies on sound or sound-based descriptors within that chapter. Sound is brought up in the very first sentence of the chapter, when Ms. Ramsay remarks "Perhaps you will wake up and find the sun shining and the birds singing" (15). Sound is described as "pressing" onto Ms. Ramsay, something encompassing her entire being, entirely unavoidable. The soundscape of the house is shown to be both calming, as the sound of the plumbers "had taken its place soothingly in the scale of sounds pressing on top of her," but also terrifying, as the "monotonous fall of the waves on the beach" transitions from "a measured and soothing tattoo to [Ms. Ramsay's] thoughts" (15) to "a ghostly roll of drums remoreselessly beat[ing] the measure of life, [forcing] one to think of the destruction of the island and its engulfment into the sea" (16). Just as quickly, however, Ms. Ramsay is able to bring herself away from these thoughts by latching her focus onto the "regular, mechanical sound" (16) of her husband's voice as he walks back and forth on the terrace. If I had to link this to back to World War I (which I do because that's what the class is about) I'd probably say this scene could be a moment of PTSD, episodes of which can be triggered by the smallest thing, even a naturally occuring noise like the ocean. This could also be about the distance from nature brought on by the war. The ocean is entirely uncaring about the plights of humanity, and will keep beating against the coast until it destroys the land, regardless of what humans do. Here, nature is both a calming force and an agent of anxiety and terror, completely seperate from the actions of Ms. Ramsay and her family.

"'Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bull-fighters'" (Hemingway 18).

Bull-fighting serves as an interesting backdrop to the plot in The Sun Also Rises. This hypermasculine, dangerous activity is first introduced in chapter two as Jake's example of what it means to fully live. Jake references bull-fighters when Cohn tells him, "'I can't stand it to think my life is going so fast and I'm not really living it"' (18). In this way, Jake suggests that no one is truly living, and this is just the way it is. Not everyone can be a bull-fighter, so they all need to be okay with feeling discontent. Throughout the novel, we encounter characters who are directionless and unfulfilled. This can be projected onto the Lost Generation in its entirety. This restlessness is something thoroughly explored in the novel, especially through Jake and Cohn. While Cohn more readily vocalizes his discontent, Jake is much more subtle and selective in his expression. Having been injured in war, he has partially come to terms with his own loss of masculinity and his feeling of not having a purpose. That is one reason why this hypermasculine activity is such an interesting part of the story. In Spain, the characters enjoy this gruesome display, suggesting a desire to feel anything. Together, they discuss how they enjoyed watching their first bull-fight. "'They do have some rather awful things happen to them," Brett said. "I couldn't look away, though."' (170).

Reading The Sun Also Rises, I can't help but draw parallels between Jake Barnes and Jay Gatsby. Both are Jews, both have lost their way, and both have attached themselves to a woman in their moment of lost masculinity. Both women, Frances Clyne and Daisy Buchanan, have a huge amount of agency in the novel. In fact, both novels are driven by either female character's failure or success at various moments. The climaxes of the story do for sure, with Daisy choosing a comfortable life as Tom Buchanan's wife and Clyne choosing to have an affair with a matador.

For one, why do both authors chose Jewish characters to illustrate this feeling of what I'll call a "lost masculinity." Second, is that why women are allowed such an important role in the novel? The main characters have lost their masculinity and thus their agency, so the women have room to expand and grab their own? Or is the agency of Clyne in The Sun Also Rises a symptom of the disease to speak? Is Clyne having such freedom a good thing, or even a neutral thing, or is it presented as a problem that wouldn't exist if Barnes was as masculine as he should be? This is the same problem I had with The Great Gatsby and wrote a conference paper over -- sure, the women have agency, but why? How do they exercise it? Daisy's agency seems to exist to simply reinforce the class structure/social modes of the time and act as a trophy for the fight between Tom and Gatsby. Clyne, likewise, has the ability to chose her own path, but it feels like this agency is less about choosing her own path and more about illustrating how screwed up Barnes' own masculine identity is.

