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Critical Insights: The Sun Also Rises
The Art of Friction:
Ernest Hemingway and William Faulkner
By Lorie Watkins Fulton
During the first half of the twentieth century, American modernism produced an astounding array of talented writers who, in wildly varying styles, explored the condition of modern man. Surely no two styles differed more, however, than those of Ernest Hemingway and William Faulkner. In Death in the Afternoon, Hemingway invokes the image of an iceberg to describe his style:
If a writer of a prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an ice-berg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water. A writer who omits things because he does not know them only makes hollow places in his writing. (192)
Thus Hemingway's style is based on the exclusion of extraneous information and words, and as a result his prose is lean, spare, and seemingly straightforward, deriving its power and meaning from what is not explicitly said. Faulkner, on the other hand, writes lush, syntactically difficult prose that challenges its reader with its vocabulary and sheer volume.
The two writers' lives differed as much as their literary styles. For example, although both longed to participate in World War I but could not register for active duty, Hemingway actually saw combat as a volunteer ambulance driver for the Red Cross, whereas the war ended before Faulkner completed training with the Canadian Royal Air Force. Hemingway later covered the Spanish Civil War and World War II as a news correspondent and went on to become the sportsman of the famed Hemingway legend by boxing, hunting for big game on safari in Africa, fishing in the Gulf Stream, and, of course, displaying his enthusiasm for the artistry of the bullfight. He filled his life with adventure, and his life seems as expansive as his prose seems narrow. The opposite seems to hold true for the relationship between Faulkner's life and his work. Although Faulkner traveled extensively overseas for the U.S. State Department during the 1950s and spent extended periods of time in Hollywood writing for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer and Warner Bros., he primarily confined himself to his "little postage stamp of native soil" in Oxford, Mississippi, for most of his life. Despite, or perhaps because of, their differences, these two writers shared a lifelong rivalry that emerges often in their letters and sometimes in their fiction; in fact, their hostility is even anticipated by Hemingway's depiction of the rivalry between Jake Barnes and Robert Cohn in his early novel The Sun Also Rises.
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Given their personal and artistic differences, it is not surprising that Hemingway and Faulkner moved in separate social circles. In fact, they met only once, if at all. In a letter to reviewer Harvey Breit dated July 4, 1952, Hemingway mentions meeting Faulkner, but he does not provide specific information about the encounter. This meeting, if it indeed occurred, appears to have been the only face-to-face one between the two men. Semipublic exchanges instead replaced personal interaction and defined the most notorious literary professional rivalry of the modernist period. Faulkner voiced the more positive opinion from the start, telling Phil Stone, a friend and Oxford attorney, in 1925 that Hemingway "is so far the greatest American fictionist" (Blotner 448). In contrast, Hemingway offered mixed comments on Faulkner's work as early as 1931. When Milwaukee bookstore owner Paul Romaine collected some of Faulkner's early works for Salmagundi, he contacted Hemingway and asked permission to reproduce one of his early poems, "Ultimately," on the back cover (Baker 227). "Ultimately" had appeared in a 1922 issue of the New Orleans Double Dealer alongside Faulkner's work (204). Hemingway agreed, but "privately told his bibliographer, Captain Cohn, that the early poem was bad enough to fit perfectly into a collection of Faulkner's `early shit.'" Of Faulkner's more recent work at that time, Hemingway told novelist Owen Wister that he enjoyed As I Lay Dying but Sanctuary seemed "pretty phony." Hemingway nevertheless sent "his best wishes by way of Romaine, adding that he seemed to be going well as a writer and that he sounded like `a good skate'" (Baker 227).
