Hemingway’s Existential Ending

Tung Chung-Hsuan

文史學報第二十一期

國立中興大學文學院文史學報編輯委員會主編

國立中興大學教務處出版組印行

中華民國八十年三月

Hemingway’s Existential Ending

In December 1944, Ernest Hemingway met Jean-Paul Sartre for once in Paris, and in August 1949 he met the existentialist again. “When Sartre appeared for a meal,” it is reported, “the two writers talked like businessmen of royalties” (Meyers 429). But what on earth did they talk about? Were they trying to influence each other’s ideas of writing?

On Hemingway’s part, very few biographers, if ever, trace his ideas to the influence of the Frenchman. For most critics, Hemingway only played apprentice to such Anglo-American writers as Ezra Pound, Gertrude Stein, Ford Madox Ford, James Joyce, T. S. Eliot, and F. Scott Fitzgerald (Elliot 876). It seems that Sartre has not talked his existentialist ideas into Hemingway’s mind.

Hemingway was Sartre’s senior by six years. When they talked “like businessman of royalties,” it might be Sartre, not Hemingway, that was trying to “profit” from the “business.” And we know that before that talk Sartre had become known “for a series of articles on contemporary literature which did much to popularize in France the works of American novelists such as Faulkner, Hemingway, Dos Passos, and Steinback” (Benet 898).

But was Hemingway ever influenced by any other existentialist? The still younger Albert Camus, for instance, who was in Sartre’s circle? Or Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Unamuno, etc., who were at least one or two generations older than Hemingway?

In his Hemingway and the Dead Gods, John Killinger has an extensive discussion of Hemingway in connection with all those existential thinkers. But he does not say Hemingway was ever directly influenced by any existentialist in person or in book. Thus, we may infer that if Hemingway had any existential thought, it might be chiefly, if not completely, the result of his own personal experience.

This understanding is important. For, as we know, the time of Hemingway was a time of “lost generation,” a time when irrational feelings and destructive actions made most conscientious souls escape to “separate peace,” a time, that is, when sensible men were unavoidably nurtured in the existential Void. We, therefore, are not surprised that a writer like Hemingway should have his life and works tinged with the color of existentialism.

But Hemingway is no existentialist, nor is he a philosopher in an academic sense. He is indeed no more a philosopher than Byron is.1 Nevertheless, no one, I presume, can finish reading half of Hemingway’s work without feeling an existential vein in it. In fact, as I shall demonstrate below, many of his chief novels and short stories have ended in an existential manner just as his life has, if we know what an existential ending is.

Existentialism is, of course, a difficult philosophy. Its difficulty stems not only from its numerous originators but also from it various expounders. But all originators and expounders agree on the basic premise that “existence precedes essence.” From this premise different corollaries have been drawn. One book, for instance, takes it to mean “the total relativism of all sensation, experience, and morality.” And the book thus explains:

Most of what we ordinarily consider absolute principles are purely subjective in nature; they have been created synthetically by the human brain, and therefore may be altered or suspended at will. Human nature is one of these principles; Sartre holds that human nature is fixed only in the sense that men have agreed to recognize certain attributes of human nature; this nature may be changed if men merely agree on different attributes, or even if one man courageously acts in contradiction to the principles as ordinarily accepted. Thus Sartrian Existentialism is by nature (a) atheistic, since God is one of the subjective and synthetic concepts which men have contrived for their own convenience; (b) pessimistic, since man cannot hope for any surcease or aid outside himself; and (c) humanistic and progressive, since the possibilities of altering society and human nature for the better are unlimited. (Heiney 394)

Another book reduces all varieties of existentialism to three simple facts: First, the basic attempt of all existentialism has been to establish the separate identity of the individual. Second, every man faces the choice of being a genuine individual or being just part of the crowd. And third, in this world, where a man can thus choose to be himself or to remain anonymous, good and evil become mere qualities of the way of life which the individual chooses (Killinger 6-11).

Although the two books seem to have quite different interpretations, they do agree that existentialism is a philosophy of freedom, one that recognizes man’s active role in establishing his own “essence.” “It’s what one does, and nothing else, that shows the stuff one’s made of,” Inez in Sartre’s No Exit tells Garcin, adding, “You are--your life, and nothing else.” Inez is here Sartre’s mouthpiece, of course.

An existential hero is indeed an individual who actively exercises his personal freedom to construct his authentic self. It is only that he knows only too well he is placed in an absurd world, a world in which no definite meaning or purpose of life can be indubitably affirmed, just as in mathematics an irrational root (surd) can never be expressed by a definite number. Facing the absurd world, the existential hero often feels the threat of nihilism and sees mere Nothingness or Void in everything. Consequently he always lives under the tension of anguish (Heidegger’s das Angst), a state not exactly of anxiety nor of fear, but of agonizing dread about something indefinite and uncanny.

One characteristic of the absurd which makes most of the anguish is repetition—meaningless repetition, or repetition of insensible “beginning again from zero.”2 It is because the existential hero cannot bear the repetition that he wants to build his new identity by actively doing something extraordinary. He despises, accordingly, the way of all flesh for that repetition, and he cannot even allow himself the repetition, and he cannot even follow himself that the repetition. For repetition is by definition a restraint of freedom, a cutting off of one’s chance to set up his individuality anew.

It follows, therefore, that an existential work often has the absurd repetition exposed for comic ridicule or for serious consideration. Camus’s The Myth of Sisyphus, for instance, has touched on this theme most poignantly. Sisyphus, as we know, was accused of levity towards the gods and of purloining their secrets. He was therefore put in Hades to the task of repeatedly rolling a huge stone up a hill, from whence it always rolled down again. One day Pluto permitted him to return to earth to chastise his unloving wife. When he went home, however, he enjoyed it so much that he refused to go back to the underworld until Mercury was sent to fetch him. Sisyphus is indeed the “absurd hero” par excellence. But he just cannot bear that futile repetition of life.