EDIT: So, I completely confused Jake Barnes and Cohn. I blame Hemingway and his "Iceberg Theory." My apologies Dr. Drouin.

I think the same thrust of my argument still stands. There is a sincere lack of masculinity from Jake, and that leads him to be unable to control Lady Ashley despite her actively wanting to give herself to him. The Jewish character in Cohn is still virile and everything that Jake physically cannot be anymore, but the self-hatred Jake feels is projected against Cohn. As Dr. Drouin said in class, Cohn is the literal scapegoat of the group. So while Cohn isn't lacking masculinity on his own, he is forced to take on that lack of masculinity from Jake, if only to stand as a monster that Jake can hate so that he doesn't hate himself. 

I still stand by these women with agency, your Daisy's and your Lady Ashley's, that only have agency because the men in the novels are lacking some kind of masculinity. It's a start, but it's more empty than anything.

I wanted to expand on Chelsea's earlier comment that addressed Lady Brett Ashley's lack of personhood in the novel. This is my first experience with The Sun Also Rises, so this could be a bit out of left field, but I considered her more as a symbol than a character. It is interesting to consider Lady Ashely as the War, personified. The novel begins with a rather understated introduction to Brett, as she kind of just appears in the dance club in Chapter 3. Then, as noted by a number of characters throughout Book I, Lady Ashley is defined as being a classy lady, just as WWI came about somewhat randomly and was initially recognized as a positive venture. As the novel continues, Lady Ashley affects (or, rather, infects) the minds of the men around her. As Chelsea noted in her post, "Brett is a character denied the same sorts of agency that Jake, Bill, Robert, and Michael have access to." Rather than operating as a character with her own agency and mobility, Brett is the ever-present figure and topic that these men discuss while the War and its pain are the undertone. 

What this portrayal of Lady Brett Ashely as a symbol rather than a character says about Hemingway is another topic entirely, but understanding her in this way gave the novel a nuance that I was willing to entertain.

Now that I’ve finished The Sun Also Rises, I’m not sure what to make of it. It’s definitely not what I expected, and I’m left wondering about the role of Robert Cohn’s character in relation to the plot. I can most relate to Jake because we are invited into the story through his narration, but the first chapter is about Cohn and his back story. After learning of his first failed marriage and his meaningless relationship with Frances, Cohn falls head over heels for Brett. Cohn sees his secret affair with Brett as something special while the rest of the group is well aware that she is flirtatious and incapable of committing to just one man. As the story progresses, it seems Hemingway increasingly paints Cohn as a fool as he chases Brett, professing his adoration for her with no affection in return. In parts two and three of the novel, we also see more and more negative references to Cohn as a Jew – both by Mike and Brett. If The Sun Also Rises was written in 1926 after World War I and before World War II, is Cohn a representation of the brewing discrimination toward Jews that eventually emerges during the second world war? In the end, Cohn just fades away to Paris or somewhere – easily forgotten by the party of main characters but remembered by us readers for his unwanted presence and assault of Jake – a man we want to sympathize with as a survivor of World War I. There’s more to Cohn than that. As the sun rises another day following a world conflict and Jake and his crew try to get on with life, Cohn symbolizes a nagging tension that will reappear in the lives of these Europeans and Americans when World War II begins.

As for Jake, I’m assuming Brett won’t fully devote herself to him because of his impotence caused by a war injury. The two connect on an emotional level, but the relationship is never physical. Brett is not willing to sacrifice her sex life to be with a man she cares for on a more mature level when compared to other lovers such as Mike or Romero. When considering the characters of Jake’s crew, we can look at each one as a different way in which humans attempt to recover and move on with life after World War I. Brett is careless and fake. Her hair is cut short, and she wears a man’s hat. She poses the image of a rich woman – Lady Ashley ­– when in reality she is actually quite poor and doesn’t even have enough travel fare to return home. Brett represents the type of war survivor who is lost and confused – unsure of how to approach the remainder of her life. She creates a façade to cover the fact she’s unsure how to find herself. Mike is a good match for her in some ways because he too leads a reckless life. Bankrupt and a terrible drunk, he roams the country with no restrictions on his bank account or the words that fly out of his mouth.

Finally, Jake and Bill are the sensible characters who seem to have their lives together the most. Yes, Jake always makes himself available to rescue Brett, but that is his decision. He understands her ways and is willing to give much of his time, a little of his heart and some of his money just to feel some kind of emotional connection with her after surviving such a horrific war. Brett cared for him when he was injured, and I’m sure he feels indebted to her for that. Jake is the type of survivor who is capable of success and some level of happiness or contentment after the war, but emotional strings of attachment to Brett will always linger. Much like the war, he never can completely close the door on her.

I could go on and about this book. There wasn’t much of a plot, but I found myself invested in the characters. I was hooked to find out if Brett would stay with the bull fighter or wise up and find a way to be with Jake. We all know someone like Brett in real life, and it’s her beauty and casual life choices that keep us interested in her story.

  There is something about the way Ernest Hemingway writes about alcohol that makes you think he may have knocked back a few cold ones in his day. One might even speculate that, at one time or another, he understood the word addiction very well. It would be no surprise to find, then, that several characters in The Sun Also Rises exhibit an incredibly complex representation of addiction, of whom the best example is perhaps Lady Ashley. I have yet to read this novel and not come away frustrated by Brett, among others, and the fatalistic way in which her decisions seem to be made. It suggests a lack of agency that is almost unbelievable; yet, the more neuroscientists and philosophers have come to understand addiction, the more an addict’s agency (or free will, if you like) has been called into question. There is one passage in particular that demonstrates Brett’s inability to control her decisions, agency, fate, or what-you-will. Just before Jake takes her to meet with Pedro Romero, they have a discussion in which both Brett and Jake’s inability to check her desire, a desire that all symbolism in the book suggests is catastrophic, is put on display:

"Do you still love me, Jake?"

"Yes," I said.

"Because I'm a goner," Brett said.

"How?"

"I'm a goner. I'm mad about the Romero boy. I'm in love with him, I think."

"I wouldn't be if I were you."

"I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up inside."

"Don't do it."

"I can't help it. I've never been able to help anything."

"You ought to stop it."

"How can I stop it? I can't stop things. Feel that?"

Her hand was trembling.

"I'm like that all through."

"You oughtn't to do it."

"I can't help it. I'm a goner now, anyway. Don't you see the difference?"

"No."

"I've got to do something. I've got to do something I really want to do. I've lost my self-respect."

What is so frustrating about the passage, both for the reader and the characters involved, is the way it discredits our deeply individual value of agency. Why can’t she do any of these things? She must be able to and she just won’t, is what we would like to think. We judge her character, instead of analyzing her responses. When Brett assures Jake “I can’t stop things,” it might be appropriate to take her at her word. As I mentioned earlier, neuroscientists and philosophers have made advances in our understanding of addiction that suggest Brett may be sincere. In short, there is a compound in the brain called dopamine that is connected to our motivation in decisions based on pleasure or rewards, such as taking the bull-fighter back to his hotel room for a night of fun. Addiction is the mark of a person’s ability to respond to dopamine that enters the neural pathways in anticipation of a potential instance of pleasure or reward. This ability is one that can be conditioned; so, if Brett is addicted to sex, when the desire presents itself, she is much more likely to acquiesce than Barbara, who is a nun. And it is more likely not just because the receiver is more conditioned to respond to dopamine, but also because the mind has gotten more proficient at negating and even removing alternate responses. So, it is entirely likely that Brett does not have the ability to stop herself, and perhaps allows us a pathway to empathy for her, as well as a better understanding of why this generation felt so lost.

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?