Maxwell Perkins, meanwhile, considered trying to lure Faulkner to Scribner's but decided against it. Fellow Scribner's editor John Hall Wheelock thought that Perkins "was afraid of arousing Hemingway's jealousy" and added, "in Hemingway's mind, there was no more room in Max's life for another power so threatening as William Faulkner" (Berg 181). Hemingway first shows the public face of such sentiment in Death in the Afternoon (1932), where he writes, "My operatives tell me that through the fine work of Mr. William Faulkner publishers now will publish anything rather than try to get you to delete the better portions of your works." Hemingway presumably refers to Sanctuary when he adds, "I look forward to writing of those days of my youth which were spent in the finest whorehouses in the land." He also advises, "You can't go wrong on Faulkner. He's prolific too. By the time you get them ordered there'll be new ones out" (173). At least one reviewer, Robert Coates, objected to Hemingway's "bitterness" in his "gibes at William Faulkner, who has done him no harm save to come under his influence" (Lynn 397). Hemingway protested in a letter to Coates, "I'm damned if I wrote any petulant jibes against Faulkner and the hell with you for telling citizens that I did" (Letters 369). Nevertheless, some twelve years later Hemingway admitted to philosopher and novelist Jean Paul Sartre that he thought Faulkner the better writer (Baker 439), and he wrote of Faulkner to editor Malcolm Cowley in a letter dated October 17, 1945:
He has the most talent of anybody and he just needs a sort of conscience that isn't there. Certainly if no nation can exist half free and half slave no man can write half whore and half straight. But he will write absolutely perfectly straight and then go on and on and not be able to end it. I wish the christ I owned him like you'd own a horse and train him like a horse and race him like a horse--only in writing. How beautifully he can write and as simple and as complicated as autumn or as spring. (Letters 604)
Interestingly enough, Faulkner used a similarly competitive metaphor when he responded to Cowley's suggestion that Hemingway write the preface for Viking's The Portable Faulkner: "I am opposed to asking Hemingway to write the preface. It seems to me in bad taste to ask him to write a preface to my stuff. It's like asking one race horse in the middle of a race to broadcast a blurb on another horse in the same running field" (Blotner 1209).
This figurative race began indeed when Faulkner contracted to meet with a series of six literature classes at the University of Mississippi in April 1947. As Joseph Blotner describes the lectures, Faulkner "never approached a public meeting without some trepidation, but he was determined to do as good a job as he could and to give the university its money's worth. And he could relax somewhat, since it had been specified and agreed that no notes would be taken" (1230). Over the course of the six classes some students did take notes, however, and the university's director of public relations, Marvin Black, issued a press release containing the highlights of Faulkner's sessions. Hemingway later saw excerpts from that release reprinted in the New York Herald Tribune's book section and took offense at two of Faulkner's comments (1234). First, Faulkner ranked his literary contemporaries (including himself, upon the students' insistence) according to "the splendor of the failure" of each to "achieve the dream." The list, in Faulkner's original order, named Thomas Wolfe, Faulkner himself, John Dos Passos, Hemingway, and John Steinbeck (1232). Faulkner offered a further critique of Hemingway: "He has no courage, has never climbed out on a limb. He has never used a word where the reader might check his usage by a dictionary" (1233). The low ranking surely offended Hemingway, and Faulkner's challenge of Hemingway's courage drew a strong reaction from the author known for his depictions of characters facing tests of their courage as well as for his brittle combativeness. He felt that Faulkner had "called him a coward" and he "sent the newspaper clipping to General [Buck] Lanham and asked him to write Faulkner the truth about his behavior under fire in 1944" (Baker 461). Lanham did so, speaking of Hemingway's physical and moral courage, and concluded that the novelist was "the most courageous man I have ever known, both in war and peace" (Baker 461). Faulkner insisted that his own statement "had no reference whatever to Hemingway as a man: only to his craftsmanship as a writer" (Blotner 1235). He wrote immediately to Lanham and sent a copy of the letter to Hemingway along with a note that said:
I'm sorry of this damn stupid thing. I was just making $250.00, I thought informally, not for publication, or I would have insisted on looking at the stuff before it was released. I have believed for years that the human voice has caused all human ills and I thought I had broken myself of talking. Maybe this will be my valedictory lesson. (Blotner 1235)
Hemingway seemed satisfied and cordial in the initial section of his reply to Faulkner, dated July 23. He began with the salutation "Dear Bill" and continued:
Awfully glad to hear from you and glad to have made contact. Your letter came tonight and please throw all the other stuff away, the misunderstanding, or will have to come up and we can both trompel on it. There isn't any at all. I was sore and Buck [Lanham] was sore and we were instantly unsore the minute we knew the score. (Letters 623)
However, it soon became clear that Hemingway wasn't "unsore" at all. He went on to disagree with Faulkner's ranking of Wolfe and Dos Passos, and even referred to Dos Passos as a "snob," a "bastard," and "a 2nd rate writer on acct. no ear" (623). Hemingway also defended For Whom the Bell Tolls against Faulkner's charges and added, "Probably bore the shit out of you to re-read but as a brother would like to know what you think." Hemingway then warned Faulkner, "You shouldn't read the shit about living writers," and encouraged him to write his "best against dead writers that we know what stature (not stature: evocative power) that they have and beat them one by one" (624). In taking care to define "stature" for Faulkner, Hemingway also seemed to illustrate what he saw as Faulkner's fundamental misreading of Hemingway's work as simplistic. Hemingway ended the letter on a strange, perhaps even passive-aggressive note: "Excuse chickenshit letter. Have much regard for you. Would like to keep on writing" (625).
Although this proposed correspondence did not ensue, Hemingway did tell Harvey Breit that he sent a cable to Faulkner as soon as he heard that Faulkner had won the Nobel Prize in Literature. Of course, Hemingway added that if he ever won it, he would "be strongly tempted to thank them politely and then refuse to appear for the ceremony" (Baker 489). Faulkner instigated the next skirmish in the competition between the two authors. In a June 1952 letter to Harvey Breit, Faulkner responded to the critical panning of Across the River and into the Trees:
A few years ago, I forget what the occasion was, Hemingway said that writers should stick together just as doctors and lawyers and wolves do. I think there is more wit in that than truth or necessity either, at least in Hemingway's case, since the sort of writers who need to band together willy nilly or perish, resemble the wolves who are wolves only in pack, and, singly, are just another dog.
Faulkner then appeared to defend Hemingway against this assertion when he suggested that "the man who wrote the MEN WITHOUT WOMEN pieces and THE SUN ALSO RISES and A FAREWELL TO ARMS and FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS and most of the African stuff and most of all the rest of it, is not one of these, and needs no pack protection" (Faulkner, Letters 333-34).
Breit passed the letter on to Hemingway, "telling him that he planned to use it in a piece he was writing. To his dismay, the letter made Hemingway furious, for he concluded that Faulkner was calling him `just another dog'" (Faulkner, Letters 334). Hemingway responded with two letters to Breit, dated June 27 and June 29, expressing his confusion over Faulkner's statement: "It really does sound as though he considered that he had been asked to speak well of something worthless by someone who could no longer write and he was, instead, making just as noble a statement about the poor chap as his conscience would allow" (Letters 771). Hemingway thought that Faulkner's making "statements without reading it is chicken," and the four-page-long rant contains personal attacks, including charges that Faulkner could "be better than anyone if he knew how to finish a book" and of writing "on corn" (770, 772). Hemingway implored Breit not to "speak about any of this to Faulkner" because he did "not want any quarrels." He also admitted, "I'm sure I am too hard on Faulkner. But I know I am not as hard on him as I am on myself" (770). Unaware of Hemingway's criticisms, Faulkner wrote the following cable upon reading The Old Man and the Sea: "Splendid news. stop not that quote the old man unquote needs more accolade than it already has from us who know the anguish it took and have tried to do it too" (Faulkner, Letters 348).
That very novel played a central role in the authors' next and final major quarrel. Faulkner wrote a review of The Old Man and the Sea for Washington and Lee University's literary journal, Shenandoah. The review began, "His best. Time may show it to be the best single piece of any of us, I mean of his and my contemporaries." Faulkner's continuing praise, however, also contained implicit criticism, for he suggested that Hemingway had finally
discovered God, a Creator. Until now, his men and women had made themselves, shaped themselves out of their own clay; their victories and defeats were at the hands of each other, just to prove to themselves or one another how tough they could be. But this time, he wrote about pity; about something somewhere that made them all . . . made them all and loved them all and pitied them all.
Faulkner concluded, "Praise God that whatever made and loves and pities Hemingway and me kept him from touching it any further" (Blotner 1428-29). Hemingway, obviously disgusted, wrote to journalist Lillian Ross soon afterward, "I cannot help out very much with the true dope on God as I have never played footy-footy with him; nor been a cane brake God hopper; nor won the Nobel Prize. It would be best to get the true word on God from Mr. Faulkner." As for himself, Hemingway claimed to "know the same amount about God as you do." In a snide reference aligning Faulkner with The Sound and the Fury's Benjy, Hemingway continued, "Have not been vouchsafed any revelations. It's quite possible that Mr. Faulkner sits at the table with him each night and that the deity comforts him if he has a bad dream and wipes his mouth and helps him eat his corn pone or hominy grits or wheaties in the morning." In another reference to Faulkner's earlier "dog" comment, Hemingway told Ross that he believed that what Faulkner "means is that he is spooked to die and is moving in on the side of the strongest battalions. We will fight it out here and if there are no reserves it is too Faulking bad and they will find what is left of Dog company on that hill" (Letters 807).
Fight it out they did. Hemingway continued to hurl primarily private insults in his darker moods, and Faulkner continued to speak about the infamous list when an interviewer or audience member raised the subject. Faulkner outlived Hemingway and thus got the last word by virtue of surviving him. Interestingly, in speaking of Hemingway's death, Faulkner turned back to the subject of courage. He told Joseph Blotner, "Hemingway was obviously sick, but there was something unmanly about what he had done." However, the remark may have had more to do with Faulkner's own life than with Hemingway's death, for Faulkner curiously added to his comment to Blotner, "It's bad when a man does something like that. It's like saying death is better than living with my wife" (1790).
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Despite this rivalry, the novelists' works share a "host of common themes--among them hunting, troubled gender relationships, the interconnection of people and place, and . . . war" (Fruscione, "One Tale" 279). Their lives also shared uncanny similarities, including connections to Hollywood, run-ins with Sherwood Anderson, alcoholism, depression, and penchants for younger women. The result, a "remarkable psycho-competitive influence over each other," spawned a "textual dialectic between Faulkner and Hemingway in which they explored the style, themes, and direction of American Modernism" (280). Joseph Fruscione writes of this influence:
Throughout their careers, Hemingway and Faulkner influenced each other in ways that were directly psychological, indirectly artistic. Psychologically, each was driven to outshine the other and anxiously felt the other's sway; artistically, their texts and aesthetic sensibilities embodied (and were partly shaped by) their rivalry. Their efforts to surpass each other pushed them to innovate--each knew that his adversary was worthy and often responded to, riffed on, or took chances because of him. ("Mano a Mano" 71)
Many critics have already explored the dimensions of this textual dialectic.1 Hemingway offered his most direct criticism of Faulkner in the fictionalized conversation with the "old lady" in Death in the Afternoon. Faulkner's If I Forget Thee, Jerusalem stands as Faulkner's most obvious jab at Hemingway, a parodic response to the criticism in Death in the Afternoon. As Fruscione notes:
In Death in the Afternoon, Hemingway took Faulkner to task for his vast productivity and "prolific" nature. Faulkner fired back in each of If Forget Thee, Jerusalem's two stories: "The Wild Palms" recasts much of Hemingway's work in Faulknerian form, while "Old Man" refers to the main character as a matador and his subservient backwoods companions as aficionados. In short, each story of If I Forget Thee, Jerusalem symbolizes Hemingway and Faulkner, respectively, and the allusion to Hemingway in "Old Man" implies--part-jokingly, part-seriously--Faulkner's artistic superiority to Hemingway, as one cannot write matador and aficionados without calling Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises (1926), Death in the Afternoon, and physically-active masculine persona to mind--Faulkner, as well as his readers, undoubtedly knew this. ("One Tale" 298)
The troubled relationship seems firmly rooted in Hemingway's competitive nature and attendant fears of inferiority. As Earl Rovit and Arthur Waldhorn note, "In their several semi-public exchanges, usually incited by misunderstandings of reported comments, it is the ostentatiously self-confident Hemingway who is quick to take umbrage and strike back at what he believed were Faulkner's criticisms of him and his work" (158). Their competition, for Hemingway, also "held a certain creative value: artists attempting to `equal or surpass' their rivals could improve their own work" (Fruscione, "Mano a Mano" 68). The "public face of Hemingway's jealousy began in 1932" with the publication of Death in the Afternoon (Monteiro 75), but The Sun Also Rises also anticipates the contentious relationship in its depiction of the authorial rivalry between Jake Barnes and Robert Cohn.2 Admittedly, Hemingway's novel appeared in 1926, long before the majority of the literary fallout from his rivalry with Faulkner, but it nonetheless foreshadows the later friction between the two modernist giants. In this roman à clef, Jake Barnes, like Hemingway, is a newspaperman and an injured veteran.3 Hemingway bases much of the novel on a trip he took with friends to Spain in 1925, and his depiction of Cohn, based on the novelist Harold Loeb, likely also served as a deliberate attempt to "get" Loeb for engaging in an affair with Lady Duff Twysden, the real-life counterpart for Brett Ashley (Lynn 295-96).
The novel begins with a description of Cohn, a former middleweight boxing champion whom Jake calls his "tennis friend" (13). As is true of all the characters in the novel, circumstance largely defines Cohn's life; in fact, he did not even care for boxing but "learned it painfully and thoroughly to counteract the feeling of inferiority and shyness he had felt on being treated as a Jew at Princeton" (11). In the first chapter, readers learn that Cohn "was married by the first girl who was nice to him," divorced her when she left him, moved to California, and "fell among literary people" (12). Cohn soon finds himself editing a literary review and "taken in hand by a lady who hoped to rise with the magazine" (13). When the magazine fails, Cohn turns to writing and produces a novel that Jake deems "not really such a bad novel as the critics later called it, although it was a very poor novel" (13). Poor novel or not, a "fairly good publisher" accepts it. Cohn travels to New York and comes back "quite changed" because the publisher "praised his novel pretty highly and," in Jake's opinion, "it rather went to his head" (16).
Jake narrates The Sun Also Rises, and his perceptions of Cohn necessarily color his depiction of him. In chapter 6, Jake even warns readers that he cannot speak of Cohn objectively when he writes, "Somehow I feel I have not shown Robert Cohn clearly." His narrative bias lies in his jealousy of Cohn's ability to express his love for Brett in a sexual relationship.4 Jake reflects, "The reason is that until he fell in love with Brett, I never heard him make one remark that would, in any way, detach him from other people" (52). Later, Jake admits, "I certainly did hate him" (105). Kenneth S. Lynn points out that Hemingway committed basically the same crime in real life; his construction of Loeb as Cohn made Loeb "look even worse" (295). While Lynn suggests that Hemingway "took sadistic delight in degrading the fictional stand-in for Harold Loeb," he adds that Hemingway became "ashamed of himself in the process and ambivalently sympathetic with Cohn as a result" (296). In retrospect, it is easy to see some of the same ambivalence that would lead Hemingway to praise Faulkner on one hand while criticizing him on the other.
Another scene later in the novel illustrates the principles of "irony and pity" that Jake deems "so essential to good writing" in the excised material cut from the beginning of the novel ("Beginning" 133).5 In the scene, Jake and Bill Gorton riff and pun on the terms that, according to H. R. Stoneback, constituted "the literary catchphrase of the hour," as per Anatole France's formula (202). After bandying about the terms for almost two pages, Bill tells Jake, "You don't understand irony. You have no pity. Say something pitiful." Jake responds, "Robert Cohn," and Bill replies, "Not so bad. That's better. Now why is Cohn pitiful? Be ironic." Jake declines, saying, "Aw, hell! . . . It's too early in the morning," and Bill, still joking, rejoins, "And you claim you want to be a writer, too. You're only a newspaper man. . . . You ought to be ironical the minute you get out of bed. You ought to wake up with your mouth full of pity" (119).
In the excised material, however, Jake rejects the methods that irony and pity require when he admits, "I did not want to tell this story in the first person but I find that I must. I wanted to stay well outside the story so that I would not be touched by it in any way, and handle all the people in it with that irony and pity that are so essential to good writing" ("Beginning" 133). Jake continues, "I made the unfortunate mistake, for a writer, of first having been Mr. Jake Barnes. So it is not going to be splendid and cool and detached after all. `What a pity!' as Brett used to say" (133-34). Jake says that he tells his story a bit differently from other writers:
I am writing the story, not as I believe is usual in these cases, from a desire for confession, because being a Roman Catholic I am spared that Protestant urge to literary production, nor to set things all out the way they happened for the good of some future generation, nor any of the usual high moral urges, but because I believe it is a good story. (134)
Jake draws further distinction between himself and the other writers that he seems to fear becoming when he reflects, "Like all newspaper men I have always wanted to write a novel, and I suppose, now that I am doing it, the novel will have that awful taking-the-pen-in-hand quality that afflicts newspaper men when they start to write on their own" (134). Here again, readers can anticipate Hemingway's charges of artifice against Faulkner, claims that he "cons himself" and his readers ("The Art of the Short Story" 97, in Hemingway, Letters 770).
While Jake writes his own story, one from which he cannot distance himself, Cohn writes a novel with "a great deal of fantasy in it" ("Beginning" 135). Jake--and, for that matter, every other character in The Sun Also Rises--rejects Cohn and his fantasies by the conclusion of the novel. Cohn disappears, and no one in the group knows what has happened to him; they only speculate that he'll "pick up with his old girl, probably" (226). Yet Jake envies Cohn, too, and covets his experience with Brett and likely his simpler outlook on life. Cohn seems a romantic type basically untouched by war. Mark Spilka aptly describes him as "the last chivalric hero, the last defender of an outworn faith" (109). Jake, ostensibly searching to learn "how to live in" the world, suspects, "Maybe if you found out how to live in it you learned from that what it was all about" (152). Cohn seems to have found the peace Jake seeks, and Jake surely envies him that as well.
Jake even figuratively tries on Cohn's identity, however briefly, in chapter 15, when he cannot find the key to his own room and falls asleep "on one of the beds in Cohn's room" (163). After Jake awakens from a heavy sleep, feeling that he is "too late," he puts on one of Cohn's coats and walks "out on the balcony" (164). Jake watches the festivities below for a few minutes and then goes back to sleep. Cohn wakes him when he returns and begins undressing to go to sleep himself (164). As Cohn undresses, Jake takes leave of him and his dreams, and readers are again reminded of Hemingway's admiration for, and perhaps envy of, the perceived ease of Faulkner's simpler life. After all, while Hemingway made fun of "Anomatopeoio [Yoknapatawpha] county" (Letters 770), he strikes a wistful note in his July 1947 letter to Faulkner: "Difference with us guys is I always lived out of country (as mercenary or patriot) since kid. My own country gone. Trees cut down, Nothing left but gas stations, sub-divisions where we hunted snipe on the prairie, etc." (624).
Does all this mean that Hemingway had Faulkner in mind when he constructed the character of Robert Cohn? Of course not, but it does suggest a pattern of antagonistic competition, one that Hemingway seems to have thrived on.6 Regardless of how he felt personally about Faulkner, he consistently defined himself against Faulkner as an artist, and from this friction came some of the most powerful fiction of the twentieth century. Frederick R. Karl writes of Faulkner's reaction to Hemingway's suicide:
Faulkner saw something ominous in Hemingway's death, since the two had become famous together, the twins of American fiction from 1930 to 1950 or so. . . . The two were intertwined, and it may not be too conjectural to assert that Faulkner saw in the other's death something of his own. It was not only the death of Hemingway, however, but the end of an era in American writing: the few great ones had passed. Faulkner felt there was no one to replace them. (1037)
FL = That is one assessment, at any rate, with which Hemingway would certainly have agreed.
1. See George Monteiro's "The Faulkner-Hemingway Rivalry" for an extensive discussion of critical work concerning these textual exchanges. For a comprehensive discussion of the rivalry, as well as evaluations and remarks from the authors' contemporaries, see Earl Rovit and Arthur Waldhorn's Hemingway and Faulkner in Their Time.
2. See Thomas L. McHaney's William Faulkner's "The Wild Palms": A Study for an insightful analysis of the connections between the two novels. McHaney points to specific parallel scenes in "The Wild Palms" section of If I Forget Thee, Jerusalem and The Sun Also Rises that employ imaginary and stuffed dogs, respectively, as symbols (80-81).
3. In Hemingway: A Biography, Jeffrey Meyers suggests that Jake's wound "derived from Hemingway's imaginative extension of his own wound at Fossalta and his convalescence at the hospital in Milan." Meyers quotes Hemingway on Jake's wound: "It came from a personal experience in that when I had been wounded at one time there had been an infection from pieces of wool cloth being driven into the scrotum. Because of this I got to know other kids who had genito urinary wounds and I wondered what a man's life would have been like after that if his penis had been lost and his testicles and spermatic cord remained intact" (190).
4. Jake does not begrudge Cohn the sex alone, or he would hate Mike Campbell equally; Jake must resent Cohn because he can both love Brett and have sex with her, something Jake knows he can never do.
5. This material, cut from the galleys at the last minute, informed Hemingway's composition of the novel. His deletion of the crucial information contained therein, as Linda W. Wagner notes in "`Proud and Friendly and Gently,'" actually encouraged misinterpretation because it "left readers too little direction" (242). While not a part of Hemingway's published text, the discarded material nevertheless sheds valuable light on many aspects of the novel.
6. See Joseph Fruscione's "`One Tale, One Telling'" for a discussion of how the anxiety of influence drove each author.
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____________. "`One Tale, One Telling': Parallelism, Influence, and Exchange Between Faulkner's The Unvanquished and Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls." War, Literature, and the Arts 18.1-2 (2006): 279-300.
Hemingway, Ernest. "The Beginning Cut from the Galleys." Hemingway and "The Sun Also Rises": The Crafting of a Style. Frederic Joseph Svoboda. Lawrence: UP of Kansas, 1983. 131-37.
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Spilka, Mark. "The Death of Love in The Sun Also Rises." Ernest Hemingway. Ed. Harold Bloom. New York: Chelsea House, 1985. 107-18.
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