Now, to return to Hemingway, I emphasize that Hemingway’s work is not so existential as Camus’s or Sartre’s is. However, Hemingway and his heroes, we feel, are often so anguished with their purposelessly repetitious lives that they really react to them time and again quite like absurd heroes. In truth, many of Hemingway’s chief novels and short stories end with a sense of disgust with or even protest against the absurd repetition.

To begin with, The Sun Also Rises, as we know, widely established Hemingway’s reputation for depicting “the lost generation” and the disillusionment that followed World War I. This fact, however, should not make us forget that it is a novel most obviously devoted to the treatment of the repetition theme. We know the title of the novel is adapted from Ecclesiastes, and a passage of this Old Testament book with the words for that title is printed in the novel’s front page. The passage thus goes:

One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh; but the earth abideth forever…The sun also ariseth, and then the sun goeth down, and the hasteth to the place where he arose…the wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north; it whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits. …All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again.

Isn’t this a pointed observation of the repetitious phenomena? If we bear this passage in mind when we read the novel, we shall be able to understand that the novel is not only the story of a set of expatriates in Paris who make a hectic trip over the Pyrenees to Pamplona for the bull-fights. Nor is the life of the “lost generation” depicted merely as a record of the post-war situation. Rather, it is the description, too, of many a generation to come. At least for Hemingway there will be more Bills, Jakes, Mikes, Cohns, Bretts, etc., coming to abide in this absurd world and live similarly absurd lives.

At the end of The Sun Also Rises, we find Jake and Brett in Madrid. As usual, they drink and eat and talk in the bar and in the hotel. Finally they take a taxi ride to see the city. In the taxi, Jake puts his arm around Brett and she rests against him comfortably. Then Brett says, “Oh, Jake, we could have had such a damned good time together.” And Jake answers, “Yes, Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

Here Jake’s answer is ironic. It implies that their life can be “pretty” only in supposition. We as readers know, of course, that their life is as purposeless as the war-wrecked world in which they live; their ride now is as aimless as the drifting generation to which they belong. And we can suppose with justification that later on Brett may do and say pretty much the same thing to the next man coming her way. In fact, not only Jake and Brett but also all the characters in novel may repeat pretty much the same meaningless café-bar-and-street life and claim it “a damned good time together” again and again. This absurd repetition, we may assume, is not beyond the awareness of Jake, who as the novel’s narrator represents at least part of Hemingway’s awareness.

If all characters in The Sun Also Rises, including Jake, are still immersed in their absurd life (thus, no one of them can be called a hero), the hero and the heroine in A Farewell to Arms have at least tried to escape from the war’s repetitious injuries to “separate peace.” In fact, the couple’s heroic escape has raised the novel to a tragic dimension, and created a tragic atmosphere well linked to the novel’s symbolic touches.

Besides the symbolic contrast between the plain and the mountain, a much discussed symbol in A Farewell to Arms is the rain. Malcolm Cowley asserts that in the novel, “the rain becomes a conscious symbol of disaster” (16). And he shows convincingly how the rain recurs in the novel with the disastrous associations. At the end of the novel, for instance, rain is still falling when Catherine dies in childbirth. After Frederick leaves her in the hospital, he says he walks back to the hotel in the rain.

Regarding the rain symbol, John Killinger has a different interpretation. He says:

Several critics have noted the recurrence of rain (or other forms of precipitation) in Hemingway’s fiction, especially in A Farewell to Arms, as a harbinger of disaster. Since it is connected with death, they generally agree that this function is diametrically opposite that of the precipitation symbol in the wasteland world of T. S. Eliot. But I believe that the rain is a symbol of fertility in Hemingway, too, though in a slightly different sense than in Eliot. To Hemingway death means rebirth for the existentialist hero in its presence, and therefore the rain, as an omen of death, at the same time predicts rebirth. (48)

I think that no matter whether it is a symbol of death or birth, the recurrence of rain in the novel is just like the recurrence of disaster (plague, war, etc.) and welfare (love, success, etc.) in the fictional as well as real world. When finally Frederick steps into the rain, he must realize that things always come to nothing and one always has to start again from zero, just as the rain always comes on and leaves off in time.

“A Farewell to Arms” is in fact an ambiguous title. “Arms” can mean “weapon” and this refer to fighting or war. It can also refer to lovers’ arms and thus suggest amorous affection. At the end of the novel, Frederic does bid his farewell to both war and love. Since war is the result of hate, of lack of love, he in truth bids farewell to the roots of all human passions. Thus, he may be said to have stepped into the existential Void. In order to find a purpose in life again, he has to start again from the “pre-essence” state of existence.

Whereas the repetition theme in A Farewell to Arms is strengthened by the rain symbol, the same theme is suggested by the recurrence of snow in For Whom the Bell Tolls. But this later novel is often noted for another theme. Owing to its title, the novel is automatically connected with John Donne’s idea of “No man is an island.” Hence the story of a young American devoted to the Loyalist cause in the Spanish Civil War has become a story of his noble feeling that “any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind.”

Indeed, when the book ends, Robert Jordon is insisting nobly, despite his fatal wound, on remaining with a machine-gun in a spot where he can ambush and mow down the pursuing Rebel column before he is killed. He thinks he is covering the retreat of his friends and doing the last heroic act.

But is that really a heroic deed? Robert Penn Warren has noticed a sort of irony in the novel. He says the irony runs counter to the ostensible surface direction of the story. And he explains: